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After an impatient few months, checking my e mails constantly like a lovesick teenager, I am excited to announce I have an agent! The lovely Ed Wilson at Johnson & Alcock loves my book and will be our enthusiastic guide through the tricky world of publishing over the next few months and beyond. I am very much looking forward to working with him.

So, from here, there’s just a wee bit of editing to be done, a few changes to be made and then the massive hope of finding a publisher. Easy, eh? Keep your fingers crossed, we can but dream!

This year I had one big aim – to read more. Logic dictates that if you’re going to become a better writer, you’d better become a better reader, so this year I’ve attacked my bookshelves with abandon.

From non-fiction, to YA, and everything in between, I’ve managed to get through 31– and I’m not quite done with December yet. The less said about the bottom of the list the better: some were novels by usually brilliant authors who churned out stereotypical rubbish, others were overhyped and disappointing. I wasn’t keen on the one YA book I read, perhaps because I’m not a young adult (by any stretch of the imagination), and maybe I read one too many books about psychopaths (research – honestly…)

But there were some real gems. In no particular order, here is my top 10 for 2016:

• Life After Life, by Kate Atkinson. I love all of Kate Atkinson’s books, and this one was no exception. Original, witty, clever and so well written, its sequel, A God in Ruins, is going to be one of my first books for 2017.
• Quiet, by Susan Cain. When I was on my French exchange, the French mother I was staying with grew quite concerned. We had Wednesdays off, and my activity of choice was to find a quiet corner with a book, and stay there for most of the day. This, to me, was a day well spent; to her it was just plain odd. As an introvert, this book gives you permission to be the person you have always felt most confortable with, and I recommend that everybody on the ‘I’ end of the spectrum, or anyone who knows someone that way inclined, should read it.
• Still Alice, by Lisa Genova. Early onset Alzheimer’s doesn’t make for the cheeriest of reading material, but this is so well written and sympathetic, I’d recommend it to anyone.
• Hurting Distance, by Sophie Hannah. Sophie Hannah is the queen of thrillers, and I think this is one of her best. It’s dark, but compelling, and all of the pieces of the story fall together at the end in a very satisfactory way.
• The Turning Point and The Way Back Home, by Freya North.
• The House We Grew Up In, by Lisa Jewell.
• After You, by Jojo Moyes. When a new book by these wonderful authors comes out, I always know that I’m going to love it. The literary equivalent of a bar of Dairy Milk, you know what you’re going to get – characters you care about and feel you’ve known your whole life, a gripping story and maybe a few tears. Time well spent with some of your oldest friends.
• The Invention of Wings, by Sue Monk Kidd. Sue Monk Kidd wrote ‘The Secret Life of Bees’ and this book was just as good. It’s not an easy read, but worth the time.
• Us, by David Nichols. King of amazing imagery. My favourite line made it for me in the first few chapters: “…one of my sister’s notorious pasta bakes smouldering in its centre like a meteorite, smelling of toasted cat food.”
• The Martian, by Andy Weir. I picked this up by chance from a holiday bookshelf and it was probably my most enjoyable wild card. The voice of Mark is funny and engaging, and the sci-fi elements of surviving on Mars, nothing but fascinating.

So my only question is now, what’s next? What were your favourites? Any advice on what to read for 2017?

So your son did a wee in the hallway,
And your daughter had a tantrum in the road.
You’ve run out of milk, the petrol’s at low,
Your boss is practically speaking in code.

You were late to work, the parking’s a mess,
You’ve had a shit day from hell.
It pissed down with rain from morning until night,
But actually, you’re doing rather well.

“What do you mean?” you curse at the screen,
“I barely have time to take breath!
The washing’s in a heap, the floor’s not clean,
Even the cat’s looking close to death.”

Here look, I say, they have food in their tummies,
They’re happy, they’re not raising hell.
A pat on the back is richly deserved,
Oh yes, we’re all doing rather well.

You got through the day on an hour and a half’s sleep
After being up all night with your son.
That makes you an amazing, albeit baggy-eyed
Bloody fantastic, brilliant Mum.

You forgot the spare nappy, now there’s poo up the wall,
Your life’s a song by Adele.
So what? Sit down, have a nice cup of tea,
I think we’re all doing rather well.

You got them in the car, with their bags and their coats.
You put your mascara on at the lights.
They got to school with five minutes to spare.
I think you’re all getting it right.

So give yourself a round of applause,
A cheer, a shout and a yell,
It’s not all perfect, but who the hell bloody cares?
We’re definitely all doing rather well.

Originally published on the brilliant Selfish Mother site.

To my perfect little boy,

I am so proud of you. Every morning you wake with a smile on your face and every night you go to bed with a chirrup and a grin. You face the things that scare you with bravery and courage and, over time, you improve and master them.

You love to spend time with other children, even though you can’t hear them very well and they don’t always understand you. You know what you enjoy and you spend your time doing the things you love. Nobody makes me laugh out loud as much as you do. You are cheeky and mischievous but most of all sweet, affectionate and carefree.

So your chromosomes aren’t perfect, but to me you are exactly that: my beautiful little boy. You tolerate the army of medical professionals prodding and poking: the physiotherapist, the paediatrician, the speech therapist, the audiologists and the geneticist. They all write reports and send them to each other in a bizarre spider-web of bureaucracy. The piles of paper, tests and opinions mean nothing to you, and nor should they: we are more than our medical history; we are more than what we can and can’t do.

You are obsessed by dinosaurs. The number five has magically disappeared from your consciousness but you can identify a Tyrannosaurus Rex, a Triceratops and a Stegosaurus from a mile away. Diggers, lorries, police cars and planes are infinitely exciting and you know the names of all the Thomas trains.

It took me a while to get the hang of you, and I’m sorry about that. I spent too long crying, sulking and generally being angry that the world hadn’t given me the genius child I expected to have. You see, my love, I had a silly notion in my head of what my child would be like and it wasn’t this tiny thing in front of me: who missed all his milestones, refused to walk and bum-shuffled around the living room. You taught me very quickly that children aren’t here to meet the expectations of their parents; you are your own person and do your own things, and my role as a parent is to watch, love and help.

There is a lot I can learn from you. Already I have learnt what the important things are in life: above all to make sure you are happy and healthy and safe. I promise you I will always be on your side. I will make sure you have everything you need and will fight, shout and nag anyone in range to get it for you.

I will always be here for you. My very best person.

All my love, xx

(Originally published on Selfish Mother, 9th May 2016.)