There’s something about a first book – a debut, they call it in the biz. You work on it secretly, unwilling to verbalize your dream at first, then perhaps sidling into a writing class without meeting the eyes of people in the room, then reading aloud – how awful and awkward it sounds the first time.

Months, maybe years, later something not so bad emerges from the cocoon you’ve spun around your computer keyboard and you try it out on a few friends. They don’t hem and haw when you ask for feedback, so, emboldened, you ask a real writer (aka published) to read a bit of it. You hear nothing for weeks, by which time you’ve abandoned all delusions about becoming a writer, flayed yourself repeatedly for being a fool, and come to dread checking your email for a message from the writer. “Sorry, but you really should find another line of work. Yours truly, Best Selling Author” it will say.

One morning, the you’ve-got-mail ping makes you jump. It’s her, B.S.A. “Not bad,” B.S.A. writes. “Get rid of her overly cute dog, then let me see the whole thing.” Your heart swells. The world is a new place, B.S.A. is the kindest, most thoughtful person in this new world, and it will be easy to get rid of the dog and whip the book into shape.

Three months later, the damn dog is gone, but so is the life of the book. You know B.S.A. has forgotten your name, never mind the dog’s. The book is a mess, you can see that now, starting well but slumping in the middle, and limping at the end. And it’s grown. You keep adding words, paragraphs, pages in a frantic attempt to get it moving again. In the back of your head, you worry that B.S.A. is telling her friends about the flake who never even got back to her. In desperation one day, you cut the whole first chapter, which has become a concrete block tied around your tale.

Something happens. “Oh,” you say, puzzled at first, then afraid to breathe. “This is where my story starts.” The rhythm that made writing a joy at first returns. Giddy with the music of your prose, you slash wildly at the dead wood, let your characters run loose, catch their distinctive voices again, and look up to find you spent eight hours hunched over the computer and you’re hungry.

Riding a wave of conviction about your work, you email the new version to B.S.A. with a charming note thanking her and apologizing for the delay. A month passes, but you’re busy working on a new idea for a story. When she emails back, you’re not surprised. “Love the new draft. It needs some polishing but when you’ve gone through it once more, gotten rid of the typos and stuff like that, I’ll mention you to my agent and you can send him a query. Congrats! Oh, and I love the new dog. Such a mangy, sweet beast. I want to take him home with me!”

The rest follows. Maybe you have to query 10 agents, maybe 20, maybe more. But eventually, one gets back to you to say she loves the book and wants to represent you. You probably say yes without doing more due diligence. Getting your book in print is the thing. Let the future take care of itself because now you can let yourself dream about the day your first book appears in print, cover art blazing, at the bookstore where you’ve shopped for years. The publicity you get – and it may be miniscule – describes you as a promising debut author.

This is it. This is the dream come to life. This is the pinnacle. Well, at least until you resolve the problems in the second manuscript your agent and publisher are waiting for, and which, you tell your writer friends, is much stronger than your debut book. Yes, you say, laughing, there’s a dog in it – a real character.