It’s falling away from me. I can feel it.

I’m underwater, thrashing silently. My screams gurgle pathetically like the fish tank on the sideboard that’s growing green fur.

The pictures came today. New illustrator. Bloke I think. A fat bulk of magical havens, five times thicker than the measly manuscript sat in the bathroom cabinet.

It seemed like a good idea at the time – to put it there I mean. Certainly helped with the insomnia, not having it in the same room. Only now I’m buying more toothpaste rather than using the two I already have and the shaving foam in the cabinet means my face is beginning to resemble the fish tank, only slightly browner.

‘A picture paints a thousand words.’ That’s what they say isn’t it? Ha. That should be it, my justification, my reason: Well you’ve got fifteen illustrations illustrations here Mr Publisher, that’s fifteen thousand words taken care of.

Surely that’s enough ? So now I’ve seen it. This world I’m supposed to have made; just gone ahead and allowed itself to be created, like it prefers him with his paintbrush to me with my pen. Picking teams in sports. It chose him not me.

And there’s still no words.

Oh there’s words alright, millions everyday: shopping list, crossword, Christmas cards, bank form, note for the milk man, letter to Helen, text to James – believe me- there’s words. I could write them all day. It’s the ones I have a pile of money tapping its feet in the bank for that are impossible.

And the secret is, I’m enjoying it.

TEXT by Kirsty Kelly + IMAGES by Jaimie Lane