It’s a telephone call or an e mail – something tiny, even intangible – that changes the world. Suddenly everything that looked like one thing looks like something else. The drawing you always thought was a rabbit suddenly becomes a duck; a young woman peers out from an elderly face. You’re baking gingerbread ninjas for a birthday party and working out whether you’ve got time to pipe the names of the children who are coming onto each little gingerbread stomach when the telephone rings.
There’s an offer. A real offer from a real publisher. One who publishes books made of paper with the author’s name printed on them, and sells them to people who don’t know you. The second before, you were wondering why on earth you’d agreed to a Ninja party and wishing everyone had seen fit to give their children three-letter names. And the second after, the party’s the best idea in the world, and Sebastian and Zachariah will have their ginger ninjas if it takes all night.
The Ship. Brought to you by ten years of trying, a great agent, the right editor – and Dr. Oetker’s designer icing.