My agent ghosted me after I spent four years writing a novel entirely in iambic pentameter. Said it had 'no commercial value.' Suggested I send it to my poetry publisher - basically telling me to row my four years of work into the middle of the ocean and drop it in.

I'd heard that when agents stop answering emails, they're hoping you'll get the hint and leave (so they're blameless). Like unfaithful spouses doing everything to get caught.

While she was ignoring me, I sent 30 pages to a bestselling author friend. Someone, incidentally, who I’d helped into that position, since I supervised her first novel. She read the pages on the train to meet her agent, Rupert Heath, and spent half the meeting raving about it.

Rupert read the whole manuscript that Friday. Called Monday saying 'This is the kind of book I'm in this business for.' Got Hilary Mantel to give us four generous adjectives.

That 'commercially worthless' novel? Sold for £75,000. Won the Desmond Elliott Prize. Longlisted for the Women's Prize.

Never let someone who's given up on their own dreams convince you to give up on yours. Especially when they're supposed to be on your side.

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For all who have asked: the novel is The Marlowe Papers. Full story is here: