His black leather shoes squeaked as he got out of his old car. They were brand new just the week before. Approaching his dreaded place of work, he left out a heart felt sigh. Another day. The dim flicker of lights from outside shone through the many windows on the side of the library. Although it looked prison like, he still wore a bow tie to match his brown suede jacket with beige patches on the elbows. Pushing his tortoise shell glasses further up his nose, the doors opened automatically in front of him. Before him were walls full of the likes of Byron, Shakespeare and Wordsworth. He was surrounded by literary greatness. “Good morning Pat”, he chirped to the sour face receptionist. As always she slowly peered up from her newspaper, ignored him then went back to reading. But this did not affect him because he knew a secret that nobody else did. And the secret was this, in his leather briefcase was a sealed letter. The importance of this letter was indescribable. It would determine his entire existence. Boring library assistant or best selling author. The manuscript of his novel had been sent to many publishers – twenty nine in fact, all of whom bared the burden of rejection. This is it he thought as he unbuckled the latch and retrieved the letter. His hands were shaking, trembling as his wrinkled fingers delicately tore through the crisp white envelope. Dear Mr Mann it read. We are delighted to write to you and ask you if you would like to meet with us in regard to the discussion of the publication of your manuscript titled, ‘Igore’s Journey’. A wide grin spread across his face, tears welled up behind his glasses. His dreams were about to come true. This is the moment he had been waiting thirty long years for. This one letter. The many years of rejection and the several letters of nos all seemed to disappear from his mind instantaneously. He was going to be a writer and nobody could stop him.