Let’s start at the very beginning - okay, so Julie Andrews sang it, but I’m no singer as my darlings will attest to my pitiful warbling in the car along with antiquated T-Rex and Mungo Jerry.

Who?

Now don’t get me started.

You’re writing, you think it’s wonderful, you want to show to the world, hey look at me, I’m a writer. You’ve written a book. Actually, you’ve started a drawer full and they’re all now tucked soundly to sleep, corners scribbled over by junior and wailed over by yourself when, most likely in the wee small hours you’ve come to a rather unfortunate, but definitely solid as a rock, grinding halt. A time when no amount of ‘what ifs’ have come up with the ultimate, seriously throw-it-at-em hardship and kick started those little darling half written manuscripts into fully fledged, see-I-told-you-I-could-do-it, finished works of art.

It’s finished. You’ve edited your heart out, despite the desperate cry from all in sundry in the house hold that they’re starving.

Let them eat cake you say.

Yeah right mum, there isn’t any cake. Actually, the cupboard is bare. Zip, nada.

But does your book work? Is it good, bad or indifferent? You need advice, you need a critique partner - or two. So who is going to read it?. Tell you how wonderful your writing is, that you’re the next XYZ... fill in the blank, to be discovered.

You put the feelers out and find someone. A reader, a writer, someone who is very excited and wants to read your work. The day has come, you hand it over .....and come to a grinding, heart wrenching, butterflies doing the tango in your gut, kinda halt and clutch those two hundred odd pages to your thudding chest.

"No way. Don’t touch it." Your mouth is dry, sandpaper would taste better and your confidence has nose dived its way into obscurity. Can you open your heart, bare it to the world?.

She smiles sweetly at you.

She’s the devil in critique’s clothing! She reaches out to take your baby.

Said manuscript is now embedded in your chest cavity. Your breathing is null and void, no sound escapes your lips and the smile you forced withers. You glance down at your lovely pages, all neatly bound and formatted, every word lovingly caressed from your fingertips and brain. You love your hero. He’s yours. Don’t touch.

Ms Critique’s smile broadens. Is that a sheen of sweat you see across her brow, a devilish glitter of flame mirrored in her eyes.

"It doesn’t have to be painful," she says.

Hah. What does she know?