A few short months ago, I was sitting at an office desk, reflecting with contentment on the neat little Excel document that was my visual guide to getting the books I edited off to the printers on time. It was blue and white; it had a nice font, I had the target dates all lined up. I had a calendar with Scottish landscapes sitting on my printer. I met deadlines. The satisfaction of filling in the boxes, the speed with which I replied to e-mails, the consistency with which I worked through the day . . . all of them are fading into the distance.

The thing is, I'm now a full-time writer.

On August 3 2006 in my native England, my first novel hits the shelves. It's August 8 in America, as the story involves werewolves and August 8 is a full moon night - an idea my erudite father is teasing me about, but I personally think is cute. As I've also had the good fortune to sell movie rights, I packed in my job and hopped the fence: I am now an ex-editor novelist.

I am terrified.

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