When I was rowing, our whole year built to a single race. Winning it was all that we wanted, and all that we trained for. But however much we believed, fervently, that we could win, winning was never really in our gift. There was so much that was uncertain, from the weather on the day to the speed of our opponents. So when I started my first novel, the uncertainty of it felt familiar. Would I be able to finish a draft? Would it be any good? And would it even sell to a publisher?