You have become obsessed with refreshing your email, so much that you have RSI in your mouse-clicking finger. Click. Refresh. Click. Refresh. Zero new emails. Click Refresh. Then you remember that you only have one short story submission out in the ether at the moment. You checked on Duotrope Digest’s website and the minimum time of response is thirty days plus and you only sent the story the other night. Have a think. Make mental note to only check emails twenty times in the next hour. Click. Refresh. Zero new emails. Lips are sore. Refreshment is needed. Can’t believe stupid body needs watering. Off to kitchen. Pour out a glass of water from the jug. Run back up the stairs as the Macbook doesn’t like being left alone with the HP laptop because of previous ‘bullying issues.’ Click. Refresh. One new email. Internet slowing. Whack the side of the screen, hoping it will speed things along. A slight hesitation – the email is in your spam box. See the subject line – Next Big Thing. Open immediately. ‘I am writing to you because you are the next big thing. You really are going to be huge.’ Stop reading the email. Take a breath. Give self a tap on the back. You have finally made it. Someone has recognised your talents. You don’t recognise the name of the person who sent it. The name is definitely not on your ‘Literary Agents to stalk and then send 100,000 novel on the human condition’ list in your moleskine. Maybe it’s an Editor bypassing the whole publishing structure. Re-read the sentence ‘You are the next best thing.’ Let out a cheer. The cat stirs. 'Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore,' you say to the cat. The cat isn't called Toto and you don't even live in the USA. Scroll further down the email that keeps boasting about how grand your will be and how all the hotties will flock to you. Then you stop. Take a step back from the Macbook. They are selling you Viagra.