A few years ago, I was helping to run a writing competition that my employer was running in conjunction with a major publisher. The grand prize was a magazine feature and a guaranteed book deal, so it's no surprise that we were inundated with entries. The aspiring writers had to send in their complete novels and it was my job to help sort and organise the entries, so every once in a while I'd read a bit out of curiosity.

The majority of it was dross of course. As with all writing competitions, we had to wade through a lot of crap to find the good stuff, but I actually had a bit of fun while wading. I'd roll my eyes at clumsy sentences; I'd tut and sigh at poor grammar and terrible spelling. I'm ashamed to say that I even sniggered a bit.

"Look at this!" I'd say. "Does she really think she'll win with that shite?"

I was heartened by some of the utterly execrable writing before me. It was reassuring because I knew I could do better. But as I guffawed and chortled and sneered, it eventually dawned on me that each and every one of these entrants had achieved something that I hadn't:

They'd written a novel.

Each and every one of them had sweated and laboured - sometimes for years - to create something that they believed in, and had sent out to us with hope. As flawed as some of the stories were, they represented a dedication and self-discipline that was worthy of admiration in its own right. It was a humbling thought.

I still haven't completed an entire novel, but I've learned that anyone who has deserves a little respect.