I wrote a twenty-three-and-a-half page story when I was ten.

My story explained that Saturn is solid and the perfect hiding place for distant aliens preparing to launch the final step of their journey towards Earth. Saturn’s rings only gave the illusion the planet is gaseous. Sometimes I show it to friends as what? Proof I’ve been doing this for a long time? That I was destined to be a writer?

At fourteen, I had one of those rare inspirational teachers for English. She made all her students write a story each week. At the start of each semester, she told us it was OK to be rusty and struggle for inspiration, but that with practice our creativity and writing skills would grow.

During the summer break when I was sixteen, my dog died. I sat in my bedroom for weeks, crying and writing, word by painful word, a love story about a boy who drove a Mini Cooper.

Years passed and while my writing waned, I read voraciously. Now and then I came across a terrible novel that infuriated yet inspired me. If this could get published, was there hope for me one day?

Ideas tugged at my mind and then evaporated again. Sometimes I even sat down at my desk but I had nothing and, outside, life beckoned so off I went and lived it.

At work, I crunched numbers and wrote executive summaries. Colleagues came and asked me to review their reports and for a while, I happily edited and rewrote other peoples’ work.

I moved overseas and joined a creative writing evening class to make new friends in a new city. However, I hid behind my pen and paper and rediscovered the joy of story-telling.

Three years in a row, I wrote over 50,000 words each November. The first time to see if I could, the second time because I had an idea for a novel, the third time because I’d already done it twice and surely I could do it again.

In 2014, I discovered copywriting. I signed up for courses, studied, and wrote sales letters out by hand. I found a client. I wrote three white papers. I issued the invoice. I repeated the process.

When I was ten, I made up a story where something insubstantial turns out to be solid when we break through its defences. Over 30 years later, I have broken through the barriers of this elusive writing business and discovered pockets of solid ground. Like the rings of Saturn, I’ve come full circle.