Before I tell you my writing story, I want to say I was always a reader. I read books despite everything. I submerged myself in Enid Blyton and fairy stories to escape what was happening in my life and in my family as a child. I did not grow up in a house with books but I was taken to the library and a library van came to our village. Without libraries, maybe none of this would have happened at all.

At 16, I got a C in GCSE English language.

At 19, on my degree, I was told my essay writing was pedestrian.

I thought I couldn't write. I didn't write. When I wrote the odd thing, I was terrified someone would read it and so I would rip it to shreds and throw it away. I attribute this to the critical men in my life up until this point.

At 21, I scraped a 2:1 in European Cultural History and told myself I would do an MA one day.

At school, I was told I needed a degree to get a good job. When I got a degree, I couldn't find a job. I circled tiny ads for editorial assistants in the newspaper and applied for them, heard nothing.

I eventually found a job in a video rental shop. Followed by a job as a Christmas temp in WHSmith.

At 23, I was a manager at WHSmith. I left to travel. The area manager told me this was a big mistake.

At 27, I began working at a national children's charity in fundraising and marketing. I offered to write for the membership magazine. I loved this part of the job.

At 28, I was Acting Head of Public Affairs while experiencing severe anxiety and panic attacks.

At 29, I was a content manager at a dot com. I took evening classes in journalism.

At 30, the dot com went into administration. I was unemployed and got married.

At 31, I moved out of London and persuaded a friend to come with me to an evening class in creative writing for beginners. This changed everything. I began to write and write and write. I stopped having panic attacks. I got a job as a publications editor for another national children's charity.

At 33, I had a baby. I couldn't bear the commute to London any more. They refused my application to work from home. I went freelance as a writer and editor.

At 37, I moved to a village and had another baby. This baby did not like groups and busy places, so I began to spend more time slowly and quietly in nature. I also published magazine article after article, began novels, wrote poetry and short stories.

At 43, I began to shift my work in a more creative direction and started up Inky Writers - creative writing after school clubs for children. I also worked for Lapidus International - the writing for wellbeing association.

At 45, I took this work to adults and ran creative writing workshops on Saturday mornings in a bookshop. I also began a part-time MA in Creative Writing. I put a lot of pressure on myself to get high grades in this course to rewrite the story of being no good at writing and getting a C grade in GCSE English language.

At 48, I graduated from my MA in Creative Writing with distinction and the highest mark to date on the course for my dissertation. I followed that up with research assistant work valuing creative methods and storytelling on projects in gender-based violence, menopause and motherhood. I published collaborative academic articles on creativity and storytelling in research.

At 50, I began a Substack on the creative process to help me write a book. I didn't know if I would last the summer. Two and a bit years later, I am still publishing a post every Friday.

At 51, I received Arts Council funding to write a series of lyric essays on moon cycles and menopause.

At 52 (almost 53), I still haven't written a book and because of this I am still telling myself I can't write.

I am writing this to prove to myself over and over that I can.