It’s 1985 and I have writers block. My 9 year old self is scratching my head. I am sitting at the kitchen table opposite my mum. She is trying to to be patient but I see the steam. She wants me to describe what’s in my bowl.

I have Mrs Briggs to thank for this. At the start of term, she gave out orange text books, “These are for writing your stories,” she said with a smile.

My ‘stories’ were already written, lined up on my shelf. Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, What Katy Did Next – I ate them up. I was a reader, a total bookworm.

Yet, when it came to writing my head was empty. Adjectives mocked me, similes vexed me and metaphors made me sad. So it came to be that I was sat there staring at my breakfast bowl.

“What do you see Tess?” my mum asks. I’m looking at the dregs of my Weetabix – what should I say? “Describe it to me” she pressed. On the spot, I felt nervous, “Milky pools?” I volunteered. Her eyes brightened, “OK, what else?” Gosh, this was painful, “Umm, muddy mountains.” She was almost buzzing, “Great! What else?” I was grabbing at straws, “A spoon, silvery like the moon.” She clapped her hands, “Yes Tess, you’re doing it!”

There’s nothing better than pleasing your mum; her happiness lights up the room. I was left with a biscuit, juice and the challenge to write.

As the midday sun shone, I started writing my story of The Magic Pen. A mischievous pen, that caused mayhem wherever it went. Do you know what I found? I found that, if I thought less and just wrote, I could end up anywhere.

Days later, when I got my story back from Mrs Briggs, my heart leapt. There on the page was a star and the words, ‘A magical story Tess.’ And so, the reader became the writer. I shall always thank my mum for helping me to find my writing verve.