There was never any doubt in my mind, or my heart, that I wanted to become a full-time writer. "One day, when I'm grown up," as they say. Of my few acquaintances, only one person has ever asked me why I waited so long — well into my fifties — before I truly began. The answer is simple: maturity. Had I faced rejection, critique, or outright mockery at a younger age, I would have either quit entirely or torched my own reputation by pushing back too hard, too soon. It takes a particular kind of self-control, a quiet inner steel, to survive this craft. And I was never simply waiting. I was nurturing something. Slowly, deliberately, I built a career where the work itself sharpened me. I read more than anyone I knew — far more. While friends found partners, married, had children, and watched the cycle repeat itself, I remained single, dedicated to the one thing I had always dreamed of becoming. The quiet one. The one spending his evenings alone with a book.

Now that I've finally arrived, I can only describe the journey as akin to chewing Chappies.

For those unfamiliar with this part of the world, allow me to elaborate. Chappies is a chewing gum beloved across generations here — a small, colourful, genuinely ingenious invention. When we were children, our parents would send us in little groups to the corner shop for bread and milk. In those days, half-cents were scarce. We'd gather our items, stretch onto our tiptoes to peer over the counter, and slide our coins across to the shopkeeper — almost invariably a man with a crooked nose and eyes sharp with greed. He'd slap the change down and hand over Chappies to cover whatever small amount he was short. Two pieces per cent. Our parents always knew, and we never dared shortchange them. We knew we'd be caught, and caned — perfectly legal in those days.

On the walk home, we'd unwrap our gum and guess at the flavour from the colour of the wrapper: mango, orange, apple. But the real prize was inside — the famous "Did You Know?" trivia printed on the foil. Marketers still use this trick today. The most celebrated example was the claim that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows. We'd read them aloud as we walked, sharing facts, debating, marvelling at the world. Each trivia had a number — perhaps #5, or #147, or somewhere in the hundreds. The great mystery, the one no child ever solved, was what #1 said. We tried for years. We never found out.

Until today.

My novel, Elm Brook Manor, has reached the coveted #1 spot in four markets, across three genres, in the free category. After years of striving, it is finally there. The title has always had a strange trajectory — disappearing for months, then resurfacing as new readers discovered it, climbing before falling again. At one point it reached #4 in the United States, only to sink and rise once more. This morning, I checked the ranking and felt something I can only call immense, uncomplicated joy. Readers have found it. They've trusted it enough to give it a chance.

But this didn't come without its share of heartache. Negative reviews. Publishers and literary agents who dismissed the manuscript with barely concealed disdain. Rejection letters that would have ended most careers. In the end, I had no choice but to go rogue — to become an independent author and publisher. At the time, I dreaded the idea. Now, I understand what I've gained: flexibility, creative freedom, fairer royalty rates, and something I hold more dearly than any of it — I own my brand. I am the writer. Not just a name chosen by a marketing department and printed on a cover.

To any aspiring writer reading this: keep going. Be consistent — in your voice, in your marketing, in showing up for the work. Write every day. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Even when you're unwell. Even on holiday. The stories don't pause; neither should you.

And to those who leave harsh reviews: five hundred words can take an author an hour to write, and a reader five minutes to dismiss. Please carry that with you.

Finding that #1 today felt, in its own way, like finally knowing what was printed on trivia card number one. Not because the number itself matters — it doesn't, not really — but because of what it represents: that a story, offered honestly and with patience, will eventually find the readers it was always meant for. Like those little wrapped squares of gum we clutched on the walk home, the surprise was never the flavour. It was what was hidden inside, waiting to be discovered.

The work continues. It always does. And I wouldn't have it any other way.