This time last year, possibly against my better judgement, I wrote a 50,000-word novel in just 30 days – a task so intense it involved me working nights, ignoring my children and being so desperate to hit my daily word count that I would find myself typing in carparks, dentist’s waiting rooms and, on one occasion, during a medical procedure.
Afterwards, I tried to put the whole experience behind me – until, 12 months on, I decided to do the one thing more gruelling than actually writing the book. Reader, I read it.