I have a sister who plays ‘The Sims’, a virtual reality game. While playing, she often complains about not being able to afford nice furniture (and I often ignore her). She solves the problem with ‘cheat codes’ – hacks she finds online, getting her what she wants at the press of a button. Once she has the cheat codes, nothing can go wrong.

When I was eight, I wrote my first decent poem. It was the beginning of a trend –affluent descriptions of the world around me, scribbled on pieces of scrap paper. Dull UK beaches became exotic paradises... a fat tabby cat became a goddess of the night. It would be easy to say that I became addicted to writing, but I didn’t. I became addicted to having written. Addicted to the praise.

When I was eleven, I began a novel. I got up at 6 am every day for a month, working on an inelegant sci-fi melodrama narrated by a depressive pre-teen. This was probably because I was a depressive pre-teen – the compliments I received from simpering adults had once been my lifeblood, but their appeal was fading fast.
When I was fourteen, I discovered screenwriting. I wrote a short film, then a full-length one. I knew that they were much better than my rambling prose and conceited poetry, but I didn’t regain hope until my sister picked up a thirty-page TV pilot, read it, and asked for the next episode. It was intoxicating. Before, my readers had been humouring me. Now I was humouring them.

I hope that even if no-one had ever enjoyed my writing, I would still have written. But my sister’s enthusiasm was invaluable. She didn’t praise me. She simply, sincerely, requested more.

She wanted it.

I sat down with my laptop, eager to begin. Behind me, the television reported a police shooting in America. I didn’t care. I had found my cheat code.