I've made numerous attempts to write this story since Tim Franklin died in 1987, but I could never find a satisfactory way of doing it. For a long time, I thought I'd have to fictionalise it, partly because there was so much that I didn't know about Tim's past, and partly because - well, I wasn't famous. And who wants to read an autobiography by someone unknown? There was a third reason, probably the most telling one: emotionally, I just wasn't ready. I'd sit and read his letters and I'd cry.

However, when I tried to turn the story into a novel, it didn't work. It felt dishonest to do it that way. The story was extraordinary enough in itself; it didn't need further twists or embellishment. So that left me with telling it as it was. Not much of an option, either, back in the late 80s when I was an anonymous sub-editor. It wasn't until I read Andrea Ashworth's Once in a House on Fire, published in 1998, that I realised it might be possible. Lorna Page's autobiography of her own troubled upbringing, Bad Blood, was published soon after, which made me realise that there was a market for writers with remarkable real-life stories to tell. By then I'd gone freelance and had published several books, but even so I still didn't have the confidence to write an intimate autobiography.

Then, in 2001, I met bestselling author Amanda Lees, who was leading a writers' workshop. We chatted over coffee and in the course of conversation I told her about Tim. Amanda listened open mouthed and then said, 'Is that the book you're writing?' When I said no (I was writing a thriller at the time) she said, 'Why on earth not? You have got to write that book!' Her insistence gave me the permission I realised I'd been seeking and I decided there and then to do it. The relief was incredible, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. The irony is, I thought it was the end of a process, a way of signing off on Tim. I never expected it to be a whole new journey.