Many authors will tell you about a special person who first set them on the path to writing. In a great many cases, this will be the author's English teacher, a Mr O'Neill or a Mrs Mooney who once said to them, 'By gum, you could make a fortune writing books!' Or, more likely, as in my own case, 'That was a rather good essay, why don't you read it out to the class?'

I can still remember standing up in front of the class, bursting with pride, as I gabbled out my essay. It was so long that it was a practically a novella, and it was about a very holy priest incarcerated for decades for something the poor devil didn't do (not currently available in all good bookshops).

But even better than holding the class to ransom for the better part of fifteen minutes, were the comments written on the end of the essay. In the red spidery handwriting of teachers everywhere, mine had roundly commended my somewhat unusual choice of central character. My descriptive powers also got a gong. But best of all were several wonderfully dramatic ticks at the bottom of the page, in violent red pen. I still think about those ticks, sometimes after I look at a day's output and think, 'Oh, rubbish.'

Mentors light a little fire in us. They make us want to impress; to share those stories in our heads. They look at our writing and they see what we desperately want someone - anyone - to see. Along with advice and wisdom, they can offer useful contacts and give us a decent steer.

For me, my mentor was the first person to believe in me. And it only takes one.