‘Write what you know’ has to be the most ball-achingly banal suggestion that anyone ever made to a writer. And it explains so much. The abundance of books and films commencing with the hero getting out of bed. Stories in which it’s painfully clear that someone is using writing as a substitute for therapy they can’t afford about a relationship break-up. An entire genre in the form of soap opera.

If ‘write what you know’ means turning the content of your own life into fiction, then whole swathes of my book and DVD collections would be invalid. No science fiction. No fantasy. Not much to talk of in the thriller section. Instead, reams of worthy biopics and movies of the week ripped from the previous week’s headlines.

But there is a place for ‘write what you know’ if it’s taken to mean emotional experiences rather than mere facts. I don’t know what it’s like to swing a sword in battle, but I remember the chaos and mud and brutality of rugby from school days. I’ve never been to another planet, but I have vivid memories of touching down at JFK airport. And though I’ve never taken on a corrupt establishment single-handed, I’ve seen what corruption can do and acted in my own small ways against it.

Every moment of your life is a resource for a story. And not just your life. Think of the stories you’ve heard from people over the years. The things people will do that seem natural to them, and leave me gaping in admiration, perplexity, or awe. S, raising funds for a hospice in South Africa having been there herself to see an entire generation devastated by AIDS. R, giving a handjob to an overfriendly Belgian to raise funds to get back to Britain after his friends were too stoned to meet up with him in Amsterdam. C, seeing his mother for the first time in five years after being excluded from the family circle for an offence with consequences that will possibly ripple through the remainder of his young life.

Show me somewhere there isn’t a story; someone whose life isn’t rich in incident, character, conflict. Writing is largely a question of choosing which stories you want to focus on, and shaping them in such a way that their particular details become vessels for universally recognised qualities. Story: the means by which we measure and share our experiences.

The question then, is how to keep things fresh. Which means continuing to mix familiar patterns with unexpected detail, or vice versa. That, or face the judgement of the woman who did my hair two cuts back, and commented of Casualty as she tidied my fringe, ‘It’s always the same: someone gets married, someone dies, and someone has a baby’. She had a point. Now, if it was the SAME someone, maybe there’s still a story to be told with those familiar ingredients…