Twelve years ago I walked into the extremely fancy lobby of Kings Cross St Pancras Hotel, a place I’d never been inside, would never have dared to, though at the time I’d lived in London for over a decade.

I’d taken the morning off from my project manager job working at a children’s charity for this appointment specially and the stakes felt incredibly high. I was electric with anxiety. I’d picked my outfit carefully for the day, a £10 shirt from TK Maxx and black skinny jeans (I was a charity worker and therefore perpetually skint). On the grand steps I took a deep breath and walked into my very first press interview for my slightly-ridiculously-titled, debut novel, Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma, a book that would change my life.

The interview was for The Herald and with the Herald’s very own Rosemary Goring. For me, it represented a huge milestone. A young woman who grew up on some of Scotland’s worst schemes, who left school at 15 with no qualifications, who was told implicitly that she, her stories, did not matter, was now getting a platform in Scotland's premier paper, the longest-running national newspaper in the world.

I do not remember much of the interview; it passed in a fever dream of trying not to say something daft. It is a great read, though I think this is mostly thanks to Rosemary’s skill as a writer, curating my nervous burble into something resembling a shape. I remember that Rosemary was unstintingly kind, right up until the end and even after the interview when she offered to always be a helpful ear if I ever wanted advice. In it, Rosemary wrote that I "sashayed"  in but I remember my jelly legs and trying to just walk in a straight line.

Read that Rosemary Goring interview here

I couldn’t have imagined that 12 years later I’d be writing my own regular column for the paper alongside Rosemary and other brilliant colleagues. Or that I would be on the eve of my fourth book, my second memoir, Newborn: Running Away, Breaking with the Past, Building a New Family’ It is a companion to my last book, also a memoir, Lowborn. While Lowborn examined what it means to grow up severely marginalised and the aftershocks of that poverty and deprivation, Newborn is about how you move forward from that point. How do you build a stable, happy marriage, how do you become a nurturing, loving mother all without any examples or blueprint?

Now, launch day looks very different. For my first novel I pulled out the stops. I stayed up until 3am cooking an enormous cake for my publishing team iced with the first, frankly unprintable, expletive-laden first line from the book. I held a readathon in my local indie bookshop where me, my pals and a few actors read the whole book throughout the day. When I returned to work, my colleagues had erected a huge sign hanging above my desk that read "An Author Sits Here" in the book cover colours, my desk decorated with balloons, an oversize "writer" badge pinned to my chest - a joke because I was so shy, self-conscious about the fact my book was coming out.

The Herald: Kerry Hudson's debut book, LowbornKerry Hudson's debut book, Lowborn (Image: Contributed)

Four books in, this launch is… different. I’m a mum to a toddler with a chronic illness. I won’t be staying up until 3am making a huge sweary cake but I will probably be woken up at 6am with my wee boy bundling into my bed declaring he had "a GREAT DREAM with helicopters that went round and round and round". My husband will bring me a veritable pick and mix of medications and we’ll note in a journal how my pain and fatigue are. I’ve worked closely with my publishing and agency team, brilliant women, and the same ones I’ve been working with for over a decade now, all growing in the industry together, to make things manageable.

My photoshoots are done - is there anything stranger than standing in your nicest dress, red lipstick holding the rest of me up, in front of a snapper who’s captured everyone from Halle Berry to Kanye West? My interviews are mostly done, conducted from bed, my laptop propped on a breakfast tray. I’ll be touring the UK but only one event a month, with time to rest before and after events. On my launch day tomorrow, no matter how I’m feeling, I’ll get my wee boy off to his nursery and then go with my husband for a nice lunch.

Because that’s the other thing that’s so different all these years later. I am not consumed with anxiety. Instead, I’m grateful for every new experience, every moment of the strange rollercoaster of publication. I’m determined to celebrate every single moment I can. Almost dying will do that.

Read more: New Year's Resolutions? I’m resolving to do (almost) nothing

When my debut was published my greatest focus was that I might be publicly criticised. Let’s be honest, that’s still not a fun part of the job but I also know what a huge privilege it is for people, in these hard times, to open their minds, their hearts, hell, their wallets and support a book. And already I’ve had messages from women telling me my words touched them, that sharing my story helped them understand some of their own from a new perspective. There is no bigger compliment as a writer.

At the end of my interview, 12 years ago Rosemary wrote: "She sounds almost motherly herself as she wistfully concludes: 'I hope that lots of people read it, but it would be lovely if some people like Janie read it and see a little niche, and a little bit of understanding’." And now I am a mother. I’ve birthed four books and one beautiful boy and I still hope that young women like I was, that women like I am (and those who have no idea what it is like to live with the legacy of trauma) read and find something valuable on my pages.

Here’s to celebrating: the privilege of telling your story, the joy of finding readers, the absolutely golden experience of writing four books and motherhood too.

Dani Garavalli interviews Kerry Hudson in the Herald Magazine this Saturday