Almost 30 years ago to the day I sat down at the kitchen table and hammered out my first newspaper column on a dented cream portable typewriter.

Heaven knows what the piece was about. I remember thinking prospects of selling it were minimal. Nevertheless, after an exciting start to a journalism career I’d found myself, at the age of 24, stranded on a clay cliff in a new subdivision at the back end of Karori, Wellington, with two small sons, a shaky marriage and probably some form of post natal depression.

There wasn’t much point confiding in women friends. They were quick to assure me what they were going through was much worse. I believed them. The doctor’s valium tablets made me weep waterfalls into the kitchen sink.

Even though I adored the boys and didn’t for one moment regret having them, my life was a shipwreck. I was drifting out toward Horizon Insanity. There had to be some way to fight the current and paddle back to shore.

Like anyone who’s been shipwrecked, I examined what raw materials were on hand. Writing was the only thing I had training in, so it seemed a logical starting point. Even if I couldn’t sell anything at least it would settle me into a discipline that didn’t involve nappy buckets.

I wrote about ordinary stuff that was driving me crazy – sleepless nights, competitive Playcentre mums, marital tension that was thicker than house dust. They were depressing topics and should have made miserable reading.

I was astonished one day when an editor phoned saying the pieces had an appealing light touch. Some of them had actually made him laugh. I’ve been suspicious of humour ever since. It’s a form of strength, or madness, that makes people survive things they probably shouldn’t.

When the editor asked me to send in a piece every week I had no idea I was making a 30 year commitment. Writing the column every Monday morning gradually became a life pulse, though it never happens unconsciously. The trick is to make it look easy. Use short words and sentences. Sandwich a few profound thoughts between the lines and hope somebody picks up on them.

The reality is I never sleep well on Sunday nights. Fear of missing the mark on Monday increases every year. Apart from the generosity of editors who’ve continued to run the column, the thing that’s kept me going this long can be summed up in a single word. Readers.

Readers are often surveyed by publications as so-called ordinary people with buying habits. Most readers I’ve met through the column are extraordinary individuals with tremendous courage and generosity. When our son Sam was run over and killed in 1983 readers’ letters provided some of the most helpful advice and comfort on offer. Some of them had “been there”, lost children of their own and were living proof it’s possible to survive such disaster.

Two years later when daughter Lydia was born, readers opened their hearts again. Some knitted jackets and booties for the new baby. Others sent cuddly toys. The kindness of these strangers was overwhelming.

Readers saw me through divorce, second marriage and a late-ish baby. Many said they were going through exactly the same thing.

Of course, not everyone enjoys my work. When abusive comments explode on the computer screen, I try and remember a columnist isn’t doing her job if she isn’t annoying somebody some of the time.

Readers were incredibly helpful when son Rob faced surgical removal of his colon as a result of ulcerative colitis eight years ago. Those who had been through the same procedure offered us invaluable advice. In return, whenever readers with similar health issues email with concerns Rob has shared his experience with them.

Readers often say they enjoy the family stories most. How my long suffering husband and three offspring have endured such exposure is beyond me. It helps that most of them have little interest in my work. Husband Philip is forced to read the column every Monday night only because I’d like to stay married to him.

A couple of weeks ago Allen and Unwin in Sydney offered me a book contract. They want 85,000 words before October, which feels like climbing a mountain. I hope readers won’t mind if I take a break from the column to put on my crampons. To those of you who aren’t relieved, and to the wonderful editors who have supported my work an Everest sized thank you.

Read some reader feedback on my "Taking a Break" announcment.