MY name is Kevin and I am a writer. There, I've said it. Publicly!

Admission is the first step to recovery -- rule number one in the Alcoholics Anonymous group we host at Christ Church. All we need now are Writers Anonymous meetings! Writing is such a cruel addiction.

How sad can you get? I 'm off to the Lakes in just one hour, and still I can't stop. Linda, my long-suffering word widow, doesn't know I've cunningly hidden a drop of the black stuff in a fountain pen in a corner of the suitcase. Secreted elsewhere is a sheaf of white writing paper.

In the stern of my diseased brain churns a TV script, adapted from an old novel. Thirty-two years of sermons and articles and nine books mean I've written so many crates of words I could fill a brewery.

And why? Well, actually, it's not the writing. It's the story.

As a reporter, before reversing my collar, I was forever chasing the biggy; the scoop to carry me to Fleet St. Then, I unearthed the greatest story ever told which transported me to heaven! Still can't beat it.

The biggest fear in life was death. No longer. The Author of Life came 2,000 years ago at that first Easter to beat death, and rewrite the human script with a happy ending.

There's now good news for all who stop writing their own selfish life stories and trust in the one true author. For them there is a new life of forgiveness, peace, beauty and abundance from here to eternity.

Boy! What a scoop!