When I was eight years old, I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My primary school teacher noticed I had difficulty with hand-writing, forming structure and other indicators such as telling the time. My parents were immediately alerted.

Following this discovery, I was encouraged to read and practise my writing skills. As a result, English would become a passion during my childhood.

At the age of ten I constructed a ‘newspaper’ and circulated each edition throughout the neighbourhood at 50 cents a copy. I remember my Mam running to reimburse each customer. I read vicariously and dreamt of future articles, novels, screenplays and more.

Harry Potter, superhero Captain Underpants and teenage spy Alex Ryder became lifelong friends, to the extent I even dabbled in replicating their appearance, sometimes with comically embarrassing results.

As time went on, I moved on from that peculiar trio to become a fan of writers such as David Foster Wallace, George Orwell and Con Houlihan.

We are often advised to ‘do what you love’ and I diligently observed this advice and chose to pursue a BA with Journalism in university.

My dyslexia always lingered in the background, emerging on occasion to reduce my hand-writing to an illegible scrawl almost as if I had used a moving car bonnet as a writing surface. I often agonised over what clause to use or whether a sentence was grammatically correct.

Yet, throughout secondary school and university, I never once told a teacher, lecturer or editor that I had been told I had moderate dyslexia as a child.

It felt like a convenient excuse, having an asterisk beside your name that ensured your work would always be accompanied by a limitation.

Suggestions of a potential exemption for hand-writing in exams or an allowance for essays were dismissed.

I was convinced that sheer will and determination would triumph and I would be just fine.

As it was not severe, attempts to conceal it worked reasonably well. Anytime it did manifest itself, it could be dismissed as bad writing (which it often was.)

When the usual difficulties associated with learning how to write well are compounded by dyslexia, the consequences can be severe.

You might have a beautiful idea in your head but despite all the will in the world you are incapable of representing even half its original value.

You produce a perverted, structurally weak, cheap counterfeit. It is as if you are trying to paint on a revolving canvas.

You learn to cope. Dedicate huge amounts of time to proof-reading and conduct tedious line-by-line spell-checks. When afforded substantial time the work began to produce reasonable results. But time is a luxury not always available to journalists.

Matthew Syed's book Bounce is a renowned contribution to the 'talent v hard work' debate. He argues that it is hard work, 10,000 hours of it to be precise, that leads to mastering one's craft. From Tiger Woods to Mozart, they all logged 10,000 hours before excelling in their respective field.

For 10 years I have embraced English both as a leisurely pursuit and a profession. I have undoubtedly logged these 10,000 hours but still often feel hopelessly inadequate as a writer. How do you explain that Mr Syed?

He would probably argue it has not been proficient or specific practise. And therein lies the problem. What if that is not a possibility? What if you know what you love, but do not feel good at it? What then?

Writing is often described as a journey, and for many it can be a positive or negative one. But there has to be a conclusion; validation that the journey was worthwhile and that blissful moment where the input matches the output, when the end justifies the means.

I enjoy this when it happens. Often, time spent writing leaves me utterly unsatisfied. In particluar, when a monumental effort fails to produce the results I had hoped for. All the while, lingering in the background is the grating restriction imposed by dyslexia.

Perhaps such disappointments are but a symptom of being a bad writer. But the availability of an excuse makes it difficult. You also know you have at times produced really good writing, you're aware of the sensation that accompanies that high but frequently fall short.

In reality it is probably a testament to how lucky I really am that this is a  concern for me. A privileged, educated white male wondering about what extent his condition is hampering his ability.

All the googling of post-graduate conversion courses or alternative forms of journalism will not quench the desire to write, and write well.

You just have to hope that old-school, gradual graft will deliver results. That by doing what you love, you will become good at it.