I nearly didn't do it. Fact is, I'd got myself into such a stress-fuelled whirlpool of self-doubt about it that I had a big long chat with my agent about how I didn't want to do it. We all agreed that if I didn't want to, there's no reason why I should. So I wouldn't. Nice agent.

And then, as soon as we'd all agreed that I shouldn't do it, I felt a heavy cold lump in my guts, and a big loud boomy voice that seemed to be asking me what the hell I was thinking. Of course I had to do it. Oh sure, there are plenty of reasons why not – all the same reasons why you might not do anything – it's going to fail, it might not be as good as things you've done in the past, everyone will think you're rubbish, what's the point in trying? – but there was one big, loud, neon-lit, flashing-in-the-night-sky counterpoint that I couldn't ignore. I'm a maker. When faced with a choice between making something new, and not – you should always make. The success of something shouldn't matter – in the same way that a samurai never thinks about the consequences of a sword thrust – just about the perfection of the form. "Make something for the sake of making something because making things is what you do, and you're damn lucky to be able to, so shut up and do it", was basically my internal monologue.

So, right now I have a notebook with some ideas in. I have a couple of half-learned tricks, and ideas for a couple more. And most of all I have an idea for the show, that I think is quite fun, and that people might enjoy.

And I have about a year and half until I walk out on stage to do it.

I know what you're thinking – a year and a half seems like ample time to write a new show. And yeah, if all that was involved was writing, then you'd be correctamundo, but I'm a juggler, which means that half the show will involve performing new tricks. These tricks will have to work first time, and every time. That doesn't come easy, or quickly. So I'm looking at a strict schedule of writing, practice, prop-sourcing or making, and a bunch of other slightly more secret things, that will stretch over the next year and change. It's a big ol' undertaking, and as I start the preparations for the journey ahead, my emotional state flits between little jitters of nervous fear, and - particularly when a shiny new idea has just made a safe landing in my head - little satisfied giggles, as I imagine how an audience might like it.

The idea for the show I have at the moment might end up being nothing at all like the thing that gets performed next year. The rehearsal and practice process is there to warm the ideas through and make them soft and malleable, so their shape can be changed, as the show itself starts to take on its final form. It's scary and interesting and scary and fun and hard work and did I mention scary?

But I wouldn't have it any other way. My gut told me, as soon as I'd decided not to do a new show, that I'd made the wrong choice. So here I am – I have notebooks, sketches, a laptop, a slowly growing box of new props, and a long road ahead of me. Let's get to work.