Being blocked, being uncertain, sitting there not knowing, waiting, abiding with it:

Waves, sky, trees, Essrog – I was off the page now, away

I have a horror of silence while I’m writing. It’s like the

However appalling to consider, however tedious to enact, every novel requires furniture,

I keep one simple rule that I only move in one direction

But the day I can’t shrug off a twinge of self-pity, is the day I’m washed up for keeps.

I tend to think of myself as a highly emotional writer. It’s

Music still sort of hangs up there in the sky for me