I am a trembling mess from hip to knee. There is a terrible heat, a looseness in my innards that makes me want to dig my fists between my thighs. It is a confusing feeling - somewhere between diarrhoea and sex - this grief that is almost genital.

A drinker does not exist. Whatever they say, it is just the drink talking.

I think writers worry that you might not exist in some strange way if you're not writing.

People think motherhood involves a lot of domestic labor, and it doesn't. It involves being nice to your children as often as possible. That's part of my trick. I don't have that anxiety about meeting their needs.

I love the characters not knowing everything and the reader knowing more than them. There's more mischief in that and more room for seriousness, too.

If you can just actually let the character be for a bit, then you get the right sense.

Remember, if you sit at your desk for 15 or 20 years, every day, not counting weekends, it changes you. It just does. It may not improve your temper, but it fixes something else. It makes you more free.