My family can always tell when I'm well into a novel because the meals get very crummy.

We stay in the house so much because I am waiting for the telephone. I seem to be back in my teens, a period I thought I would never have to endure again: my life is spent hoping for things that only someone else can bring about.

My stories are never quite good enough

I can never tell ahead of time which book will give me trouble - some balk every step of the way, others seem to write themselves - but certainly the mechanics of writing, finding the time and the psychic space, are easier now that my children are grown.

I think it must be very hard to be one of the new young writers who are urged to put themselves forward when it may be the last thing on earth they'd be good at

My writing day has grown shorter as I've aged, although it seems to produce the same number of pages.

I save the best of myself for novels, and I believe it shows