Mostly it's lies, writing novels. You set out to tell an untrue story and you try to make it believable, even to yourself. Which calls for details; any good lie does.

It’s like the grief has been covered over with some kind of blanket. It’s still there, but the sharpest edges are .. muffled, sort of. Then, ever now and then, I lift the corner of the blanket just to check, and .. whoa! Like a knife! I’m not sure that will ever change.

But if you never did anything you couldn't undo you'd end up doing nothing at all.

Not until the final draft do I force myself to remember that I'm going to have to think about how it will affect other people.

I do write long, long character notes - family background, history, details of appearance - much more than will ever appear in the novel. I think this is what lifts a book from that early calculated, artificial stage.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person.

I'm falling into disrepair