My father was an autodidact. It wasn't a middle-class house. Shopkeepers are aspirant. He paid for me to go to private school. He was denied an education - he had a horrible childhood. He got a place at a grammar school and wasn't allowed to go.

Life wasn't about becoming, was it? It was about being.

When I'm writing, my neural pathways get blocked. I can't read. I can barely hold a conversation without forgetting words and names. I wish I could wear the same clothes and eat the same food each day.

Ursula craved solitude but she hated loneliness, a conundrum that she couldn’t even begin to solve.

The beginning is the word and the end is silence. And in between are all the stories.

Not being published would be great. When I say that to other writers they look at me as if I'm totally insane.

She was a terrible mother, there was no doubt about it, but she didn't even have the strength to feel guilty.