A pathetic shadow, torn between her envy and thrill of being seen with Masomma, sharing in the attention as a weed would, lapping up water meant for the lily upstream.

The story of what has happened to women in Afghanistan, however, is a very important one, and fertile ground for fiction.

People in the countryside carry a sense of dignity. They wear it, don't they? Like a badge? I'm being genuine.

My father and I did work for a while at the flea market and there really are rows of Afghans working there, some of whom I am related to.

It's tremendous what can happen when suddenly you make an emotional connection.

I don't outline at all; I don't find it useful, and I don't like the way it boxes me in. I like the element of surprise and spontaneity, of letting the story find its own way.

And suddenly, just like that, hope became knowledge. I was going to win. It was just a matter of when.