If I think about the writers I love or might be influenced by, I can't write at all, so I pretend there aren't any.

Our minds and memories are crowded with the common experience of nature.

Art is inspiring. Walking into a gallery, or when the lights go up on a stage; that thrill of getting something that has nothing to do with acquisition.

I have a study now - I used not to. I also love working in cafes; ignoring noise is good for concentration.

I dont get distracted until the weight of other things left undone finally tips the balance; my mind is flooded with calls, bills, supermarkets, letters, and I have to stop and sort things out.

My father was a screenwriter, but he was also a novelist.

Oh, I always think everyone feels left out.