My father was often impatient during March, waiting for winter to end, the cold to ease, the sun to reappear. March was an unpredictable month, when it was never clear what might happen. Warm days raised hopes until ice and grey skies shut over the town again.

Normally book ideas come to me in a moment.

It was not a house where secrets could be kept easily.

Although I always said that I wanted to be a writer from childhood, I hadn't actually done much about it until I came to London.

Jane Austen easily used half a page describing someone else's eyes; she would not appreciate summarizing her reading tastes in ten titles.

I had walked along that street all my life, but had never been so aware that my back was to my home

I have consistently loved books that I've read when I've been sick in bed.