Belief Needs Something Terrible To Make It

I Am A Trembling Mess From Hip To Knee. There Is A Terrible Heat, A Looseness In My Innards That Makes Me Want To Dig My Fists Between My Thighs. It Is A Confusing Feeling - Somewhere Between Diarrhoea And Sex - This Grief That Is Almost Genital.

There Are So Few People Given Us To Love. I Want To Tell My Daughters This, That Each Time You Fall In Love It Is Important, Even At Nineteen. Especially At Nineteen. And If You Can, At Nineteen, Count The People You Love On One Hand, You Will Not, At Forty, Have Run Out Of Fingers On The Other. There Are So Few People Given Us To Love And They All Stick.

I Have A Small Room To Write In. One Wall Is Completely Covered In Books. And I Face The Window With The Curtain Closed To Stop The Light Hitting The Computer.

When I'm Working, I'm Not So Much Disciplined As Obsessive. I Have This Feeling That I Need To Clear Everything Away And Get This Down.

I Think Writers Worry That You Might Not Exist In Some Strange Way If You're Not Writing.