I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

The Only Thing That I Was Equipped For With My Very Mediocre College Arts Degree Was To Get A Job In Teaching.

But I Can't Bear It When Somebody Who Some Man Made A Pass At - To Call That Violence Seems To Me Absurd And Insulting To Women Who've Really Met Violence, Who've Been Raped Or Bashed.

Writers Seem To Me To Be People Who Need To Retire From Social Life And Do A Lot Of Thinking About What's Happened - Almost To Calm Themselves.

I Think Some People Wished I'd Kept Myself Out Of The Book. But I Kind Of Insist On It Because I Want The Reader To Share My Engagement With The Material, If You Like, Not Pretend That I'm Doing It Completely Intellectually.

Tentatively I Stood A Great Lump Of Wood On The Chopping Block And Bought The Axe Down On It. It Flew Into Two Perfect Halves. Such Was My Elation That I Ran Inside, Put On Our Ancient Cracked Record Of Aretha Franklin Singing Respect And Danced All By Myself For Half An Hour In Our Living Room, Without Inhibition, Almost Crying With Jubilation – Not Just About The Wood, But Because I Could Live Competently Some Of The Time, And Because That Day I Liked Myself.