Writing, More Than Any Other Art, Is

The Woman Who Thinks She Can Choose Femininity, Can Toy With It Like The Social Drinker Toys With Wine - Well, She's Asking For It, Asking To Be Undone, Devoured, Asking To Spend Her Life Perpetrating A New Fraud, Manufacturing A New Fake Identity, Only This Time It's Her Equality That's Fake.

I'm A Novelist, Not A Social Scientist Or A Commentator.

I Felt That I Could Swim For Miles, Out Into The Ocean: A Desire For Freedom, An Impulse To Move, Tugged At Me As Though It Were A Thread Fastened To My Chest. It Was An Impulse I Knew Well, And I Had Learned That It Was Not The Summons From A Larger World I Used To Believe It To Be. It Was Simply A Desire To Escape From What I Had.

Having Your Second Child, In Case You Were Wondering, Is A Lot Harder Than Having Your First, Except For Those People Who Find It Easier. I'm Afraid I Don't Have The Latest Figures To Confirm This.

That's Writing For You: When You Make Space For Passion, It Doesn't Turn Up.