Letters, Like Compilation Tapes, Were Really Vehicles

As Soon As She'd Met Him At The Arrivals Gate On His Return From Thailand, Lithe And Brown And Shaven-headed, She Knew That There Was No Chance Of A Relationship Between Them. Too Much Had Happened To Him, Too Little Had Happened To Her.

The True Writer, The Born Writer, Will Scribble Words On Scraps Of Litter, The Back Of A Bus Tickets, On The Wall Of A Cell.

Sometimes, When It Is Going Badly, She Wonders If What She Believes To Be A Love Of The Written Word Is Really Just A Fetish For Stationary.

Dont Run Before You Can Walk

I Still Find It Absurdly Difficult To Concentrate On A Novel If There's A Phone Or Computer To Hand; I Have Taken To Locking Them Outside The Room Like Noisy Pets.