I'm avoiding the thousand yard stare of the blank page; I'm afraid of it. This is how it is before a work has taken shape, before it's found a life of its own. I stall because I'm wary of beginning the long journey.
The novel I believed did not want to be written suddenly wrote itself right to the end in a matter of weeks all because of a few lines I chanced to read one afternoon in a remote house in Wales.
I sat there listening to my words echoing round the room, embarrassed to be the centre of attention, but secretly proud and amazed that something I had done for fun, as play, could merit two hours of class time.