I recognised the wonderful sensation the skydivers were describing. When the writing is going well, my sense of self melts away; all those everyday concerns, that internal tiresome dialogue, abates. I lose the sense of time passing.
I don't binge on authors. I am amazed by people who boast (there can be no other word) that they re-read the complete Dickens once a year. I couldn't do that. I am simply too slow a reader.
Is writing a ruthless business? How much honesty is too much? Should you mine your own life for stories? RLF writers explore this literary quandary in 'The Splinter of Ice'.