My natural habitat is a book-lined room, so a habit can be something in which we swathe ourselves, symbolic and protective, denoting belonging, in which we wish to dwell; that sounds just like my reading habit.
Material possessions fail to quell his self-loathing or heal, or avert, the divisions and disasters abundant in his world; reading the book as a student in Thatcher's London it subtly but perfectly reflected the culture around me.
Funny isn't it how you don't consider for a second that you can be a writer even though it's what you love doing the most? Well you can, and please don't take as long as I did to realise it.
I only turn to the computer once the itch to get writing is very strong, and I worry that they allow me to write too fast, faster than I can really think, and am tempted to write my next book longhand.
Lucy Jago’s passion for a long-dead Norwegian physics professor led her to the top of a mountain in the Arctic Circle, watching the play of the Northern Lights at minus 30 degrees Celsius. And this from a woman who never liked science, and never meant to be a writer.