‘Magpie-like I collect these tantalising fragments. They stay with me, glittering at the edges of consciousness until I pick one out intending to polish it until it gleams.’
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That first phrase or line is like a magnet drawing other words to it and they begin to gather, sometimes quickly, sometimes over years, but again have to be scribbled down before I forget them.
‘Many, many ideas die a quiet death; they weren’t strong enough or they’ve been done before. But some stick. ‘
‘There’s a wayward part of me that resists plotting and wants to just plunge in. But if I yield to that temptation I risk the book being stillborn.’