I was what they call a sound sleeper. I could sleep on the floor without any problem, and with children screaming a meter away from me, it didn’t make any difference; if I was asleep, I was asleep. Once I had thought it was a sign that I wasn’t a real writer. Writers slept badly, had ravaged faces, at the crack of dawn they sat at the kitchen table staring out the window, tormented by their inner demons, which never rested. Who had ever heard of a great writer who slept like a child?
