Writing was work that suited my temperament exactly – the obsessive need to be left alone, yet also connect. It’s good for my head, making use of my thoughts, while the generative act itself – transforming a blankness of space via the word – carries no small amount of divine pretension. I had a surprising patience for the Rubik’s Cube-ness of revision, I found: turning a sentence this way, a paragraph that, until the colours lined up and my hands knew it was done. Order singing from chaos, briefly, miraculously.
