I Work At The Sentences.

And What Amazes Me As I Hit The Motorway Is Not The Fact That Everyone Loses Someone, But That Everyone Loves Someone. It Seems Like Such A Massive Waste Of Energy -- And We All Do It, All The People Beetling Along Between The White Lines, Merging, Converging, Overtaking. We Each Love Someone, Even Though They Will Die. And We Keep Loving Them, Even When They Are Not There To Love Any More. And There Is No Logic Or Use To Any Of This, That I Can See.

No Woman That I Know Is Capable Of Leaving Her Child Down For Thirty Seconds. She Can't Walk Away Without Making Sure That Everything Is Absolutely As Secure And Safe For Her Child As Can Be.

I Have A Small Room To Write In. One Wall Is Completely Covered In Books. And I Face The Window With The Curtain Closed To Stop The Light Hitting The Computer.

The Way To Write A Book Is To Actually Write A Book. A Pen Is Useful, Typing Is Also Good. Keep Putting Words On The Page.

Write Whatever Way You Like. Fiction Is Made Of Words On A Page; Reality Is Made Of Something Else. It Doesn't Matter How "real" Your Story Is, Or How "made Up": What Matters Is Its Necessity.