Last month I sat in a cafe in Yackandandah and read Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nobel Prize speech. He talked about certain moments in his life when his own work needed to grow and how certain works influenced his own. In bed, feverish with flu, he read Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. Ishiguro loved the telling of […]
“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own. I’ve transported Virginia Woolf from the courts and quadrangles and canals of Oxbridge to gum trees and dams and ducklings. She sits on the small wooden bench overlooking the arena, hand […]
I feel anxious about beginnings. Only because once you’ve started you’re committed. I’m usually glad in the end I started, it’s just the usual thoughts of what if I fuck this up. All quite normal. I started a novel seven years ago. I’m still here. So is the novel. One day it might debut. Last […]
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