These days it’s all very different but it still feels like the biggest luxury, to be allowed to think, write and work exactly when and how I want to. The only non-negotiable is twice weekly Pilates: if I didn’t stretch my body seriously and regularly, I don’t think I’d be able to sit and write. What I don’t need is for a tabby to sit on my desk and stare at me or pat the cursor with her fat furry pawOnce I start, my concentration is absolute. But at this stage of writing, I’m still laughably unproductive. Now I am mad, distracted, terrible to live with, a solipsistic maniac who can think of nothing but the book.

Source: The Guardian December 30, 2017 09:56 UTC