There's Quite A Big Gap When It

There Is Something Wonderful About A Death, How Everything Shuts Down, And All The Ways You Thought You Were Vital Are Not Even Vaguely Important. Your Husband Can Feed The Kids, He Can Work The New Oven, He Can Find The Sausages In The Fridge, After All. And His Important Meeting Was Not Important, Not In The Slightest.

The Only Way To Write A Book, I’m Fond Of Telling People, Is To Actually Write A Book. That’s How You Write A Book.

Naming Is Nice. It Took Me Days Before I Was Able To Speak A Name For My First Child (what If People Did Not Like It?), And I Suspect We Gave Her A Secret, Second Name As Well, To Keep Her Safe.

If You Grow Up In Ireland And Read Books Then You Really Are Obliged To Attempt Your Own Some Time. It Is Not Exactly A Choice. I Still Don't Know If I Am A Writer. Believe Me, There Are Days When I Have My Doubts.

And, In Fact, This Is The Tale That I Would Love To Write: History Is Such A Romantic Place, With Its Jarveys And Urchins And Side-buttoned Boots. If It Would Just Stay Still, I Think, And Settle Down. If It Would Just Stop Sliding Around In My Head.