I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

But I Now Think What I Was Doing, In A Completely Unconscious Way, Was Getting Off The Turf Where My Husband And I Might Be Rivals. We Were Both Working In Fiction... So I Look Back And I See That I Consciously Vacated The Contested Ground.

Well, I'm At Some Kind Of Crossroads In My Life And I Don't Know Which Way To Take. It's Not About Money, I Mean, Because I'm Established Enough Now As A Writer To Get A Reasonable Advance If I Wanted To Do Fiction.

The Rain Began Again. It Fell Heavily, Easily, With No Meaning Or Intention But The Fulfilment Of Its Own Nature, Which Was To Fall And Fall.

On Melbourne Summer Mornings The Green Trams Go Rolling In Stately Progress Down Tunnels Thick With Leaves: The Bright Air Carries Along The Avenue Their Patient Chime, The Chattering Of Their Wheels.

But I Can't Bear It When Somebody Who Some Man Made A Pass At - To Call That Violence Seems To Me Absurd And Insulting To Women Who've Really Met Violence, Who've Been Raped Or Bashed.