Try To Be Accurate About Stuff.

Writing Is Not My Problem, It Is My Solution.

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.

Imagine That You Are Dying. If You Had A Terminal Disease Would You ­finish This Book? Why Not? The Thing That Annoys This 10-weeks-to-live Self Is The Thing That Is Wrong With The Book. So Change It. Stop Arguing With Yourself. Change It. See? Easy. And No One Had To Die.

I Am A Trembling Mess From Hip To Knee. There Is A Terrible Heat, A Looseness In My Innards That Makes Me Want To Dig My Fists Between My Thighs. It Is A Confusing Feeling - Somewhere Between Diarrhoea And Sex - This Grief That Is Almost Genital.

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.