The author describes her lettuce-fuelled writing regime, and recuperating with a latte and a cheese scone
Stephen King, in his brutal novel Misery, about a writer first rescued from a car wreck by a crazed fan and then imprisoned and mutilated by her, has his protagonist pronounce that there is only one question which the writer of fiction keeps on asking: Can I? This question isn’t just about plot; it hides a more complex question about truth, namely: does my way forward from here feel truthful and real to the reader? And, in my view, every novelist’s working day turns around this necessary interrogation.
There are days when I am able to get nearer truthfulness than others. If I’m feeling tired or emotionally fragile, I know that my capacity to see with an unflinching eye is likely to be compromised. Thus, the success or failure of my day is set before it begins, according to how much sleep I’ve managed to get. I have always been an atrocious sleeper. At my boarding school I was the last girl awake in the dormitory, night after night. So I couldn’t say that any two days are exactly the same. Writing with a bad sleep deficit feels like sitting an exam for which I’ve done no revision.
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