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.
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You write a book and you finish the book. That's your job done, right? You win the booker and you have a whole new job. You have to be the thing, right? So instead of writing the story, you somehow are the story. And that i found that sort of terrible.
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If you try to control it too much, the book is dead. You have to let it fall apart quite early on and let it start doing its own thing. And that takes nerve, not to panic that the book you were going to write is not the book you will have at the end of the day.
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