I first began to think of myself as a writer when I was eight years old and my grade three class staged an Easter play, I had written. Exhausted by the effort, I never wrote another word for years. Yet, the idea I was a writer took hold of my imagination, settling into my psyche like a squatter who came and never left, and who chased away all other potential claimants on my head and my heart.

Like many writers, I enjoy reading about the process of writing, am interested in how others go about writing, where they write, their desks. What are their desks like? What do they sit on? I want to know it all.

Whenever I start a new project, I’ve got in the habit of choosing an image, which is somehow emblematic of the underlying spirit of the novel. It’s both a fun and a commemorative exercise, which began accidentally but is now a habit. It also makes me feel as if I am doing something besides sitting and staring as my life circles the drain.