For 10 Or 11 Years,

I'm Very Keenly Aware That There Aren't Very Many Women Writing Literary Fiction In Ireland And So That Gives Me A Sense That What I Say Matters, In Some Small Way.

I Am Interested In Silences

Belief Needs Something Terrible To Make It Work, I Find--blood, Nails, A Bit Of Anguish.

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.

When I'm Working, I'm Not So Much Disciplined As Obsessive. I Have This Feeling That I Need To Clear Everything Away And Get This Down.