‘On the surface writing seems such a glamorous pastime.
A labour of love; witty; delicate, even. To me, writing feels more like an orchestral exorcism (god, that sounds oddly sexual).There’s no red wine, brooding stares or candlelight. Instead, I gladly settle for a pound shop version of playing Ben Howard or Laura Marling on my tinny phone speaker as I furiously pen monologues of intense emotion.’
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