I'm Full Of Restlessness. Not Lonely, Exactly

We Were In A Great, Seething Moment In The 1970s. There Was A New Labour Government And Everything Seemed Full Of Hope... But, As We Got Older And We Saw How Much Women's Behaviour Contributed To What Was Wrong, We Stopped Being Able To See Ourselves Purely As.

The Rain Began Again. It Fell Heavily, Easily, With No Meaning Or Intention But The Fulfilment Of Its Own Nature, Which Was To Fall And Fall.

On Melbourne Summer Mornings The Green Trams Go Rolling In Stately Progress Down Tunnels Thick With Leaves: The Bright Air Carries Along The Avenue Their Patient Chime, The Chattering Of Their Wheels.

Well, I'm At Some Kind Of Crossroads In My Life And I Don't Know Which Way To Take. It's Not About Money, I Mean, Because I'm Established Enough Now As A Writer To Get A Reasonable Advance If I Wanted To Do Fiction.

I Suppose There Must Be Idiots Who Dream Of Signing Deals With Publishers While Fully Intending To Drink Martinis In Cool Bars Or Ride Around On Skateboards. But The Actual Writers I Know Are Experts In Neurotic Self-torture. Every Page Of Writing Is The Result Of A Thousand Tiny Decisions And Desperate Acts Of Will.