While I'm writing fiction I try not to read it. Terrible insecurities surface if I do- not to mention the fear of unconscious theft. (This isn't really a problem because your own ideas, phraseology, scenes and of course characters have such a strong essence of yourself that - just like the penguin chick in the thousand-strong rookery - they call to you above the racket. Still...)
I suspect this abstinance has more to do with sympathetic magic than anything real. Like fasting before taking communion - or no sex before The Big Game.
I can't pretend it's easy- it's positively hard because, in common with most people who write fiction, I can't get enough of the stuff. I could eat three courses of fiction for every meal. (Starter: Michael Frayn, main course Joseph Conrad, pudding Martin Amis...and yes, I could manage another slice). An addict, I need some every day. I need some NOW. So I go through this ridiculous bargaining process with Mephistopheles. Obviously, I wheedle, a new William Boyd, say, if there is one- I'm not saying I've checked- but if there were one it'd be out of the question. I'm not even mentioning a title because I understand how not acceptable a William Boyd would be. But- but (it's early morning, my husband isn't awake to torment, even the dogs are still dreaming of very slow hares gambling innocently through Dog Heaven) but (here I come up with my lowest offer, ever) what about an old Colin Dexter- hang on, hang on, before you say No, what about an Inspector Morse that is so-o old I can mime the dialogue when it comes around on ITV3, so old that John Thaw playing Inspector Morse doesn't have a limp, so old and so familiar I can remember who did it? So old the traffic in the Oxford background is actually MOVING. Can I read that?
No, he says.
I turn on the laptop.
