Every so often I get this absolutely unbearable feeling – desperation, aching desolation, yearning, longing – like I would go out of my mind. And then that’s exactly what I need to do – escape down the wormhole into the other world where my characters live; a place where life makes sense and kindness always wins, where people are understood and faith is the common language.
When I was fifteen, my best friend Henbug wrote in her journal: ‘I want to go home. Not where I live, but home.’
That’s how I feel too, and it’s why I write fiction. It’s a way of bringing into the here and now the elusive, rare, half-forgotten, native air of home.
Here we have no abiding city.