Writing is a sickness, an ailment, an addiction. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking about what I have just written and, when I do go to bed, I lay sleeplessly thinking about what I am going to write when I get up and start again next day.
I am a night person, an insomniac, the girl at the bar who looks like she should have gone home and maybe has no home to go to. I compose my work in the dead hours between two and six while the city sleeps and the night planes follow the Thames into London, where I was born.
When I do sleep, I sleep badly – in spite of the magnets under my mattress that are supposed to orientate my body north to south so the dragon lines pass through the invisible portal at the top of my skull and down to my feet, my best feature, according to my ex-boyfriend.
I have written 5 erotic novels including the best-seller "A Girl's Adventure" and my Mother doesn't speak to me because she believes she was parodied in my autobiographical "The Secret Life of Girls." At least Daddy loves me.