Monk Quixote

It’s not often I make F snort yogurt out of her nose and con­vulse with laugh­ter — well, except when I am attempt­ing to explain the cre­ative process or why I can’t fin­ish the novel this week because I’m (a) wash­ing my hair; (b) admir­ing the onion mon­ster in the gar­den; © think­ing up ways in which think­ing about writ­ing is like hav­ing your own Judaean People’s Front Com­mit­tee meet­ings going on in your head, con­stantly; or (d) ooh look, an ickle kit­ten — but I man­aged it this week.  And all because I said, in all seri­ous­ness, ‘I am a duck, I swim.’ (more…)