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I am hugely insecure and desperate to be loved and I want my reader to adore me, to a disturbing, stalkerish degree.
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I won't be happy until I'm up there, receiving the Nobel Prize.
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Art is a hideously painful business, you know. Pity me! Or at least buy me a drink.
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I miss journalism an awful lot.
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I've been haunting bookshops and hiding behind display signs of TV chefs (Nigella is excellent to hide behind as she has a huge arse) as I spy on the short fiction section and see if anyone's tempted by my sweet bait. I've also been counting how many copies of the book are left in shops, and I've been covering other 'upcoming' authors’ books with mine.
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A prize with money attached to it has a lot of prestige.