literature

At age twenty-five I was passionate, opinionated, adamant. I believed in an undefined Utopia, and that it could be created right there and then. In pursuit of that goal I had started nonprofits, finished graduate school, had two kids. I'd embarked on and abandoned a career in government when I realised the limits of service.

I was just offered £1,000 to write four twitter posts in praise of a product I have neither used nor even heard of.

Um. In a word: no.

In the midst of waves of visitors we threw a party, collecting an extremely random assortment of people at Jaguar Shoes for a belated joint fortieth birthday celebration.

The whole thing was hilarious, not least because our friends, when offered the opportunity, imposed their own natural social segregation. All the scientists and business people congregated together, all the literary types huddled on the other side of the room, with just a few confused new recruits and one Israeli attempting to mingle.

When I am not working or seeing friends I walk around London, for hours and miles every day, listening to recordings of Nancy Mitford books.

It is absolutely true that I moved away from the United States because I wanted to live in a place where everyone has equal access to health care. But why England, specifically, when I could have chosen any country in Europe?

Deadlines! Oh, the horror! And oh, so necessary.

I never accomplish anything unless I have external motivation: a publisher, or a promise, or a legitimate need to earn money. Vanity and boredom might be sufficient motivations to play with words or tell a story, but I would never sit down and write without remunerative inspiration. I just can't - the words do not cooperate. I will happily tap and scratch away for years on projects that I never sell, or even show, but the intent from the first paragraph is always publication.