ABOUT WRITING:

When do you write?

Very early in the morning is the best time of all.

Where do you write?

My study. My kitchen. Under the oak tree in my garden. Pond Wood. Pett Beach. The Breakfast Club in Soho. On the train. I wrote a lot of this book in the New Piccadilly Café in Denman Street, London W1, the closure of which leaves an empty space in my experience of London.

Why do you write?

You either do or you don’t. If you do, there’s no “why”.

Who or what inspires you?

Absolutely everything and nothing much in particular.

What do you read if you need a prompt?

I don’t. I go out and do something. Usually a walk or a swim.

Do you listen to music as you write? If so, do you have a favourite piece to write to?

Not when I am writing from blank page. But sometimes I do when I am editing or adding dialogue. Arvo Pärt. Vaughan Williams. The Concerto for Two Violins by the undervalued contemporary British composer George Newson. Some film soundtracks. Sigur Rós. Amiina. Elliott Smith. Crosby, Stills and Nash. Folk compilations.

Do you use visual prompts?

Not really, not at the writing stage. But I do trawl through my scrapbooks and postcards and art books when first collating ideas.

Do you revise and edit your work as you go?

Yes, a huge amount, endlessly.

What tips would you give aspiring writers?

“Love the art in yourself, not yourself in the art.” Stanislavsky.

What single thing would improve your writing life?

More talent.

What distracts you from writing?

The kettle. The weather. Birds on the feeders. Horses on the lane. The fields. The beach. Women. Football. The pub. The kettle. The weather.

How do you balance writing with other commitments?

Writing takes up a disproportionate and unreasonable amount of my time.

How does your background in film inform your writing?

It informs my re-writing. The process of editing film has two significant qualities; firstly, one is ruthless in cutting out material that does not earn its place in the story (I learned that from not being ruthless and making some poor work). Secondly, once a structure is working well in the cutting room, one puts it aside and tries something radically different (when allowed the time). Both these are a part of my re-writing and editing process with a book. As for whether or not being a film-maker makes my prose writing “visual” I think that’s an over-egged idea. I can’t think of any great prose that isn’t profoundly visual, at least in my experience of reading it.

Are you working on a new novel?

Yes. Men Like Air, about four men in New York City in April 2006. And there’s also a lot of preparatory work done on a third book, See You Next Friday… Set in the small town of Blackbrook, it’s about a drunk, his son and the waitress who serves them every Friday.