It’s a strange thing to open the cover and turn the pages of my first novel The Changeling, a book I began writing 20 years ago. It’s a big read that was written in a tiny room – just five feet by four – with one small window and a rickety blind. When I wasn’t under the green, flickering spell of my Amstrad screen, I was staring at the bare wall. I favour the bare wall over the sublime view. I’m more easily transported, I suppose, and ‘transport’ is, for me, as vital as the dogged labour of novel-writing.
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