I remember when I was writing more frequently, there was this exhilarating sense that my writing was not going to end. I felt that I would always have something to say. There was this flowing-ness and the exhilaration seemed to be tied to belief that I’d found a stream of words, a position from which to speak, which was going to remain constant. I had a made a determination to just write out my life, and in some way the writing out of my life, and my life, seemed to join together and become a single thing – but the writing out seemed to help feelings to move, to clean the pipes. And on reflection, of course the feeling that my writing was not going to end was true. For as long as I allied my writing with my life, there was always going to be things to write. My writing was not going out looking for something else to say. It was conjoined to my experience, feelings and thoughts and fuelled by them. It was unambitious but rather it tried its hardest to reflect what was case for this individual.