![]() ![]() The truth, as I now see it, is that the book was born of two parents – a sermon, and a house. I was so used to thinking of it as having been a product of nothing but imagination – moreover, an imagination I’d somehow cultivated out of thin air– that I stammered over my reply. “Where d’you get your ideas?” may be the bane of authors’ lives, but it was a question that had never come my way. It seems odd now to realise that no-one had ever asked me this before. When I defended the novel as part of my PhD, my examiners asked how I’d come to write it. I realise now – blushingly, and with apologies – that things I’ve seen and things I’ve done are in every line of After Me Comes the Flood (“Um, well: of course!” you’re thinking). And if you’re thinking how very mistaken I was – that whatever I wrote, there I’d be – you’d also be right. If you’re thinking what a pompous and irritating creature this must’ve made me, you’d be right. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |