I write in fragments. Jot on used envelopes, scribble along the margins of the Guardian Review section, scrawl on the back pages of a planner. I write down thoughts snatched between errands, chores (ironing, ugh), dog walks, family functions, deaths, mundane emergencies, meals, and conversations with customers. These I hastily conceal, as if I'm thieving time. I think of Bluets, The End We Start From, Dept. of Speculation. Slim books with fragmentary structures, written by women, claiming space in fragments; the Great American Novel, the elusive goal of men whose literary endeavours are enabled by invisible feminine labour, is a patriarchal concept.

The other day, I wrote in twilight, smoking cigarettes and listening to my dog snort and snuffle, pursuing cats in his sleep. The darkness deepens around me, blotting my physical form, but the lines from my pen are clear on the shadowy page and I feel more solid than I've been in ages.

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