Once Again I Must Ask Too Much

I Think That Emotionally, I've Probably Felt A Little Bit More Balanced When I Started Writing Again.

The Difficult Thing, The Glorious Thing, Was To Be Who You Really Were, Even If That Person Was Cruel Or Dangerous, Particularly If Cruel And Dangerous. There Was Courage In Not Distinguishing The Animal You Happened To Be. On The Other Hand, You Had To Avoid Pretending To Be More Of An Animal Than You Were: Take That Path, Start Exaggerating Or Faking And You Became Just Another Cubby, Just As Much Of A Liar, A Hypocrite

I've Only Suffered Writer's Block Badly Once, And That Was During The Writing Of Chamber Of Secrets. I Had My First Burst Of Publicity About The First Book And It Paralysed Me. I Was Scared The Second Book Wouldn't Measure Up, But I Got Through It!

He Might Have Been Encased In A Thick Glass Bubble, So Separate Did He Feel From His Three Dining Companions. It Was A Sensation With Which He Was Only Too Familiar, That Of Walking In A Giant Sphere Of Worry, Enclosed By It, Watching His Own Terrors Roll By, Obscuring The Outside World.

He Had Fought Back With Every Weapon In His Arsenal, Being Alternatively Obtuse, Evasive And Pedantic, For It Was Wonderful How You Could Obscure An Emotional Issue By Appearing To Seek Precision.