Why do you write?

Because it’s magic – it turns the frog of life into a prince. (Or is it the other way round?) And it is, as Wilde once said of smoking, so exquisitely unsatisfying. Actually, the real reason I write is that talking, either aloud or on paper, is the only thing I’m good at.

Are you a vivid dreamer?

In terms of colour, yes. Most of my dreams are very Le Grand Meaulnes, though: full of atmosphere and unresolved longings, and ultimately pointless.

Where are you happiest?

In a darkened theatre waiting for the show to begin. But I’m not very good at happiness. I’m most contented at our shack in the bush, writing by the window that looks out on a panorama of hills and sky and trees with no sign of human habitation anywhere.