When it becomes necessary to go away to work on the manuscript, that deep immersive work where you really can’t be taken out of your head, I pack my dog, my notebooks, some bird books and a piece of flint that sits on my desk beside my keyboard. I found this flint out walking and when I picked it up my thumb fit just perfectly in the groove made by another woman, a woman whose country I now walk over and love, and whose story I can’t tell, but I can acknowledge. When the words won’t come, I often pick it up and it reminds me that my writing is a tool, and that storytelling is important.

I also quite like a little bit of dirt under my nails, you know the bit you can only get out with a nail brush and gardener’s soap, or when you wash your hair. A little bit of dirt balances the intimidating clean blankness of the page.