No matter how many books you’ve written, no matter how successful some of them are, no matter how much you love working with words, that one horrible day always arrives: the day you’re meant to start the next one. I defy anyone to say that’s ever a breeze. I’ve been looking at a blank page now for two days, totally unable to think of a half-decent first line. I’ve done masses of research, I’ve got the plot in my head, I’ve moulded the characters, I have the drama tumbling around, straining to break free. But can I think of the first line? I could be here a long, long time …
