My children are living, thinking human beings. It isn't in my power to regret them, for they belong to themselves.
I'm waiting for the day when my children cease to find my domestic propriety reassuring and actually find it annoying.
You could time a suburban story by your watch: it lasts as long as it takes a small furry animal that's lonely to find friends, or a small furry animal that's lost to find its parents; it lasts as long as a quick avowal of love; it lasts precisely as long as the average parent is disposed on a Tuesday night to spend reading aloud to children.
I absolutely don't dislike children - I would choose their company over adult company any time.
I have no sense of a model or predecessor when I write a memoir: For me, the form exists as a method of processing material that retains too many connections to life to be approached strictly and aesthetically. A memoir is a risk, a one-off, a bastard child.
Like the child, the creative writing student is posited as a centre of vulnerable creativity, needful of attention and authority.
Having your second child, in case you were wondering, is a lot harder than having your first, except for those people who find it easier. I'm afraid I don't have the latest figures to confirm this.
