A writer has no use for the clock. A writer lives in an infinity of days, time without end, ploughed under.
It is sometimes necessary to be silent for months before the central image of a book can occur. I do not write every day. I read every day, think every day, work in the garden every day, and recognize in nature the same slow complicity, the same inevitability. The moment will arrive, always it does, it can be predicted but it cannot be demanded. I do not think of this as inspiration. I think of this as readiness.
– Jeannette Winterston, “A Work of My Own,” ART OBJECTS: ESSAYS ON ECSTACY AND EFFRONTERY