a manuscript that surprises me by page three

daunt books on marylebone high street

the london library, the stacks, the dust, the light

a cup of builder's tea at my desk at 10am

penelope fitzgerald's the bookshop

a semicolon removed on the third pass and the sentence breathing better for it

hampstead heath on a clear sunday, which in london means twice a year

a good galley proof, the smell of it

hilary mantel's wolf hall, which i wish i'd edited

a gin and tonic at the lamb in bloomsbury

my authors, the difficult ones most of all

the 24 bus from hampstead to pimlico, top deck, front seat

nick drake's pink moon

the conviction that a good editor is invisible

john le carre's the spy who came in from the cold, the last paragraph

a red pencil, not a pen, never a pen

rachel cusk's outline trilogy

the moment an author trusts you enough to kill their darling

the british museum reading room, even though they ruined it

the principle that every sentence should earn its place

toast soldiers with a soft-boiled egg, a childhood holdover i refuse to outgrow

kazuo ishiguro's restraint