Take this matza, it is my body

As a Jewish person living in a Christian country, I'm fascinated by how the patterns of life of the two religions twist around each other, touching intimately at some points, then suddenly distant. While we're having Chanukah, a very minor festival, Christians are having their biggest celebration of the year. And yet, there are those eight days of feasting between Christmas and New Year, mirroring the eight days of Chanukah. At Sukkot, when we go outdoors, building huts in our gardens and decorating them with fruit, Christians bring the outdoors inside with harvest festival. Even the pattern of the week has a strange diagonal symmetry. At the start of the weekend, we sit around a table with our families and begin a meal by blessing the bread and wine. Towards the end of the weekend, Christians go to church and receive a ritualised version of this meal.

I suppose it makes sense. Christianity, after all, was created by Jews and it's no surprise that they took their patterns of life with them. That's a rather Jewish way of looking at it. Christians might say that the Jewish way of life simply prefigured the true and final revelations of the second Testament. This disagreement is where we come to grief, of course, so I'll pass over it quickly. It amounts to the same thing - the origins of Christianity mean that it is tightly wound around Judaism, Jewish belief, Jewish practice.

We're approaching the part of the calendar where, for me anyway, the simultaneous alignment and misalignment becomes most acute: Passover. Seder night is emotional blotting paper at the best of times - a powerful all-sense experience, it accumulates associations and memories like no other part of the year. (I suspect Christians feel the same about Christmas - another half-twist of the calendar.) Every approaching Passover reminds me of those that have gone before: the tantrums and door-slamming of my teenage years, the year when, a few weeks before finals, I put my hand on the hot electric hob, the year I spent without my family.

The experience of being an Orthodox Jew gives me a strange kind of empathy for Jesus and his disciples. I disagree with them about very many important issues but still, their lives were recognisably like mine. Thinking about Passover like this makes me wonder if the last supper really was the last, or if it just felt like that, if the power of Seder night made all the other meals that came afterwards seem utterly redundant. I suppose, as an Orthodox Jew I should add the suffix "that is, if Jesus really existed at all", but it seems mealy-mouthed. Crucifixion and resurrection do nothing for me spiritually, but the lives depicted in that second Testament seem pretty convincing. And I imagine that if you'd seen your friend tortured to death, the last Seder night you'd spent in his company would engulf all other memory.

All of this is really a preamble to saying that I find, right now, that Christian life is mirroring my own in another of those strange distorting-glass ways. For Christians, it's Lent. For me, it's the countdown to Passover, which means that I'm doing much the same sort of thing. I took a look at my cupboards and freezer after Purim and realised that, if I was going to make any room in my kitchen for the Pesach, non-chametz food, I would have to get rid of a lot of what was already there. And, if I didn't want to throw it away, I'd really have to make a concerted effort to eat it and, more importantly, not buy any more.

And it's been pretty successful. Apart from fresh fruit and vegetables, I've bought almost no groceries in the past three weeks (a moment of madness in Harrods food hall aside). I've been using things up, baking bread with my stocks of flour, creating soups from my frozen veggies, finding interesting things to do with quarter-packs of barley and polenta. It feels marvellously parsimonius and, because I enjoy cooking, has also been good fun, like a permanent Ready Steady Cook challenge. I imagine that Lent has the same kind of satisfaction in denial.

At the same time, I've also been reading a wonderful book: Not Buying It, an account of the year the author spent buying only the bare essentials of life (she discusses in some detail how she decided what they were, and then repeatedly second-guessed herself). It's full of insight into the consumer world we live in - every few pages she says something which makes me put the book down and think about it before continuing. She talks about the way that shopping gives us the momentary "dream of wealth". We love being in shops because we look around at all these beautiful objects and experience the potential that they could all be ours. Until we make a decision, a purchase, in a sense they are all ours. We buy on a high, imagining that we can take that experience home with us, and so the dream of wealth ends up making us poorer.

But the author, Judith Levine doesn't just preach abstinence from commerce. A year of living without buying anything but necessities gives her an acute consciousness of what she's missing out on too. She says: "maybe the freedom to desire itself - the font of personal fulfillment, creativity, and democracy, to name just a few good things - is a necessity, too." Total abstinence is no more of a solution than buying into the consumerist dream that happiness lies just one more purchase away.

I don't say that religious periods of abstinence are a solution to this problem. But it seems to me that there's some sense in having a time of year when you simply appreciate what you already have, the number of possibilities already afforded you. So, tonight I'm trying to work out what I could do with a tin of tomatoes, some salami, a butternut squash and a package of rice noodles. It's not exactly a moment of spiritual clarity, but it beats going to the supermarket.

The unspeakable horror of the literary life, and other slight exaggerations

I have a favourite book about writing. It is not helpful on the process of getting yourself writing (for that read Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way), nor is it instructive on the writing "magic", where to find that spark of inspiration (for that, go to the sublime Becoming a writer by Dorothea Brande). No, this is simply a book which tells the truth about what it's like to be a writer. No one in the UK has heard of it, which has made it a wonderful gift for writers, my editor and my agent. But I'm going to let the cat out of the bag now. Go and read Edward Gorey's The Unstrung Harp or, Mr Earbrass Writes a Novel and understand what it is to be a writer.

It's only a little book, each page illustrated. I have so many favourite moments, it's hard to pick one. For a long time, I consoled myself by staring at the page where Mr Earbrass rashly skims his early chapters and "now sees The Unstrung Harp for what it is. Dreadful, dreadful, DREADFUL. He must be mad to go on enduring the unexquisite agony of writing when it all turns out drivel. Mad. Why did n't he become a spy? How does one become one?" Having spent several years of my life in that state, (so far) this page has been a wonderful comfort.

But, now I'm published, I'm moving a little through the book. In fact, I've just been at a literary festival in the Lake District talking, with two other first novelists about what it's like to be one.

(for reference,a picture of a bit of Keswick, which was cold and beautiful)

So, I thought this event, highlights of which included having my hand kissed by Denis Healey, having breakfast with Penelope Lively and sharing a cab with Barbara Ehrenreich (who, even though it was early in the morning, responded calmly to my rather over-energetic declarations about how wonderful her books are) might mean that I'd moved on to the "literary dinner" portion of The Unstrung Harp. At this literary dinner, Gorey tells us, "The talk deals with disappointing sales, inadequate publicity, worse than inadequate royalties, idiotic or criminal reviews, others' declining talent, and the unspeakable horror of the literary life."

Conversation at our dinner table mostly didn't deal with these topics, I'm sad to say. No literary feuds to report, no bitching about publishers. But over the course of the event, there was a little talk about reviews. We discussed, in particular, how a single bad line in an otherwise wonderful review resonates a hundred times louder than any line of praise - which I've certainly found myself. I wonder if this is because writers are more insecure than other people? Or would anyone feel this, if their performance reviews from their jobs were published in the press? It does have a positive effect, though, at least for me. Once I've got over the initial shock of someone producing any criticism of my book, I've found it's made me work harder and to greater effect. There's something freeing about criticism - it allows you to try new things instead of sticking to the same old ones in search of the same dog-bone of praise. So, while the horror might be unspeakable, I haven't found it utterly pointless.

Woman's Hour and the human experience of the transcendental

Yesterday was my first ever experience of doing radio. It was live, to 2.7m listeners (they told me this after the fact, which was a blessing) on Woman's Hour. It's here, but I haven't listened to it yet - I fear that if I do I'll be hyper-critical of my own performance and it'll put me off when I do public things in the future. I'll listen to it one day, but not right now.

So, Woman's Hour. I listen to it all the time and, in my mind I realise that I'd imagined Jenni Murray et al sitting in one of those radio studios you see on the TV. Clinically white, a large desk perhaps with some papers on it, maybe a kitchen off to one side for when they cook recipes on the radio, certainly some indication that This Was Woman's Hour. I think now that I was also imagining something like the Blue Peter studio - discreet shelves of memorabilia from past items, a poster of the Book of the Week, a shrine to Sue MacGregor garlanded with flowers. But no. Completely wrong.

I arrived early at the BBC - about quarter to nine - and found myself sitting in the waiting area next to Sir Peter Hall. Actually, I didn't know he was Sir Peter Hall at first. I found myself staring at his face thinking: "your name is Sir Peter something and you direct things, I know it, I know it. What are they? Plays? Films? Operas?" It was only when he muttered his name to the receptionist that I put it together. I suppose, at least I know a Sir Peter when I see one.

After a wait, I was ushered down into the basement, where several charming blonde "BAs" introduced themselves as either Claire or Sophie and offered me tea. I did wonder why they were telling me what degree they had but I discover it means "Broadcasting Assistant". I quite like it though. Maybe I'll start introducing myself as "Hi, I'm Naomi, good to meet you, I'm an MA."

The basement was, well, not glamorous. In fact, the whole place had rather a sixth-form common room air - sofas built for sturdiness; kettle, teabags and polystyrene cups in one corner; slightly stained carpet. And Radio 4 playing in the background. Which did not immediately impress itself upon me.

I had to record a couple of pieces from my novel for the programme, just two short sections they'd chosen already. This was pretty straightforward - I've already done a few recordings and I like reading. They put me into the studio which, again, was a surprise. A large room, mostly empty, brown stain on the carpet, slightly ripped green baize table in the centre with four different coloured microphones on it and an enormous ticking clock counting every second. I read each piece through twice and we were done. And then all there was to do was wait.

I had been nervous beforehand, just thinking about live radio. What would happen if I dried? Or forgot what I was going to say? Or said fuck by accident? But "nerves" doesn't adequately describe what I felt as the minutes ticked by before I was called, though. The first thing was that I heard my own voice coming out of the Radio 4 speaker on the wall. Me. Reading. The thing I'd just recorded half an hour earlier. Preceded by an announcement of the time, and followed by Jenni Murray giving a rundown of "today's Woman's Hour". On the radio. Which I would have been listening to in my house, if I hadn't been there, about to be. On the radio. Finally, I had understood. All snide thoughts about polystyrene cups and stained carpets slipped away. Live Radio was all that remained.

I am pretty convinced that I wasn't actually present in my body for most of the next fifteen minutes. I continued to speak to my publicist and the producer, to do useful things like take a drink of water, to chat to the other women waiting on the sturdy sofas. But behind it all there was a little voice in my head screaming "I can't do this. I can't remember anything about myself. I'm not sure I even exist. Oh look, here I am floating up toward the ceiling. Look at those ceiling tiles, how interesting that they have ceiling tiles and not paint, I wonder if it's because of the complicated sound equipment in the studio, why am I thinking about this, why aren't I thinking about my book, who am I again?"

And then, like all out-of-body experiences, I was ushered into the presence of God. Someone took my elbow and opened a door in front of me, pulled a seat forward and there I was. Sitting in front of a microphone, opposite Jenni Murray. I tell you, I had never before that moment realised that Jenni Murray is a goddess. She is. In older, more sensible days, she would have been worshipped with offerings of corn and oil and interesting-looking shells. She exudes warm, motherly professionalism. She makes all things calm and right. Looking at Jenni Murray I knew that everything was going to be OK. I still couldn't remember who I was, but that was OK. Jenni Murray would remind me. I didn't think I would be able to speak, but that was OK. Jenni Murray would cause my lips to open.

And she asked me a question, and there was a green light before my eyes.

The next thing I remember was standing outside the door of the studio watching one of the production engineers close it incredibly slowly, so as not to make any noise while some nice women were talking about the human rights situation in Libya. I literally have no memory of what the goddess asked me, or what I replied. But that's how it is with the gods. We mortals can't complain if our minds aren't strong enough to contain the experience.

There were other things yesterday: an interview with Reuters and a discussion at Jewish Book Week. But nothing was quite so overwhelming as 7 minutes in the presence of Jenni Murray.

Who would have thought?

Fascinating set of tests from Harvard which measure implicit (subconscious) preferences - whether you subconsciously prefer white people over black, for example, or straight people over gay.

https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/demo/measureyourattitudes.html

Apparently, I have a strong preference for Judaism over all other religions. This despite the fact that my writing is supposedly dangerous to it. Each man kills the thing he loves, you see.

Must. Stop. Buying. Other. People's. Books

They told me this would happen. I've become obsessed with my Amazon rating.
I tell my editor at Penguin that I find the number interesting, she says:
"*oh* no. You're not to be phoning me every five minutes asking to know what it *means*."
I nod. *I* will never be this kind of crazy author. I will be controlled and disciplined. I may look at my rating oh, say, once every three or four months. Because of my mild interest in the matter.

I am deceiving myself. A number is a very enticing thing. It's so simple. My ranking goes up, hooray! Everything is wonderful! It goes down, boo! It's all over - my book sales have peaked before it was even published! It's like Weight Watchers (very like, because a lower number is better) but without quite so much self-loathing.

This morning I looked. 2,700. Lowest evah! Decided to treat myself to some books I'd been wanting for ages - a bunch of comic books including Global Frequency. Went back to check my rating again. Oh no! Suddenly I've sunk to 6,453! And then I work it out. My rating goes up if my book gets bought but also if other people's books don't. It's all relative. I might have caused this fluctuation myself with my comic-book spending spree! So it's decided - no more other people's books for me. I expect this resolution to hold for at least 20 minutes.