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Over the last forty odd years I've written about fifteen books, and after the publication of each one, the most difficult question to answer is: "And how long did it take you to write?"

If you say: "Oh, I just knocked it off here and there over a few weeks" it somehow sounds rude, as if the book is so worthless as be barely worth reading - ergo, they are idiots for bothering to waste time wading through it. But if you say: "Oh, it took me six years", that too sounds artificial, particularly if it's a novel. How can anyone spend six years working on a novel? If it's true, the author must be an obsessive lunatic, going over sentence after sentence, polishing and polishing until, by the end, one would imagine that would hardly be any book left, or, if there were, a book so mannered, self-conscious and niggly as to be unreadable.

I know many writers do have a hut at the bottom of their garden, or a special den where no child is allowed to enter or, indeed, even breathe when passing by, but I suspect most of these hallowed places are owned by men. And the reason you're not allowed to enter without knocking is because most of the time they're not writing at all. They're playing carpet golf, or Scrabble on screen, or reading the latest book that has nothing at all to do with their work. Indeed, even the phrase "work" rings a false note with me. Or maybe I'm just odd.

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I'm getting very keyed-up about my forthcoming trip to the States to publicise the paperback version of No! I Don't Want to Join a Bookclub. One moment I can't wait to get out there, looking forward to meeting new people and seeing new cities. The next, I'm dreading it, imagining long lonely mornings sitting in a Holiday Inn bedroom with nothing to entertain me except a Gideon Bible and a thousand rubbish television channels. Followed by long waits at airports where I am frisked from top to toe in case I'm a terrorist. Interspersed with the odd talk at a bookshop to which no one turns up except a couple of stony-faced old ducks of ninety with sticks and frowns. Very worried about what I Can and Cannot Say, too. Can I use the F word (I only want to use it once)? Can I mention death as something to look forward to? I have this very ridiculous stereotypical view of all Americans as being very warm, generous, open, but also all being evangelical Christians and very disapproving underneath. I am just so longing to be proved wrong.

And will everyone say: "Have a nice day"? I think it was a rather sour Englishman who would reply: "Thank you, but I have other plans." I feel like a terrified child who's been asked to a party and whose mother keeps saying: "But it'll be lovely once you get there." Which I'm pretty certain it will. But it doesn't stop me hanging back, trembling with anxiety.

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Virginia Ironside is our guest blogger during the week of March 17th. If you have any questions for Virginia Ironside, add a comment to any of her posts. Here is some brief information about No! I Don't Want To Join A Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year:

Marie Sharp is heading toward sixty and is just fine with it. She's already had plenty of excitement in her life: sex and drugs in the freewheeling sixties, career and children, marriage and divorce. Now she's ready to settle into a quiet, blissfully boring routine. No Italian classes or gym memberships or bicycle trips across Europe, thank you very much! Marie just wants to put her feet up and "start doing old things."

She's even sworn off men! But as it turns out, life still has some surprises in store, the biggest of which is a new grandson on the way. What's more, Archie, her old childhood crush, suddenly reenters her life, and her closest friend falls seriously ill. Armed with a biting sense of humor, Marie wrestles with a life that refuses to follow her plans-and may still offer more possibilities than she realizes.