You wrote your first short story, The Sex Lives Of African Girls, in 2006 after Toni Morrison gave you a year to write something for her. Did a deadline from a literary legend make it easier to write? Or more difficult?

Both. But more to the point, it made my writing a story inevitable; how could I not write something now? At that time I was still working full-time in television, but something kicked in. I wrote it, sent it off to Professor Morrison and she liked it. But leaving my job and forcing myself to live off my writing – that came from myself.

Many women dream about quitting their careers and pursuing something more creative. What made you take that leap?

I actually think I took a really long time to get around to it. But what made me do it is simple: I really, really love writing. So, to know this for 25 years and to keep on waking up and doing something completely different, well, it became painful. I was miserable – and I have a pretty low tolerance for misery. There is no part of me that misses working in TV. Yes, I learned a lot – I write screenplays as well and I aspire to direct at least one film by myself one day – and in my early 20s working in TV was an amazing way to learn about the nuts and bolts of production. Quitting my job and proclaiming that I was going to make a living as a full-time writer wasn’t easy. But at some point, if you’re honest with yourself – and you need to be if you’re an artist – you will hear the words, “This is not the creativity to which I was called.”

Ghana Must Go is about a sprawling family spread across different continents and draws on your own background. Had the plot been bubbling away for years?

Not at all. It was in late 2009 at 5am in the shower at a yoga retreat in Sweden with a friend that the plot of my novel – the entire Sai family – came to me. I emerged wrapped in my towel and said to my friend, Kirsty, “I think I just found my first novel.” She said “Where?” to which I replied, “In the shower.” And Kirsty said, “What, somebody left it there?” I know that yoga and meditation are critical to my creative process – in Sweden, I found myself still for the first time in years. I had no job, I had no phone; in fact the technology ban became a problem when I asked the yoga instructors if I could have my laptop back. “I need to get started on this novel that I’ve waited 20 years for,” I explained. And they said “No”. So Kirsty and I packed up, left and checked into a hotel in Copenhagen so I could get started.

How did you overcome this block?

I moved to Rome! Now that I’d quit my job, I couldn’t afford to stay in NYC. In desperation, I decided to go to Paris, because that’s where lady writers go. But after weeks on Craigslist and AirBnB with no luck, a friend suggested Rome, where short-term lets are far more common. In Rome, I’d unknowingly thrust myself into the best possible space in which to create art; a condition of absolute vulnerability. When you don’t speak the language, you look like an idiot all the time. You go back to a childlike state, relying on smiling, eye-contact, body language, instinct and the goodwill of others. It was a softening experience. At the same time, I was learning to put the Italian language together, rediscovering my love of language. The combination of these two things made writing play again.

Stylist meets the literary world’s latest star