Last year, Andrew Miller was short-listed for the Booker prize for his book, “Oxygen.” The Booker prize is generally regarded as one of Britain’s premier literary prizes (and the most lucrative). “Oxygen” is Andrew Miller’s third book. His first book, “Cassenova in Love” won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for Fiction, the Impac Dublin Literary Award, and the Grinzane Cavour Prize. His first two books, “Ingenious Pain” (1997) and “Cassenova in Love” (1998) are currently being adapted for film. He received a Master of Arts in creative writing in 1991 from the University of East Anglia, and a Ph.D. from Lancaster University. Miller sat down with The Herald to discuss his work.

Badger Herald: In your latest book, “Oxygen,” there is an overt theme of breathlessness. Imbedded in that theme is the instance of the substitution of the synthetic for the organic. Can you comment on that substitution as a mode of social commentary?

Andrew Miller: I think it’s a very valid insight, as far as the pills, it does seem to me that everybody that I seem to know is either self-medicating or using prescription drugs of one sort or another, and it does seem that now a very normal way for people to get through — the big and the small — it’s quite extraordinary if you raid people’s washbags more often and just look inside.

You know everyone’s got something to get them through the tricky moments. So that was something which is not an ideal situation. It’s something in which the medical profession and the pharmaceutical industry have colluded, although I think we are fairly willing to swallow things.

BH: Earlier books you have written were generally historical fiction. “Oxygen,” on the other hand, is based in a more contemporary setting. How was the writing process different for you in producing your latest book?

AM: Well, in the process I spent more time talking to people. With “Ingenious Pain” and “Cassenova in Love” the research was done in libraries of various kinds — general and the specialized. Whereas with “Oxygen” there was a certain amount of that, there was also a lot of talking to people, for example with the Hungarian angle.

I was talking to exiles — people in their 60s and 70s who had left Hungary in ’56. That was a nice way to work — sitting around and drinking brandy with these people, and also with the nursing aspect, I talked to friends of mine who were experts in this area. People are extraordinarily generous to give up all this hard-earned knowledge that they have earned.

Actually, it’s the first book that I used the Internet a lot for — that’s partly because I didn’t know what was quite out there before. It’s useful for getting quick answers to simple questions. Larry (from “Oxygen”) is a tennis player and I wanted to see who won the French Open in certain years — and in 10 minutes you can have answers that could otherwise take you several days to find out. For things like that I think it’s tremendous.

I think attitudes toward the Internet are a little optimistc — that it’s going to be some wonderful tool to free us all in some way, a democratic equal access to tremendous amounts of knowledge, but I don’t think it’s a solution to our ills.

I used it this time for the first time. The difference was that the research was more live this time, and before I was spending a lot of time with documents and books.

BH: How did you feel when your book was short-listed (announced as a finalist) for the Booker prize? How did it affect you?

AM: Last year was the first time there was a long list too. You always know that your publishers have put you in for this and you ignore it, and then you realize it is possible and you know it is a chance of one in 24. There’s lots of speculation at that point, and people make remarks to you about your chances of getting on the short list. I actually got the day of the announcement mixed up and didn’t hear anything and assumed that was that or they would obviously tell me, and then of course they called me the next day.

The publishers get more excited than the writers — I think they were quite literally jumping up and down. The phone rings a lot and you are suddenly getting a lot of attention which, if you are not used to (it), is exciting and disconcerting too. You are in the papers the next day, and people speculate and this issue of speculating intensifies. I didn’t read the papers after that.

For me, book sales shoot up, and you do quite a few interviews. The drama, the sort of theater of the main event builds up — you have a night at the guild hall which is a very grand venue with various people . . . sponsors, journalists, writers, past writers and so on.

It’s not very relaxed if you are on the short list — you can’t relax. The trick is to watch the cameraman — they know first, about thirty seconds before it is announced they dash over to the winner. When you find out you didn’t win it’s a strange deflation that lasts for about two minutes, no more, and then it’s not your name, and suddenly everything is over and the party is done, but just beginning because everyone has a party for them in hopes of winning.

They gather at various traditional venues and go back to your camp and drink the night away and bump into other people’s parties — after you put away your penguin suit, it’s over and you kind of forget about it. It’s useful because people who haven’t heard about you before have — that does you no harm. So I guess I need to go and win one.

BH: Can you describe your writing process, for example, when you are working on a project in a concentrated fashion?

AM: I don’t write for long periods of time because I don’t like sitting down for long periods of time. I’m constantly looking for more comfortable chairs.

I live in Brighton and I work in a room overlooking the sea in a pretty cluttered place. I work from about 10 o’clock until two o’clock and try to get back later in the day for a couple of days. I’m not doing long shifts. I’d rather have two good hours than sit there for seven hours and get a backache.

I don’t slog it out. I like to write slowly and I like to stop while it’s still coming, while I still have appetite — like leaving the table while you could still eat one more thing. The next day you’re back in again. In different stages in a book’s writing you do different amounts of work.

In the beginning there is a lot of energy and that pushes you on at a good pace. In the long, middle section you are just glad to get to your desk at all. Towards the end, when you can see that it’s doable, you might put in long hours. My longest ever was about nine hours, and I felt that was quite heroic. After that, I was done for the day — I couldn’t talk or sleep or anything.