If I was blessed with anything, it was the narrowness of focus. As a boy, I’d always wanted to be a writer from the age of 10 I guess, and then as every year went on, I ridiculously took on a sort of psychological mantle.1 I would somehow tell myself that I was a writer when I had absolutely no reason to or justification to do so.2 But I just — I said the only thing I wanted to be was a writer, and I’ve kind of deformed a lot of the rest of my life and studies to suit that aim. I mean it wasn’t really even an aim, it was just an infantile declaration. And then I just sort of proceeded as though this was likely or possible or appropriate. The older I got, the less good I was for anything else. And in the end I had to sort of go on and actually see it through, otherwise it was kind of embarrassing.3

  1. Had To Work []
  2. When I Was A Child []
  3. The Long Game []
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