I Don't Like This Idea

I Used To Write In Bed, Starting When I Woke Up. I Believe That Creative Work Comes From Our Subconscious Mind, So I Try To Keep The Gap Between Sleep And Writing As Minimal As Possible.

So I'm Back Again To The Eternal Question, The One That Has Plagued Me All My Life: How Do Other People Do It? How Come They Were Given Life's Rule Book And I Missed Out? Where Was I When God Was Dispensing Capability And Cop On? Looking At Shoes, Probably.

I Am Prone To Despair. We Are All Born With A Particular Personality. I Get Afraid And Then I Don't Want To Leave The House.

I Rang My Mother To Thank Her For Giving Birth To Me And She Said, "what Choice Had I? You Were In There, How Else Were You Going To Get Out?

The Back Windows Looked Out Over The Fields, Then The Atlantic, Maybe A Hundred Yards Away. Actually, I'm Just Making That Bit Up. I Had No Idea How Far Away The Sea Was. Only Men Could Do Things Like That. "half A Mile." "fifty Yards." Giving Directions, That Sort Of Thing. I Could Look At A Woman And Say "thirty-six C." Or "let's Try It In The Next Size Up." But I Had No Idea How Far Away Tim's Sea Was Except That I Wouldn't Want To Walk To It In High Heels.