50YOn: Tuesday, 13th April 1976
I wake up and intend to spend the day writing.
When I hear Nick awake, I dress, put on tennis shoes, and get to work on the typewriter. I don’t get much done, just a few pages. Lunch. P. Mill. Start the book again. Begin on the second book to avoid boredom. Get earache. T.V. Four pieces of toast with peanut butter. Continue with the second book. How to Save the World, the other is Exodium.
I had no real idea what I was doing. I thought stories would simply form in my head and move through my fingertips onto the page. Both books were attempts at something grand—science fiction, world-saving, invented realities—but in truth, they were indistinguishable: the same vague energy, the same lack of structure.
The problem wasn’t laziness so much as frustration. I wanted to write, but didn’t yet understand how writing worked. So I drifted—starting, restarting, switching between projects to avoid the growing sense that neither was going anywhere. Procrastination as a response to not knowing.
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