I was just dreaming, and if, if I'd written the book and nobody wanted it, I would have put it in the drawer and said, 'Well, I did that.'
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I dreamed of having a book of my own, of writing one that I could put on a shelf.
I used to read about people who'd say, 'I dream my books, and then I write them down.' And I was like, 'Oh, please.'
I'd sold the book first. Actually to a paperback publisher. I had nothing. I just had the idea.
I think some people wished I'd kept myself out of the book. But I kind of insist on it because I want the reader to share my engagement with the material, if you like, not pretend that I'm doing it completely intellectually.
For many, many years, I thought that I wasn't good enough or that I would never be able to create something that could touch other people the way books have touched me. There's nothing better than having a lifelong dream come true.
I loved to read, but I always thought that the dream was too far away. The person who had written the book was a god, it wasn't a person.
The impulse to dream was slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing.
I was so flattered that someone wanted me to write a book, I said I would. It was published in 1969.
My dream was, and always had been, to write a book. To be a writer.
I didn't want to write a book. They made me do it.
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