I didn’t write books for the first 45 years of my life for a variety of reasons, the main one being that I was no good at plot (I’m no good at ballet or calculus either).
This is not an example of false modesty — I’m really no good at How Things Work and What Happened Next — mainly because I don’t care. My brain is wired in such a way that it skims over the cold hard facts of any story, cutting straight to 1. what on earth is she wearing? 2. that relationship will never last, and 3. are they or are they not having sex?
This means, that despite really really wanting to have the concept of international debt or Byzantine caravansary inscriptions explained to me, I do frequently find myself wearing a Concentrating Very Hard expression while thinking about what’s for dessert.
I feel I deserve some credit, having bravely overcome my handicap in order to achieve a creditable career as a writer. Though sometimes I lie awake at night, consumed by life’s terrifying unknowables, such as how Jeffrey Archer has sold 130 million books with no discernable talent for anything at all.