One-year-old writer

I realised that if I carried on writing in that fashion, my chances of being nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature, let alone winning it, would be slim. So I stopped and regrouped. And had a bit of a think.

I contemplatively sucked on a piece of zwieback, using the physical activity and the sugar rush to aid my concentration. As that brittle biscuit dissolved satisfyingly in my mouth, the realisation dawned that insight lies not in the simple recounting of experiences but in the collision of experiences with opinion. That what I should write was not really a continuous story, more a series of dispatches from the front line. And that if I followed this approach, and trusted in the intelligence of the reader, then you, the reader, would be able to discern the big picture without me having to spell it out for you.

I must admit, it was an approach that appealed to me.

After all, why should I do all the work?

Introduction to Autobiography of a One-Year-Old As told to Rohan Candappa