Monkeys seen
You won't get a novel out of me (or this). I did try. It was a long time ago - long enough for me to have been using a steampunk contraption called an "Amstrad PCW", with a two-tone screen, no hard disk, and 64K of memory - and I had this eccentric idea that to write a novel, you just sat down and hammered out at least 200 pages of facetiousness, packed with as many terrible puns as you could think of, all tenuously justified by a half-baked attempt at autobiography, in which the few real people you had actually known during the chosen period of your life were impatiently replaced with lifeless allegorical figures, whom you moved like chess pieces towards a contrived conclusion. It was an unlikeable abortion, as I realised almost as soon as I had typed the final full stop. I don't know if anyone other than me managed to read beyond the first two pages, but if they did, they must have wondered what the point of it was, and concluded that I was hard up, which I was, and...