ABSTRACT
In one camp there are authors who spend years – lifetimes, often amassing experience and ‘memos to self’ until, opinionated to bursting point, they can’t not write it all down. For them, the virgin page is like a bed-pan brought in the nick of time. And in the other camp are others – jaundiced hacks for the most part, on a ‘so much a thousand words’ contract – to whom that same virgin page is as irresistible as a graffiti-free wall to a kid with a spray can. Me? I’ve a foot in both; camps, that is.
