August 15 2014. I love crazy aircraft projects—especially when it turns out they mightn’t be so crazy. The proposed VTOL VV will carry 30 tons at around 200mph.

Aeronautics was neither an industry nor a science. It was a miracle.

Igo Ivan Sikorsky (1889-1972), aviation pioneer who gave the world its 1st practical helicopter

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I have been a believer in electric aircraft for some time. Electric motors can have phenomenal torque (turning force) and tend to be extremely light and compact when compared with internal combustion equivalents—and they are relatively inexpensive to build. Torque is particularly useful when it comes to the need to move a considerable quantity of air to generate vertical lift—as is the case with rotary aircraft where all the work is done by the rotor. Where conventional aircraft are concerned, the wing does much of the lifting.

The snag? Where do you get your electric power from? Add a generator and its fuel you tend to lose most—though not all—of your weight advantages. Besides, conventional engines are known quantities and are much easier to get certified (a major problem when it comes to aircraft innovation). As a consequence, although there is some development work in this area, there is much less than I would like to see.

If you combine a single powerful generator with multiple electric motors, you start regaining your weight advantages—and if you use ducted fans instead of traditional un-shrouded rotors, you achieve considerable efficiencies. You can also swivel your ducted fans to transition from vertical lift to horizontal (much as the V22 Osprey does now). The only problem you face is with the weight and complexity of your swivel mechanism. But supposing you had a patented lightweight swivel system—and the whole thing was controlled by highly sophisticated software?

A UK company called 4X4 has combined these principles—plus other innovate thinking—to propose (I’m quoting from the ever excellent www.gizmag.com )

“a hybrid VTOL cargo plane fitted with electric, tiltable, ducted fans that it claims will be able to carry truck-sized loads at nearly 200 mph (320 km/h). Dubbed the VV (Versatile Vehicle)-Plane, the aircraft is aimed at reducing the transport costs in developed countries by claiming a better cost-weight ratio than current motor vehicle transport while also helping in developing nations where impassable or non-existent roads hamper the movement of large loads over land.

Based on a hybrid system that the creators claim will drive four clusters of four electrically-powered ducted fans via an energy storage system charged by an on-board combustion engine generator, the VV-Plane would lift off vertically and then move the ducted fans to a horizontal position for forward movement. The aircraft will also have a horizontal stabilizer at the rear and a similarly-sized forewing near the nose.

The company claims to have patented the bespoke gimbal technology that will be used to rotate the ducted fans, saying that the gimbals and an "intuitive" software system allows the transition from vertical to horizontal flight without relying on current mechanical tilting mechanisms that are both heavy and expensive.

The VV-Plane design boasts a 15 m (50 ft) wingspan with a fuselage of exactly the same length, and will be able to carry 30 tonnes (33 tons) of cargo. The full-size VV-Plane is also designed at that size so as to be able to carry an industry-standard Twenty-foot Equivalent Unit (TEU) container, so that it may directly complete with road transport in this size category.

To validate their proof of concept, 4x4 Aviation plans to display and fly a prototype scale-model of the VV-Plane on 26 September at Ashford Airport in Lydd, Kent, where the company is based. The model will have a 1 m (3.2 ft) wingspan, carry a 5 kg (11 lb) payload, and be used to test the flight control system.

Though the idea of a ducted fan heavy lift VTOL vehicle is nothing new – the ARES cargo UAV being one notable example – the unique feature for the proposed VV-Plane is its reliance on electric ducted fans to produce the thrust required to vertically lift tens of tons

If the VV can carry 3o Tons at nearly 200 mph (320lm/h) at an economic rate it will be quite revolutionary—and will be of enormous significance militarily. It could mean, for instance, that light armor (such as the M8 Armored Gun System) could be transported by air.

Currently the Chinook CH-47F Block 2 will carry only about 10 tons. The new Marine CH53K will lift 17.5 tons—a little over half the VV’s target.

Personally, I think the VV will work. Using multiple ducted fans will make all the difference. However, the real issue will be whether the company will be able to raise the necessary funds.

Fascinating stuff.

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August 14 2014. The incredibly sad death of Robin Williams—and the issue of suicide. It has been all too common in my life.

Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide.

John Adams

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide.

Albert Camus

Perhaps the saddest irony of depression is that suicide happens when the patient gets a little better and can again function sufficiently.

Dick Cavett

They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice... that suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person.

Arthur Schopenhauer

If I had no sense of humor, I would long ago have committed suicide.

Mahatma Gandhi

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I find it hard to think of humor where suicide is concerned, but the thought occurs to me that the above headline could suggest that I kill myself regularly.

Relax—I only do it occasionally.

Have I thought about it seriously? Yes, I have—though I find it hard to assess how serious I was. But let’s put it this way—I’m glad I don’t have ready access to lethal medications—the easiest way to do the deed. Yes, I know there are many options—and the one I personally prefer is the Ancient Roman method which involves slitting one’s wrists while in a hot bath. I have always loved having a hot bath so it would seem like a good place to die. Indeed, you could read while ex-sanguinating.

Reading in a bath is one of life’s great pleasure. Probably best to pick a short story.

I doubt very much I would ever hang myself. My first book, GAMES OF THE HANGMAN was inspired by my coming across a freshly hanged young man—and it affected me deeply. It still does. The feeling I remember most was the rush of compassion I felt when I caught the upper half of his body after a policeman cut him down. Someone else had caught the feet. I had deliberately opted for the upper half. I had found the body, so felt quite proprietorial about it.

For a moment I held him in my arms—suffused with an overwhelming desire to bring him back to life—an irrational aspiration if ever there was one. His neck was hideously elongated—and blood and mucous had spewed from his mouth. He was a repulsive mess and clearly very dead.

Nonetheless, he gave a loud groan as we laid him on the ground.

It was just the air from his lungs—but I have rarely been so startled or seen such fear.

Later, I told the coroner—as a reflex—that the body had been cold when I found it. The answer came out without thought—probably prompted by the numerous books I had read where dead bodies are frequently described as being cold (to emphasize the concept of death, I suppose). Did I correct myself? I can’t remember.

The reality was that the body wasn’t cold at all. The wrist I had felt had been warm. The victim had hanged himself—if that is really what happened—shortly before I had arrived. If I had started my walk earlier I might have arrived in time to save him—or to see the deed being done.

I am very, very glad I did not see the actual hanging. The consequences were bad enough.

That traumatic incident apart, suicide has touched my life directly on more occasions than I care to think about. In fact, it has taken place more than once in my own family. I don’t think I’ll give any more details. I used to keep track of the total number of suicides that I have known personally, but now I prefer not to think about it. It’s too upsetting. I do recall that the total was well into double figures.

I wasn’t surprised when I heard about Robin Williams—but—like many, I’m sure—I felt incredibly sad. Still, I understood. I have seen too much depression firsthand not to understand its power. It grips, it controls, it distorts, and it seems seems extraordinarily difficult to escape from. In fact, I have rarely encountered people who have managed to break free—despite state of the art meds and lengthy therapy. In the end, it kills.

Creative people seem to be particularly prone to suicide. I don’t know whether that is statistically true—but such is my impression. Certainly, most of the suicides I have known have had that background.

My first serious girlfriend, Liz Davis, a talented actress, killed herself. No, I was not the cause, I am relieved to say. In fact, she did the deed a good quarter of a century after we had been an item. She had ended up living with an uncle of mine—something that had blown my mind when I had fist heard—and then after he had died of Alzheimer's, she announced she was going to kill herself. He had been the love of her life—and she couldn’t live without him.

A number of us invested great efforts, over many months,  in trying to stop her. 

It made no difference. When she felt the time was right, she took a lethal doze of meds, drank most of bottle of spirits, and asphyxiated herself with a plastic bag. She was serious about the process—and entirely successful. She was yet another depression sufferer.

Like most people, I get depressed from time to time—and I certainly have a creative temperament—but, fortunately, I don’t suffer from depression. Or if I do—I’m unaware of the fact.

Writing is my medication, and I find it hard to think of a more powerful one. It’s so demanding that you really can’t remain feeling down. Instead, you are forced to focus on the all consuming activity of converting thoughts into words. The process has an energizing positive effect—even if you end up feeling exhausted.

My sense is that I’m very lucky. In other ways, I have the kind of mindset which could well make me a candidate for suicide. I think deeply, am concerned with world problems, lead a stressful life, and have experienced considerable tragedy.

On the other hand I have clear goals, a ferocious zest for life, and love what I do. I also walk—which is another uplifting activity. And I’m blessed with a profound sense of disrespect linked to an ever reliable sense of humor. On top of that I have exceptional friends—and they make all the difference. Sadly, they don’t seem to when serious depression is involved.

So if I’m found hanging, don’t believe I’ll have done it myself. It will be murder—and almost certainly an agent or publisher—or a member of the MICC (Military Industrial Congressional Complex). Go find the bastard and make him pay.

The last suicide I was involved with was Jo Curran’s tragic death in December 2010. She was the friend of a friend I helped to look after when she was dying of cancer. Instead of waiting for her condition to kill her while she was in acute pain and possibly paralyzed—the cancer was eating her spine—she decided to take matters into her own hands and kill herself under Washington State’s Death with Dignity Act.

Together with her daughter, I helped to hold her up while she drank the lethal dose—and then, together with a small group of friends—watched her until she finally died. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I felt it would be disrespectful if I did. I cried.

She died with considerable dignity—but I was still traumatized by the whole experience.

Though Jo retained her feisty sense of humor until the very last—and on the surface the occasion itself was surprisingly cheerful—it’s a terrible thing to see someone you have become fond of take their own life.

The most beautiful rainbow appeared after Jo died. She had that kind of spirit.

Rest well, Jo and Robin.

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August 13 2014. The importance of a breadth of experience to a writer—plus the ability to understand, appreciate, and empathize with the experiences of others

“Go for broke. Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Take a deep breath before you begin talking. Aim for the stars. Keep grinning. Be bloody-minded. Argue with the world. And never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things--childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves--that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.”

Salman Rushdie, Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981-1991

“How much can we ever know about the love and pain in another heart? How much can we hope to understand those who have suffered deeper anguish, greater deprivation, and more crushing disappointments than we ourselves have known?”

Orhan Pamuk, Snow

“Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him.”
Aldous Huxley, Texts & Pretexts: An Anthology With Commentaries

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The more experiences you have, the more you have to write about—and the more you are likely to understand the experiences of others. Such understanding is fundamental to the high level of overall awareness that characterizes the finer writers. 

Experiences—unless truly bad (or fatal—which is something of a bummer) tend to lead to more experiences. I’m not quite sure why, but I guess they arouse your curiosity—and then one thing leads to another. Travel to France and then you wonder what neighboring Spain is like—so you pop over the border. The next thing you know you are in Gibraltar—and North Africa is beckoning. And the Straits of Gibraltar are so narrow—so you take the ferry, watch the the leaping dolphins that accompany you with fascination—and now you are in Tangier, Morocco.

Or such was my experience—and pretty much everything happens in Tangiers—or did back in the day. 

It’s best if they are  direct—but, where writing is concerned, it’s not essential—just better. That said, an indirect experience is not really an experience. Only listening to the telling is an experience. The actual incident--no matter how fascinating it is, and how vivid the account, it is really only information—and not necessarily accurate at that. Mind you, by the time your subconscious has worked it over, it may seem like your very own direct experience.

Memory can be quite eccentric in its behavior—downright willful in fact. And not always honest. You make the best of it.

Besides,  there are some things you really do need to experience personally. Sex is one. Being under fire is another. Flying in an attack helicopter would be a third (as far as I am concerned). Having an imagination would be yet another.

Can you imagine an imagination if you don’t have one? I doubt it.

Being in love is a life-changing agony no one should miss.

Experience is defined as, “Practical contact with, and observation of, facts and events.” Observation covers a multitude if the word ‘direct’ is not included.

Well, there are various definitions of experience, but I tend towards the view that a real experience should be direct and personal. After all, an important part of an experience is your own reaction to it. The more experiences you have, the more insight you will have into your own emotions—which you can then transfer to your characters (or use in your memoirs). Strangely enough, you can’t really experience other people’s emotions. All you can do there is experience their reactions—which is not the same thing.

A breadth of experience—apart from giving you more material—can help you empathize more effectively. Will experiences make you empathetic in the first place? Probably not. But if you are a naturally simpatico person, then having been through the same thing as the person you are talking to—or something close—will promote understanding. Also, you need to appreciate that the more you know, the more people will tell you. That seems somewhat counter-intuitive, but it’s true.

Where most occupations are concerned, primarily experiences tend to be of maximum value when relevant to the field in question. Accordingly, if you are a doctor, the fact that you have experience of farming won’t help you much. However, if you are a writer, providing you write daily—note that imperative—then  what you really want to do is have experiences of as many weird and wonderful occupations, places, and situations, as you can.

The point here is that writing is fundamentally about human nature so the more experience you can have of that, across as diverse a spectrum as possible, the better. That way, you will be better equipped to create characters, and have a real feeling for how they think, talk, and act.

A variety of jobs also broadens the mind and increases understanding—whereas working solely in one field has a disconcerting tendency to do the opposite. The professions, in particular, seem to produce types. Accountants, for instance, have a tendency to look, act, and apparently think (one can never be sure) like accountants. Specialization can make you blinkered—which is the last thing a writer needs to be.

I have never compiled a list of all my experiences—something I must do some long rainy Sunday afternoon—but I really have done an astonishing variety of things, traveled extensively, and read a truly obscene number of books.

All I can say is that the totality of my experiences means that I know something (even if not enough) about most things—and rarely have a problem thinking of something to write about. Or of thinking.

That is not always a good thing—thinking can be a burden—but it is mostly positive if you are a writer. We are supposed to think. It is how we turn thoughts into words.

So go forth and do weird and wonderful things with weird and wonderful people—and you will never suffer from writers’ block again.

Just remember to use a condom.

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August 12 2014. How should a writer organize his workday? Apparently by writing less and walking more. Though I love to work, my feeling is that the lady is on to something very important. But, Dickens didn’t have to cope with e-mail, blogging, or computer issues.

“Walking . . . is how the body measures itself against the earth.”

Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking

“All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking.”

Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, Or, How to Philosophize With the Hammer

“My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She's ninety-seven now, and we don't know where the heck she is.”

Ellen DeGeneres

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I have written often about the value of walking where writing is concerned—though I don’t always practice what I preach. I do walk every day—virtually without exception—but not for as long or as energetically as I could. For all that, I really notice if I don’t walk. It lifts me both physically and mentally.

A fascinating article in Mother Jones adds some context.

Science Says You Should Leave Work at 2 p.m. and Go for a Walk

A new book tells you how to change your habits to improve at math, science…or whatever else you want to learn about.

—By Chris Mooney

| Fri Aug. 1, 2014 6:00 AM EDT

Charles Dickens, perhaps the greatest of the Victorian novelists, was a man of strict routine. Every day, Dickens would write from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. After that, he would put his work away and go out for a long walk. Sometimes he walked as far as 30 miles; sometimes, he walked into the night. "If I couldn't walk fast and far, I should just explode and perish," Dickens wrote.

According to engineering professor Barbara Oakley(see above) photo author of the new book A Mind for Numbers: How to Excel at Math and Science (Even If You Flunked Algebra),Dickens wasn't just a guy who knew how to keep himself healthy. Rather, his habits are indicative of a person who has figured out how to make his brain function at a very high level. And for this, Dickens' walks were just as important as his writing sessions. "That sort of downtime, when you're not thinking directly about what you're trying to learn, or figure out, or write about—that downtime is a time of subconscious processing that allows you [to learn] better," explains Oakley on the latest episode of the Inquiring Minds podcast.

And structured downtime doesn't just help the world's greatest writers and thinkers do their best work; it helps all of us while we're learning and striving to achieve tasks. Or at least it would, if someone told us how important it actually is. "We spend from 12 to 16 years of our lives in formal education institutions. And yet, we're never given any kind of real formal instruction on how to learn effectively," says Oakley. "It's mindboggling, isn't it?"

In fact, suggests Oakley, there are some very simple techniques and insights that can make you way better at learning—insights based on modern cognitive neuroscience. The most central is indeed this idea that while you obviously have to focus your cognitive energies in order to learn something (or write something, or read something, or to memorize something), that's only part of what counts. In addition to this "focused mode"—which relies on your brain's prefrontal cortex—we also learn through a "diffuse mode," rooted in the operations of a variety of different brain regions. In fact, the brain switches back and forth between these modes regularly. (For those familiar with Daniel Kahneman's famous book Thinking, Fast and Slow, the diffuse mode would be analogous to Kahneman's "System 1," and the focused mode to "System 2.")

What's crucial about the diffuse mode, writes Oakley in A Mind For Numbers, is that the relaxation associated with it "can allow the brain to hook up and return valuable insights." "When you're focusing, you're actually blocking your access to the diffuse mode," adds Oakley on Inquiring Minds. "And the diffuse mode, it turns out, is what you often need to be able to solve a very difficult, new problem."

Oakley is not a neuroscientist. However, as someone who initially hated math, but then later decided to "retrain my brain" and become an engineer, she grew fascinated by the process of learning itself. "Now, as a professor, I have become interested in the inner workings of the brain," she writes in A Mind for Numbers.

I am both pleased and disconcerted by this piece. I started my writing career by walking—and I have known for some time I should walk more, but have a problem finding the time. Dickens had the advantage of merely having to write. He neither published himself—nor did he blog—nor did he have e-mail to contend with. Also he didn’t have computer issues.

Still, this is an important matter. How to find a solution? I think I’ll go for a walk.

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August 11 2014. Many aspiring writers don’t understand that it is better to write badly than to write nothing. In fact, you probably will write badly at first. Most of us do. Writing is a learning process—and we learn by failing repeatedly. That’s normal. Just be glad you are not learning rock-climbing.

The only advice I can give to aspiring writers is don't do it unless you're willing to give your whole life to it. Red wine and garlic also helps.

Jim Harrison

It is a sign of contraction of the mind when it is content, or of weariness. A spirited mind never stops within itself; it is always aspiring and going beyond its strength.

Michel de Montaigne

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My heart goes out to aspiring writers who are desperate to write—but can’t. So many freeze—and eventually give up in despair. So many feel so alone—regardless of their support system. Only writers understand writers.

I’m sure that is not entirely true—but it is mostly true. Love is a great stand-in.

I have been trying to work out some techniques to help the novice break out of this frozen state. People tend to refer to it as ‘writer’s block’—and, therefore, normal—but it really isn’t.

Writer’s block is when you normally can write but are temporarily stopped because of some circumstance (the death of a loved one comes to mind—and I’m thinking of a specific situation).

Being unable to start in the first place is entirely different—and we really need a different name for it. It is more akin to stage fright—so how about ‘word fright?’ Either way, it is a mistake—but entirely understandable.

Newbies tend to think  that they have to have something to write about when you start—but the truth is that you don’t. That all can come later. Initially, you are trying to train your mind to cooperate with your fingers—no more than that.

Actually. I am wrong. Even before that early phase, you need to prepare your mind for the rigors that lie ahead. Meditation and yoga could be where you should start. As I have commented elsewhere, writing—like most difficult occupations—is hugely about managing your fears.

When I started, I did a great deal of walking—at least two hours every day in all weathers. I found that calming, and it gave me the chance to think a great deal. In effect, I was training my mind—though without consciously realizing it. I had no writing mentor at that stage (nor much of one later). But I did read extensively—to my great benefit—and I took the long view. I knew that learning to write to the standard I aspired to would take a very long time and would involve a lifetime commitment.

How right I was—and I’m still learning (and failing). How did I know? Partly though reading—and partly though being aware of my own limitations. I knew that given enough time I could become competent. I wanted to become good—a real professional. I didn’t dare to think I could become great. I still don’t. That may be a character flaw. A writer should set the bar too high. The challenge is the pleasure.

Let me tell you, it is more satisfying to fail at writing than to succeed at many other activities.

But the vital thing for an aspiring writer to realize is that you need to start by preparing your mind.

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August 10 2014. Believe it or not—belief was invented by a writer.

“A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”
Oscar Wilde

“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”
François Rabelais

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Perhaps the most frustrating thing about dying is that you don’t get to find out what happens next. Or if there is an afterlife, perhaps you do.

I’d like to believe in an afterlife, but in the absence of any evidence to that effect, I remain an agnostic. In fact, I debate whether I believe in belief. I like to think I have a rational mind (though I’m not sure there is much evidence to support that thought).

Actually, there is some evidence of afterlife—if you choose to interpret it that way—and that is the existence of life itself itself. What is it? It is hard to categorize, but you certainly notice its absence.

Spend a little time with a dead person and you’ll soon catch on that there is something missing. The dead don’t talk as much for starters—and they have no social graces. Worse still, they rot after a couple of days—and they are difficult to lift. Damnably inconvenient.

Life is a truly amazing force when you think about it—yet we know absolutely nothing about it. Let me stress the word “know.” We’ve made up stuff to fill the gap, but we don’t know that it’s true. Not to worry—we’ve come up with a useful concept called “belief.” It’s a really useful word because it requires virtually no work. In particular, you don’t have to think. What a relief! Thinking is useful but tiring. It’s probably best left to marginal members of society like writers.

One of our jobs is to fill the gaps. We writers come up with stuff to stop the natives getting too restless. In fact, it was almost certainly a writer who invented the concept of belief—probably at the request of the movers and shakers.

I can see one of them rushing to a writer’s cave (belief was invented a long time ago) and screaming: “The natives are trying to think. That’s bad for us and exhausting for them. We need a stress reliever. Any ideas?”

“Dinosaur hunting?” the writer probably said. We rarely get it right first time.

“You need to get out more,” the mover and shaker probably replied. “Dinosaurs are big and dangerous.  Besides they seem to be vanishing so we’ve made them a protected species.”

“Alcohol?”

“Not invented yet.”

“Football?”

“What’s a ball?”

“Most men have two of them. Football is where you kick one of them around. Or something like that.” Writers are rarely sports oriented. Football hadn’t been invented either—but sometimes we writers spot  a trend.

“I don’t see how kicking each other in the gonads would relieve stress—though I guess it would be distracting.  Can’t you come up with something better than that?”

The writer probably stood on his head for a while. Exercise helps thinking, but we writers try not to do it to excess. Being upside down does give you a different perspective.

“Belief,” the writing would have said finally. “We just tell people to accept stuff without questioning. We’ll explain it’s much less tiring than thinking. More energy efficient too.”

“Brilliant!” the mover and shaker would have said. “Why didn’t we think of that before. It will make controlling the natives so much easier. How does it work?”

“You keep on saying the same thing over and over again,” the writer would have said, “to the point where even if the natives know it’s not true, they will accept it—and you have to speak with absolute certainty. Start off by telling them that thinking is tiring and not good for your health—and that belief is easier and faster. Then repeat yourself until their eyes glaze over.”

“And that’s all?”

“Absolutely,” the writer would have said—with absolute certainty. “People hate thinking. It’s far too much like hard work. So repetition beats evidence any day of the week. Now let me tell you a story.”

“What’s a story?”

“A story is something you tell people to make them feel better,” the writer would have said. “Meds for the mind. Repeat one enough and it turns into belief.”

“Is a story true?” the mover and shaker would have said.

“A story is whatever you believe it to be,” the writer would have replied.

“Belief is a very powerful and dangerous idea,” the mover and shaker would have have said. “We movers and shakers can do a lot with it. What will you come up with next?”

The writer would have got to his feet. Standing on your head makes you dizzy after a while. Reverting to normal posture was generally understood as indicating politely that the issue had been talked out.

“I’m working on something called politics. It’s a blend of belief, ignorance, and greed.”

“Sound like just our sort of thing,” the mover and shaker would have said.

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August 9 2014. Should a writer have a hobby? Drinking doesn’t count. Where writers are concerned, that tends to be classified as a necessity. Probably best if it’s something physical, something athletic…

“It's not true that I had nothing on. I had the radio on.”
Marilyn Monroe

“I don't know the question, but sex is definitely the answer.”
Woody Allen

“I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.”
Steve Martin

“Reading—it’s the third best thing to do in bed.”
Jarod Kintz, This Book Title is Invisible

“Good sex is like good bridge. If you don't have a good partner, you'd better have a good hand.”
Mae West

“Sex, whatever else it is, is an athletic skill. The more you practice, the more you can, the more you want to, the more you enjoy it, the less it tires you.”
Robert A. Heinlein, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

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I particularly like this photo of Marilyn because she looks so vulnerable and sexual—in it. It would melt the heart.

It is impressive how often MM said something quotable. Marilyn was very far from a dumb blond.

A friend of mine, Best Selling author Anthony Summers (to whom I owe a great deal) wrote the definitive biography of MM.

It’s called GODDESS. Go read it

What is a hobby anyway (a typical writer’s question)? As always, I shall ask Wiki.

A hobby is a regular activity that is done for pleasure, typically during one's leisure time.

Hobbies can include collecting themed items and objects, engaging in creative and artistic pursuits, playing sports or other amusements. By continually participating in a particular hobby, one can acquire substantial skill and knowledge in that area.

And now I think of it, what is leisure time (another typical writer’s question)? We writers have no idea because we are either writing, or thinking about writing. Eugene Ionesco put it more elegantly.

A writer never has a vacation. for a writer’s life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.

Since a disturbing number of people don’t seem to get writing—and particularly its solitary nature—I am human enough to pay attention to such attitudes and to question my own?

Should I, for instance, have a hobby—something completely separate from writing?

Well, theoretically, I probably should—if only to cultivate perspective. However, to be detached from writing is easier said than done because being a writer involves vastly more than writing.

It is more equivalent to a lens through which you observe every waking moment. In effect, you interpret the world as a writer—and it is not a mindset you can switch on and off even if you wanted to—and you’d be a very strange writer if you did.

After all, you have spent years, if not decades, training your mind to observe, analyze, and empathize--and then turn your conclusions—your developed thoughts—into the written word—so the last thing you want to do is undermine such a formidable facility in any way.

But if you can’t top thinking like a writer, surely you can stop thinking about writing?

I’ll let you know when I have managed it.

Just my little joke.

Actually, I think a great deal about matters other than writing. For instance I think about family and friends—including dead friends—much more often than I suspect they realize (the dead may know for all I know) and I have a wide range of interests such as military matters and economics (plus an obsession with domes). However, I will concede that although I exercise every day, most of my interests are cerebral—and most intersect with writing sooner or later.

Everything does. That’s one of the reasons why I love what I do so much. You pay the price—which is high—but it offers—and delivers—a whole world.

So what I really should do is find a physical activity which doesn’t involve the brain too much.

Can I think of one?

You know I think I can.

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