My new book, Reboot, is a fundamentally unserious novel that takes a few things far too seriously. Depending how you reckon, writing it either took me nine years or it took me a month.
I started it on New Year’s Day 2014 and the first thing I did was write longhand for a week. The second thing I did was fail for seven years. I don’t mean that I spent seven years trying to complete a draft. There were plenty of drafts. I mean that I spent seven years trying to make work something that would not work, that I felt increasingly certain could not work, and yet found myself revising and restarting time and again, always in a state of perfect hopelessness except for when I came to my senses and abandoned the project once and for all, which I did at least once a year.
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