2012 puzzles me – as did 2008, and 2004 and just about every Olympic year. Once every four years something seems to happen to all these minor sports, and all these boring sports, and all these sports that most normal human beings don’t normally give a damn about.
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It’s coming to something when quitting, an impulse that’s usually considered destructive, gets wheeled out as a man’s greatest achievement but leaving behind my safe, nicely paid job that I’d trained to do for years was difficult. I’m someone who likes an element of routine, of safety and familiarity, and backing myself to write a novel – when in truth I had no good reason to believe I could write a publishable one – required a leap of faith.
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