The writer was busy writing, as always. Couldn’t afford any distraction. Wouldn’t agree to any speaking engagements, as many writers do.
He would receive copies of his books by courier, and these were piled up, all around him.
He was walled-in by his own books.
Not just busy: booked solid!
When he finished writing his autobiography, he realized how much he’d missed in life by concentrating on pure science, so he went back in time to force his past self to enjoy life.
The resulting autobiography was also a disaster — no accomplishments.
On his third try, he became a writer.
The writer went back to work, and quickly churned out a new novel.
He presented it to the agent, who said, “Hate the title.”
“Read it anyway.”
Later, the dazed agent called, “I’ll get all your work published. Just send it in.”
The writer thanked the hypnotic power of words.