The Talk1.
That’s all that’s written on this page.
But I know it means this evening young-Toby sits down with his parents around the oval pine table in the playroom and tells them all he wants is to be a writer.
There is no great shock. They are supportive, but say they think Toby should probably have something else to back it up. (I would have dismissed this. ) My father, I remember, says that it will be very hard, being a writer, and that it is a lonely life. They probably finish by telling me that all they care about is that I am happy.
There was never any opposition to me being a writer. My parents never told me I was a fool and should work in a bank.
I only once remember showing Mum something I’d written. A poem. I had just finished it, at my desk, in my bedroom. She was doing the ironing in their bedroom, beside the tall Georgian window looking out over the rockery, the apple tree in the middle of the lawn. I think she read the poem and then said something unenthusiastic enough to be crushing. I can’t remember which piece it was, but I thought — at that moment — it was pretty good.
After this, the first thing my mum read was probably the proof copy of my first book, Adventures in Capitalism, about ten years later. Apart from my letters.
Letters — writing and receiving letters — play a bigger part in young-Toby’s life than I remembered. I see from the diary that he’s writing one every day. I wonder what’s in those he sends to Paddy or Mark or Martin. Did they keep them?
The Talk means that, from now on, young-Toby is officially committed to keeping going with writing, and being fairly poor until he can make it pay.
But he says to himself, ‘Always take time over money.’
It’s good advice, if you can afford it.