He said to me, “Writers like to think that writing is like Arctic exploration or flying the Atlantic solo, but actually it’s more like golf. You’ve got to just do it and be happy. Some writers spend twenty minutes lining up a four-foot putt. Some writers pitch a tent on the green and stay for a week and brood about friction and energy and the gender of their putter. What’s the problem? Take your shot. It’s no shame to bogey. Just do it and have a good time. Don’t base your whole life on worrying about whether you’re any good or not. If you need to know, you shouldn’t be playing this game.” And he tapped the ball and it snaked across the turf and caught the corner of the cup and fell in for a birdie, and he chuckled a low warm chuckle and then it took me four putts to traverse the six feet to the cup, a sort of star-shaped putt, and we trundled off to the clubhouse. Not the greatest round I ever shot, but I am still in the game.