Introduction to 'The Art of War'

I have a sister who is brilliant, beautiful, hard working and demanding. She has commanded me to read ‘The Art of War’ by Steven Pressfield and that is what I’m doing, right now. Well, not right this minute because I’m typing this but you know what I mean.

He lists the lucky charms around his desk and I glance sideways at my lucky charms; my signed photograph from Buffy, my favourite photograph of Michael Collins, a big rock crystal and a small rose quartz, a gray stone from Greystones and a shell from Clonakilty. There’s an acorn I picked up a few weeks ago that reminds me of my earliest memory:

I was underneath the dark wood dining room table at my grandmother’s on Vesey Street. The acorns I was polishing were coming up a bright shiny green. The scent from the boxwood hedge was strong. I could hear my mom arguing with grandma. “You shouldn’t let her use those.” The tablecloth hid me and the pile of crumpled damask napkins from her view. Grandma murmured something back. I continued polishing.

Some of the early pages in this book have no number. Here’s what he says on one of those pages:

“It’s not the writing that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write.”

I’ve got a particular method that helps me, no, forces me to write regularly. There is only one chair in the whole of my flat. It is at my desk, which is my dining room table too. The tiny sofa is buried beneath two feet of papers and magazines. If someone drops by unexpectedly, they walk right over and sit in my chair and I end up sitting on the coffee table after putting the kettle on.

Chapter one is about the enemy which he calls 'Resistance'. I've got to go and read this now. But I'll report back.