This is true. I started writing my autobiography approximately 55 years ago, at age 5 or 6. I sat down at the table in the bedroom I shared with my older brother, Larry, and opened a blank notebook to page one and wrote a sentence that, even though I was a child at the time, I’m too embarrassed to reveal at present. Like the character in Dick’s short story We Can Remember It For You Wholesale, my idea of my life is that it was nothing if not heroic on the grandest imaginable scale.
After that sentence I was stumped. A writer’s block set in that has barely dissipated in six decades. Within a week of composing that sentence I had already forgotten things and so felt hopeless to continue.