"It was very easy not to have a job, to live the life of a full-time writer. Honestly! "I had the time of my life," says McEwan, with a fervent smile. Luckily, this was the early 70s, when it was very bliss to be alive. I was going to spend the next 35 years working my way through this table." The aspiring author's riding-a-camel-over-a-sand-dune fantasies were thus brought to a sudden and rather feeble end.
I looked at it and it filled me with horror. On the other was your expected salary at any given age. On one side was your age, all the way up to 65. He already knew that he wanted to be a writer, but perhaps, he thought, this could be done in combination with a parent-placating job: "I had read Seven Pillars of Wisdom and the one thing I could imagine being was an Arabist diplomat, the kind of man who would wear a dinner jacket one evening and a keffiyeh the next." The careers office gave him a pamphlet.
T owards the end of his third year at Sussex, Ian McEwan, somewhat reluctantly, visited the university's careers office.
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