In junior high, I was the nerd in the back of the school bus reading Ray Bradbury or Isaac Asimov, sans plastic-framed glasses duct-taped together. I didn't wear those until later in my teen years.

While I admire Bradbury's writing, it's Asimov's productivity that leaves me slack-jawed, with a tiny bit of drool oozing out the side. Shut up and pass me a paper towel, please.

Here's why. The man published or edited over 500 books and an estimated 90,000+ letters and postcards. What? Seriously? Did the man have no life? No socks to wash? Hedges to trim? Frozen pizza to heat up in the oven for dinner?

Apparently not. He is one of the most prolific writers. Ever. When he was asked by Writer's Digest magazine about the secret of his crazy writing skills, he said:


And therein lies the secret, friends. The man knew his voice. He didn't try to write like Bradbury. He didn't recreate his style with each new novel. He plugged away, story after story, putting down words as he heard them in his head. He didn't waste time listening to the usual I'm-not-good-enough or I-have-nothing-to-say doubts. He parked his butt in a chair and wrote.

Go, therefore, and do likewise.