In a diary fragment around this time, Anne noted, "This morning Ian started to type a book. Very good thing." Ian had finally decided to launch into the novel which had been rattling around inside his head for so long. He was not a man to tackle such projects half-heartedly. Every morning after a swim on the reef, he breakfasted with Anne in the garden. When he had finished his scrambled eggs and Blue Mountain coffee, he kissed her and made his way across the small veranda into the main living-room. He shut the big doors, closed the jalousies, and opened his big roll-top desk. For three hours he pounded the keys of his twenty-year-old Imperial portable typewriter. At noon he emerged from the cool of his retreat and stood blinking in the heat of the day. After lunch he slept for an hour or so and then, around five, he returned to his desk to look over what he had typed earlier in the day.
Andrew Lycett, Ian Fleming.