I miss writing in the pub. There's something about sitting in front of a palmtop, keyboard out, with whisky or Red Bull. Not anyone else that I know, that's the kind of fucker that makes it hard to write. Just the ambiance of the place, sitting there with a cigarette and the smell of stale ale. Were I to decamp with the shiny and keyboard to the Judge it just wouldn't be the same. Pubs aren't, since the ban. And since quitting, I've had less incentive to ramble, letting the words flow and curl like cigarette smoke, then blowing a stream of ideas that gives the whole thing meaning and destroys it in the same gesture. Though I appear to be doing so now. Interesting little metanarrative there...
Samhuinn and work and everything else, all in my brain. No idea where to start, let alone where to go. I'll have to make progress on that this week. Might be an idea to set some goals.
Write 7000 words of Mystery Science Project 3000
Go to work
At least one lunchtime story
That's enough for me personally.