I wrote this on the way home from Vienna. I felt a certain need to post it.
Writing keeps me sane. Surrounded by strangers on a plane, tired after a long weekend walking around Vienna, being easily annoyed, I write.
I don’t feel like writing anything particular. I have about five short stories and one novel to work on, but nothing tickles my creative bone. I just want to sleep.
My bed is calling and yet here I persist in writing, because I might scream otherwise. I have no aim, no angle. I just wish that my personal space would not be continually encroached upon.
Alas, no such luck until I get home.
I wonder, is everybody such a grump when tired? I feel insufferable. Of course, glares aside, all this is only happening on the inside.
Instead I write.
Currently these situations seem to crop up at every opportunity. People getting in the way, the daily commute becoming unbearable, work boring me out of my mind, which makes me tired and even more susceptible to an unreasonable temper.
I swear under my breath, isolate myself as much as is possible in a city such as London, and write.
As our project is coming to a close, we are just tidying up odds and ends at work. It’s tedious and mind numbing, but an end is in sight and I am taking the weekend off to leave London once more and do my own little writer’s retreat.
It is not entirely improbable that I am counting the hours until then. Just as I am counting down to my last day at work and my first day of travel.
Less than five months now.
I never would have believed how writing has helped me to keep going (and continues to do so).
On a side note I might be developing a caffeine addiction.