01.08.2002 || 16:36

Writing stuff down, spitting it out

many writers need silence in order to work; a private corner with no-one about to distract them, and only what they need to move the words from the unconscious to the conscious, and thence to the screen.

Not me. I need the bustle of a caf� or bar, waitresses swinging by to re-fill my pint or drop the addition on the table; music I might loathe playing on the house sound system. It's the way I like to work: alone in a sea of chaos.

The tendonitis in my wrists has pretty effectively put an end to my writing ex cathedra because writing with a pen becomes too painful, too fast; my lack of a laptop means that I write at home on the iMac of Doom (which sagged a bit yesterday, under the weight of its Cure (of course), Klaus Nomi, Peter Schilling, Jordy Birch, Poe, the Pogues, Rammstein, Shakira, and Spirit of the West.

It's not the same as sitting at teh local Second Cup, but hey, it's works...



||Gods save the Queen,
||cf

back || forth

older shite

One last little note... - 09.21.2006

de-stressing, biking and terrorism - 06.06.2006

Mildly stressed... - 05.29.2006

More crime stupidity - 05.28.2006

Scary stuff - 05.25.2006

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