For many writers, the only place they can work is their haven – the sun-drenched studio, the silent bolthole in the back of the house, the kitchen table early in the morning, the musty library, the study with its bookshelves. Me, I’m not bad at writing on tram or train, and cafes are my real home. Over the next couple of months, I’ll take tablet, pens, notebook, index cards, and 124 pages of reference notes, and will attempt to plot and draft Chapter 5, covering the crucial year of 1953.
Enough of chill winds. This next period will see mostly hiking but I need to jog often enough to hit the year-end target. Bring on the European summer sun!
Does obsessing about one passion over twelve months lead to a cast-iron habit? I’m not sure. I read Charles Duhigg’s wonderful book four years ago, found it interesting, but didn’t tackle it seriously. Now is the time to revisit it, in light of the Big Decade. And of course airplanes are the ideal places to dig into books.
The writer’s engine room before the real world bestirs