Life of a writer with a distinctively different day-job is somewhat hectic. It starts with scurrying out of bed, hurried breakfast, coffee on the run, an impatient wait for the train that is never on time, late for a busy day at work where there is no time to grab a sandwich, quick jaunts into the cold car-park for a puff of cigarette, an impatient wait for the woking day to end.
The evening is wrought with other distractions. A nip into the supermarket, checking out at the express counter, a sandwich made absent-mindedly while sorting through junk mail and peeks at the evening news. Then the tidying up, the bills to pay on the Internet and a deserved drink at the end of a long day.
Now it is almost bed-time. The notebook beckons. But so does the bed. Sometimes the snippet of interesting teenage conversation overheard on the train makes the trip to the notebook mandatory, just as much is going to the loo. Sometimes the bed and the duvet look cosier than the hard-day at work. There is always the weekend, the writer surmises as he snuggles into bed with the hope of slipping into unconsciousness.
But the subconscious begins to play, rebel, revolt as soon as the eyes close. The words clamour for release. They haunt the half-asleep dreams. They remind of suppressed memories, forgotten words, an incredible start to a new novel. Reluctantly the writer gets up from bed, propping up against a pillow, reaching for the notebook in the dark, groping for the bedside lamp.
The night is young, the chapter is fresh. It has to be now or never.
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