Friday

The last Friday of April. The end of a dead week at work and the start of what looks to be a pleasant spring weekend. Already I am admiring flame coloured tulips flowering in the back garden. I am not thinking about Monday’s late shift at work, or that this weekend should be a working weekend for me.

What I’m thinking about doing right now is sitting in the garden with a mug of coffee and reading Perdido Street Station, Speculative Fiction 2012, We Who Are About To, and The Man Who Went Up in Smoke.

I will not get to do much of that. Instead I will be sitting at this desk in the bedroom, with red Sony headphones wrapped over my head, and type at myself in IRC, because after more than a decade of constant use that’s the venue I’m happiest typing in. Working line by line seems to keep my piss poor concentration from being diverted too much.

Writing for pleasure and not as a day job is no different from any other pastime. Dedication to any activity requires a balancing of commitments and desires. If I wanted to climb harder it would require sacrificing time writing for time at the climbing wall or travelling to the Peak District and beyond to spend the time climbing there. If I have to work a forty hour week and want to spend time writing then less time is can be spent in the sun dancing on geology.

This is a simple, even obvious, point to make, but as I sit at the desk watching the sunset drawing out the shadows of trees across the playing field the desire to go outside for a walk is there, and is only going to persist if we get a decent summer. Why am I planning to spend this weekend sitting here and not walking for miles across the countryside? Why stay inside when I can sit in the garden reading? I don’t know. Maybe this weekend is simply one where I want to play my games with language and not give myself blisters.

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