From time to time in this blog, I’ve talked about how laying-in-bed-reading-novels is part of my work. I’ve talked about how going-to-the-cinema is my work. I’ve talked about how standing-in-the-middle-of-a-river-and-watching-waterbugs is my work.
But so is the writing bit. And when I’m working on something, the writing bit keeps on going. Our friends who are vacationing/on holiday in the same place are also self-employed. They run a B&B. They get a locum manager in for three weeks, so that they can have a break. My husband is not selling wine (though he’s certainly researching a fair few bottles). Out of everyone we know at our holiday spot, I’m the only one still working every day. I always do.
My work is fun, but it never really stops.
So, since we are staying in a little beach chalet (me, Daughter, Husband, Elderly Mother, Dog and Daughter’s Best Mate) I’ve been writing at a local fast food establishment. Every morning, I drink three or four Diet Cokes and type away. It’s busy enough that, like a train, the noise is generalised and not particular, so it’s easy to drown out with my thoughts. I’m not distracted by any beauty (terrible for me…give me a nice view and I can look at it for hours with much detriment to the word count). It’s not expensive. The staff have been really kind and supportive.
The first day, I tried to find someplace lovely in the local medieval village, but the parking takes so long and is so unreliable that I’d spend all my time doing that and no time writing.
So, I’ve been here, with the smell of the fryer and the shouting kids, writing what seem to be 1000 or more very good words every day. it’s not terribly glamorous, but it is literary. And it is, actually, work.