My driving licence arrived today. It arrived in the post like a salmon-coloured invitation to a party that is any place I want it to be.
So I’m working. I’ve been working for a few weeks now. Working and saving. I need to get enough money to buy myself a vehicle I can call home. Then my littlest hobo schtick will be complete.
But I’m not writing.
Which is odd because I finally mustered up the courage to call myself a writer. Then I stopped.
The more I work, the less I write.
The less I work – of late at least – the less I write.
The older I get, the less I write.
I don’t really know what’s going on but I’m hoping it’s just a phase. Because if I don’t have writing, I don’t have anything.
I guess I need to pull my finger out and decide what it is I really want. But maybe deciding things is not my thing.
Maybe I need a near-death experience to teach me the value of time.
Or maybe I just need to do more.
And get one of these…
But first, work.