Headlong

Anyone who is a regular reader of this blog will no that I spend a considerable amount of my time trying to create the perfect conditions in which to write. It is absolutely mandatory that I have a pen (that is to say, the right pen), some paper, access to my notes in case of panic, a pleasing ambient temperature - let's say between seventeen and twenty-three degrees, the right surface on which to lean, a surface which can maintain itself at the right height from my pen nib without requiring my regular intervention, music pertinent to the mental state of the character and so on, ad finitum.

Yes, I know ad finitum is not really a word but I don't know what the opposite of ad infinitum would be. What I mean by this is that as much as it seems that I need many things to be in my writing headspace, it is not an infinite number of things and I find myself rushing towards a glorious opportunity.

Mostly I write on trains. I move around a lot for my job and I gather together these snippets of writing time to piece together as many glorious hours as may be found in the week. Of the available snippets, a large number of them may be found outside my writing zone and may be discarded. Sometimes these snippets may last several months. I will soon have a good amount of comfortable air-conditioned trains on which to write. I will have my leather bag, not my slippy nylon one, good pens and everything else I could possibly want. I am anxious with anticipation at the mere thought of it. Equally, like so many men, I find myself under pressure to perform.

I guess that I write in a Sir David Brailsford kind of way. Marginal gains. Everything I have been preparing has been leading me inexorably towards the ninth of August and this glorious opportunity to stake my claim.

I have been given every chance, I have neither stopped nor stinted in my preparation. This is my moment of destiny.

England Expects.

DR

P.S. This is only until something else falls of the wagon and breaks the whole damn system. Yet again.