A Writer's Life
I'm sure I've said this before, but I'm nothing if not repetitive, my life as a writer isn't panning out as I expected. I should be holed up in a Parisian garret, staring out across the roof tops at the distant Eiffel Tower, seeking inspiration as a Gitane smoulders in an ashtray and listening to Edith Piaf.
Or perhaps I should be drinking endless cappuccinos at a waterfront cafe in some Italian fishing village at the foot of the mountains, listening to the sound of flying fish as they leap from the water. A distant ferry carries tourists to the next village, its wake a dull scar on the glistening waters of the Med.
Maybe I should be seeking out adventure in the manner of Ernest Hemmingway or living in the manner of Ian Fleming at Goldeneye, his Jamaican home.
However, I'm not doing any of those things. I am sitting on a sofa in my house near the English city of Preston. It's raining and the dog is snoring gently. It'll do for now.
Or perhaps I should be drinking endless cappuccinos at a waterfront cafe in some Italian fishing village at the foot of the mountains, listening to the sound of flying fish as they leap from the water. A distant ferry carries tourists to the next village, its wake a dull scar on the glistening waters of the Med.
Maybe I should be seeking out adventure in the manner of Ernest Hemmingway or living in the manner of Ian Fleming at Goldeneye, his Jamaican home.
However, I'm not doing any of those things. I am sitting on a sofa in my house near the English city of Preston. It's raining and the dog is snoring gently. It'll do for now.
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