Against Gravity word count: 13,379

Shattered. Spent most of this afternoon with four chinese guys, one translating for his three brothers, finishing their menu for their takeaway. I don't mind having people sit with me in a printshop while I finish their stuff, but you almost feel like you're performing in public, so you feel tense - not stressed, or nervous, just tense, so the whole thing takes two hours at the end of which my head has packed its bags and gone on holiday.

Then I come home and get a call from a friend who describes himself as 'having died eight weeks ago and been reborn', having suffered some kind of miniature nervous breakdown - or so he says - which necessitates popping around to visit me and tell me how crap his life is. Which I can understand, he's really going through that whole 'i'm thirty, my life is shit' (his words) thing.

Possibly exacerbated, one suspects, by the lack of anything even vaguely girlfriend-shaped in, oh, let's see, about six years. I know I should have been more sympathetic, but in these kinds of things you can;t really help people because if they're going to improve their lives, they have to do it themselves, one way or the other, in the end.

I'm lucky, really, in that I figured out what I want to do. Write. And, yes, occasionally design stuff. I feel like I'm in some kind of permanent 'groove' where I can sit down and write, say, between a thousand and two thousand words of at least reasonable, workmanlike prose in a single session. With revisions, this allows me to write a novel-length manuscript in anything from six to eight months, including initial polishes.

I suppose being this single-minded at this point in my life is a good thing.

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