Arse. I just can't get any writing done. Part of it is, as I interminably tell people at any opportunity, having been stuck indoors for most of last year, any time I'm at home thinking about writing, I'm thinking a hell of a lot more about running out the front door for the nearest pub/gig/party/other person's living room at the speed of light.

So I bought another laptop.

If you were a laptop, you wouldn't like me. Bad things happen to laptops who spend time near me. They get ... hurt. The cold, dead evidence is lying in a cupboard a few feet from this computer.

The basic idea is with a laptop, I can fanny around in coffee houses like the rest of you 'writing my novel'. Preferably on Saturday afternoons, maybe in Mono, or Stravaigin's, or Offshore, or any one of a number of places. I won an Ebay bid for a Sony Vaio with a six gig hard drive for just about a hundred quid, so assuming it isn't a lemon with springs sticking out of it, the sheer guilt alone of spending the money will drive me to leave the house and do some actual work. Because that way, I won't be so scared of writing to my agent and admitting that where the new synopsis is concerned, I still ... haven't ... finished it.
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