I sit in a
quirky Cambridge cafe, sipping my
green tea and watching the
foreign guy in the corner writing in an
A4 notebook. He hasn't
stopped since he
sat down - just put down the
book,
two pens (one black and one red), turned the page, picked up the black
pen and just started
writing. Writing and writing and writing. He hasn't even
paused to read over it or
ponder what to commit to
paper next.
This guy must have some serious inspiration.
And this
worries me. I
want to be able to write like
that. I don't want to spend my life working in some
generic programming job - I want to be able to
quit, go live in
Tuscany and devise
fabulously cool and
zeitgeisty novels a la Microserfs.
Truth is, I've been
banking on it.
But how can I
compete with the
man in the
cafe who writes and writes - I bet it's good too.
Truth is, I'm jealous.