Writing again

It's November once more, and this time a year ago I made a start on writing my Great Folkestone Novel. Or rehashing Get Carter, depending on your viewpoint. I spent 30 days, much to the disgust and envy of my girlfriend, hammering out an average of 1,666 words each day, typing diligently into my Blackberry as the tram rattled me to and from the office.

What a character

Continuing to read Generalissimo, came upon Gu Shunzhang, who was

trained by the Russian secret service in Vladivostok and was said to be able to strangle victims without leaving marks ... As a sideline, he did magic tricks at the roof garden theatre of the Sincere department store

(page 194)

I've got a feeling he might make an appearance in The Great Old Game...

Public Transport

I discovered today that a small notebook PC and a rattling tram are not the best of friends. I was planning on writing up the start of the Great Hong Kong novel on the way to work, but unlike my blackberry, my notebook just kept sliding all over the shop. It's hard to touch type if you're using both hands to stop your precious possession skimming off to its doom.

Getting over myself

I realised that I spent most of last week in a big sulk because I had to do some work for a change. Maybe I've got accustomed to sitting bleary-eyed at my desk, blankly staring at nothingness. Or perhaps the meaninglessness of my existence is getting to me.