Worked in an office for a while. Several of them. Bylines in the posh papers (and some of the seedy ones). Enjoyed the camaraderie, the social interaction, dodging labour by hiding out by the coffee machine.
But nothing beats working for yourself, choosing your own hours, having space to think and really learn who you are. It more than makes up for the financial insecurity. And let’s be honest, when you’re a writer everything can fall apart in the blink of an eye.
I’m fortunate here in my lockdown prison to have some outside space. In the Old World, pre-coronavirus, I’d take myself off to cafes or pubs or out on the Common to write. If you’ve been shackled to a desk for a living, why would you carry on doing that when you can choose, right?
So now that the sun’s arrived, I’m out in this garden writing whenever I can. With my eleven-year-old MacBook Pro, ailing battery and all. For me, I’m far more productive when I move my writing spot. Variety brings inspiration.
A thousand words between eight and nine in the room where the books are piled. Another 1k between eleven and twelve, outside. Charge the battery while I go for a run, then another thousand between three and four and a final thousand between six and seven.
Disciplined but free. It works for me.