I lost my job last week.
Actually, that’s not entirely fair. I was made redundant, which is something I had been expecting for some time now. I had been working for the Arts Council for three years, and the day I started, I was warned that whatever job I wound up with, it was in jeopardy. And it was. And I was.
The good thing about redundancy is that it gives you time to breathe a little. And I’ve decided to use that time to do something constructive before I venture forth and try and find something akin to a real job.
I’ve found myself a writing studio.
So, what’s the plan? I’m going to hole myself up in here, dig a trench, brick up the walls and use every other metaphor for hiding away that I can currently think of. I’m going to treat this like full time work for a while.
As you can probably tell, the studio is amazing. It’s proper industrial, and my view is essentially the early nineteenth century.
I have already written 4,000 words of my novel.
I have mostly written words about industrial buildings.