I go on holiday on Tuesday, and the nightmares about air flight have already begun. My subconscious needs to cut me a break.
I am in reasonable states of preparation: I have a half assed plan to write on the plane, I’ve bought the book to read whilst away that is one reason why La Craig won’t be doing any more Bond, and there will at least be completion to all the stuff I get paid for or I promised for publication (though I’m still behind on audio, which needs to be addressed on the return from New York.) Mostly, I’m ready. Emphasis however is on the word ‘mostly’ because there’s still a shit-tonne to do and with the exchange rate looking woeful? Not much may be bought. We will see.
However, things will be eaten, and many miles will be walked.
The last time I was in New York the Twin Towers existed, and I will undoubtedly take a trip to the Memorial for no other reason than it marks a place where the World changed forever. I hope to meet some locals along the way, and get a chance to actually relax this time around, and not find myself shoved on a bike (though it must be said, that did start the chain of events that has bought me here.) I am jealous of those both with the capability of stomaching long-haul air travel, and doing it regularly. If I had both money and opportunity, I suspect New York would be my second home, next to London, which I don’t nearly spend enough time in. I’d like to fix that in future, and it is at least easier done than making that happen with the East Coast.
Maybe if I can finally get a novel published, all that might change. I see no problem thinking big. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?