As a writer friend of mine repeatedly writes on social media: I'm writing. I'm writing. I'm writing.
Occasionally he even uses a hashtag: #Iamwriting.
All of this points me to make the singular conclusion that he is NOT writing. Definitely not. He is in fact doing anything he can think of BUT writing. Trust me.
Right now, I've got some writing I have to do. Like I really need to do it. I've got a deadline. And it really needs to get done.
So in case you wondered: I'm writing. I'm writing. I'm writing #Iamwriting.
I usually work from home which in itself is a recipe for non-productivity. Right now with kids still on holiday, father-in-law noisily renovating our cellar and the overwhelming guilt caused by full dishwashers, uncut grass and unhoovered floors, I have decided to make my escape.
Nothing too dramatic. I'm just running away between 9-4 every day and have taken the step of renting an office for a month. I am upstairs at the hipster hang out of Linköping's hordes of Yummy Mummies: Babettes Skafferi.
The room is perfect. I sneak in through their kitchen, make my way upstairs away from the hustle and bustle of the cafe, close the door and I'm away.
There are four white walls. It's unfurnished apart from a desk and a chair and even the view is boring, overlooking a black corrugated roof and a car park. There are no distractions. There's coffee on tap. I see myself like a monk in his cell, committed to a greater cause.
And then I opened the window.
And the smell of freshly baked bread, buns, fruity loaves and other cakey delights wafted in.
And it smells delicious.
And I'm writing. I'm writing. I'm writing #Iamwriting.