This is what it must be like to be a book author.  

I woke up in this morning still a little bit drunk. My friends and I had been out last night in West Hampstead (just outside central London), after which we continued drinking at a friend's. I had been pretty much procrastinating all day yesterday trying to figure out what to write for my next essays. In my pocket I carried a sheet of paper that summarised the questions across the schools. I scribbled ideas on this throughout the night. One of my friends kept poking me, 'what matters to you most is Balance'. Personally, this does not ring true for me. Besides, haven't we been through this already?

I went about my Sunday routine today - in my case exercising for a bit then having brunch (because it's too late in the day to be having breakfast). Then I started working on writing. Sometimes an idea comes and I can write four or five hundred lines. At other times, I revisit my earlier writing and think 'urg!' - I need to do that again. Today neither would not be the case. Despite the scribbles on my piece of paper, nothing feels compelling. I'm not able to write anything that jumps off the page. I go for a walk to the town center in Harrow, where I live, and sit in Starbucks with my laptop. Some friends call. The first friend attempts to get me out to join him for dinner. The second I just natter to for half an hour... yes she is still going on about Balance. I keep telling her that I am not working on that essay!

I go home and have some dinner. I force myself to write a few things, in between chatting to some people on MSN and checking Facebook 324 times. Facebook and Instant Messenging: they are a curse. I also get some ironing done. I get back to the laptop. I've now written about two pages, but where is the feeling!