I don’t like driving. Not only is my track record rather poor (at the last count, I had written off more cars than I have owned), but I find it a phenomenal waste of time. I like listening to the radio, and short journeys at least give me the chance to sit and catch my breath, in what is generally a far too busy day, but anything longer than twenty minutes and I start to twitch.
I think of all the things I could be doing; all the words to be written, the meetings to be had. I sit tensed up and agitated, leaning forward in my seat as though the very movement will propel me faster forward. I arrive stressed and achy, spending the day out of sorts and relaxing only just in time to make the return journey.
Where possible, I like to travel by train. On trains not only can I people-watch, I can get out my notebook or keyboard and write. I achieve more in an hour-long journey to London than in three hours in my office at home, where the combined lure of the internet, the telephone and the biscuit tin proves too strong a distraction.
I’d like to be Writer in Residence on a train, travelling around the country writing tales from the inside of a carriage. Delays could be brushed aside – the journey, after all, would be so much more important than the destination – and I wouldn’t waste another moment. I think I’d still bring the biscuit tin with me, though.
Where would you be Writer in Residence?