When I was writing the "Obsession" series, I had ideas pinging out of my head at all hours. I couldn't keep them in. It was fantastic. I was working in an environment that felt very private (even though it was open plan) because everyone seemed to respect each other's privacy, and I would find myself able to work with the story ticking over and refining itself in the back of my mind, ready to be written during my lunch break.

Now I'm working in an environment where the only way I can feel like I have any space to myself is to put my headphones on and play System of a Down (oh boy, do I like that new album), with just a minimal synchronised nod of my head betraying the intensity of the music building a barrier between me and all those around me. It isn't that I dislike the people I work with, quite the opposite. I like most of them quite a lot. But there is always someone walking by, talking, looking over your shoulder at your work, and so there is no chance to jot down a word or two to use later on in a story. And that's just assuming that a story has a chance to even breathe between the frenzy of deadlines I've been juggling the last few weeks. I love the adrenalin, but I'm hating the fact it is squeezing everything else out of my head.

On the up side (and there are quite a few), I did something on Saturday that I've been talking about for a long time. I finally bit the bullet and signed up for guitar lessons. So I trotted off at Saturday lunch time with my guitar in my hand (or in its case, in my hand) to a local shop that to specialises in teaching music. I had a ball. The people were very nice, and not at all intimidating, and my teacher, Jed, is an old rocker (well, he's probably 10 years older than me, with hair to his waist and an open quietness about him) who threw me straight into it and had me strumming along more confidently in that first half hour than I ever had. It was so much fun. My silly little hands are going to frustrate me, but they will learn to stretch (or I'll figure out a way to work chords around them), and I will eventually develop callouses so my poor fingertips will stop alternating between numb and ouchies.

Things are a fair bit brighter in the headspace of Hooch at the moment. I've had a few frustrations with people acting a little two-faced, but hell, that's their problem in the long run. I don't know who said it, but the gist that you can only control your own behaviour, and so live as honourably as you can, is something I take very much to heart.

So... that's where I'm at tonight.

Oh! I've just finished reading The PowerBook by Jeanette Winterson and My Life as a Fake by Peter Carey. I really do enjoy Peter Carey's writing. This isn't my favourite, perhaps, but it was so nice to surrender to his story's rythms and be carried along in his imagination for a while. I would really like to read something soon that takes my breath away though... it feels like it is time.

Any recommendations?