We got married a fortnight ago, and it's been understandably crazy since. In the midst of it all (it's still going on in it's own way, to a certain extent) I've been sitting working to try and finish off a paper on the theology of work. Ironically, much of this has been done today in the Box42 office, the most peaceful place I could find to work as my coworkers are both out and about. And a pleasant distraction from that, for the five minutes I'm allowing myself, is to contemplate writing topics for the future.
Whilst we were away in Florence for a pretty fantastic honeymoon (even managed to get to the Odeon Firenze twice - The King's Speech in a cavernous theatre was quite brilliant) one of the topics of conversation was writing. I am a big writer, scribbler, whatever. I would believe that the vast majority of it is absolute pap, which is conveyed somewhat in the fact that my blogging, for example, is less than frequent - keeping to a regular one a week for the last few months has been struggle enough. Not, I suppose, that there wasn't anything to share, but rather my usual terror that it's nothing but psychobabble. Which, if you were to spend a couple of moments in our office, listening to me mumble my way through the narration of a morning's e-mails, for example, you would probably appreciate all the more.
But I do love to write. And so, whilst getting carried along by all the palaver of the last few weeks, I am starting to slump down the other side and considering making one of the aspects of this new chapter.... to write.
But what... to write?
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