A recent client told me that it was impossible for her to write creatively unless she was drinking alcohol at a steady and (to me) frightening rate. I knew she was fairly pissed during her writing spells because she would call me in an extremely slurred fashion to let me know.
Everything is fast these days. Fast downloads, rapid exchanges of text—delivered at lightning speed—and messages written and read on the run.
All that convenience, or pain in the arse in-your-faceness—depending on how you look at life—comes with a hidden cost.
Walking out of the local supermarket and into the main mall area three months ago, I saw a toddler, aged around three, standing near a toy car—you know the ones, you put your child behind the steering wheel, feed the slot a dollar, and the thing lights up, growling and shaking, to the utter delight of the young.
Looking through an array of Christmas cards yesterday, I was struck by the complete lack of imagination of the wording inside them. Has it always been like this, I wondered. For the last few decades I’ve gone for blank cards because the generic wording never seemed to fit—for me anyway.