Working from home is one of the best - and worst - things about being a writer. If you are office based then, these days, you may well feel a frisson of pleasure at those occasion when you get to work from home, but then you probably only do it once a week or so.
On the plus side, my commute is very, very short...about 8 feet, or maybe 20 if I stop off at the kitchen for a cup of coffee. The dress code is very relaxed, as are the break times and refreshments policy, plus I never have to argue with anyone about what goes on the radio. I can look at what I like on the internet, I can feed the cats during the day and there's nobody to shout at me if I decide to stop writing and watch Top Gear reruns on Dave for a bit.
But... today, I am not alone. I have a convalescent son with me, demanding toast and hot water bottles. This is why I'm blogging, not writing the animation pitch I can't concentrate on. And even when I am alone... I'm alone. Sure, I can talk to the cats, but we all know that's just a cover for talking to yourself. I mean, Woody is a 10-month-old crossbred black semi-longhair; when I ask him about vision notes, am I really expecting an answer? No (I should ask his littermate Jake, who's a piebald shorthair and has a good eye for classic cinematography).
The fact is, you go a bit funny, working on your own. I'm looking forward to this afternoon's client meeting (many thanks to poorly son's grandparents for invalid-sitting!) not because it will move the project forward but because I'll get to talk to a real adult human being.
Discipline and structure, that's the thing. And it's a paradox, because the very advantages that working at home confers - freedom, flexibility, personal space - are the very things that drive you mad if you're not careful.
Thank God I've kept my sanity. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must rally the Imperial Guard, or Wellington will take the ridge and the east flank will be lost. Onward, mes braves!
