I hate flying. Not the actual process of taking off and landing that stresses some people: I can frequently sleep through bith of them. No, I hate the time involved; the going away from home (although I almost inariably enjoy the events I go to) and the process of being processed that flying now involves.
In that case today should have been a bad day. An early start for Heathrow, an eight hour flight that became nine because of delays, and the usual US immigration experience.
But today turned out OK. Once at Heathrow, early of course (I am always early), I went into writing mode and did not leave it until we landed, 8,4oo words later. I've only beaten that total once in a day before.
I'm not saying I recommend flying to get stuff written: the carbon always bugs me badly now. But days like that when words just flew (sorry about the pun) off the fingers are a rare joy.
When I was fifteen a wise mentor, who was himself a very good but largely unpublished writer, told me if I wanted to change things I had to write because nothing achieved change like a well written argument does. I will leave others to decide on the well written bit in due course, but today made me feel quite close to my late friend and the wisdom he imparted on so many issues. It was the best flight I've ever had.
But there are a lot more words to go on the new book as yet.