I sit in a quirky Cambridge cafe, sipping my green tea and watching the foreign guy in the corner writing in an A4 notebook. He hasn't stopped since he sat down - just put down the book, two pens (one black and one red), turned the page, picked up the black pen and just started writing. Writing and writing and writing. He hasn't even paused to read over it or ponder what to commit to paper next.

This guy must have some serious inspiration.

And this worries me. I want to be able to write like that. I don't want to spend my life working in some generic programming job - I want to be able to quit, go live in Tuscany and devise fabulously cool and zeitgeisty novels a la Microserfs.

Truth is, I've been banking on it.
But how can I compete with the man in the cafe who writes and writes - I bet it's good too.
Truth is, I'm jealous.