I am about to begin writing my next screenplay. It is New Year's Day. I'm in Edinburgh, it's blustery outside and smells musty in the room I am typing from. I am staying in an old house, there are lights on the tree ouside. Hung there by a German Jewish Lady who snuck out of the Third Reich at the last moment. She came to Edinburgh and switched the lights on at Christmas each year. She died last year, but the lights still came on... Not that spooky really - turns out her will instructs that that they should be turned on after she was gone - rather sweet. It is somewhat difficult to explain the atmosphere of anticipation that lingers in the air today - it actualy seems more reluctant to come forth than when I was a kid and full of dreams - but it doesn't dissuade me from thinking that I should start to write now - in fact, I like the idea of the motivation coming from within me despite the lack of stimulus; the lack of a perfectly crisp morning and birdsong ect.