Blog 111 - Spare Time

Blog 111 - Spare Time

March 2026

I’m sitting in the control room, the patrols are done, the paperwork complete, the training video's watched and the clock is ticking lazily toward the next half‑hour, and I’ve just realized I have an hour or two to kill. My mind does the usual quick‑scan of options: write a pointless email, scroll through a never‑ending feed of cat videos, or maybe—just maybe—write something. And, as if on cue, a tiny, impatient voice in my head snaps its fingers and says, “Let’s write.”

Why? What’s the secret sauce that makes a writer, even in the idlest of moments, sprint toward the glowing rectangle of a screen like it’s the finish line of a marathon? Below is my best attempt at answering that question—– a light‑hearted ode to the strange, magnetic pull of the written word.

First and foremost, you need to understand that my mind is the ultimate what‑if generator: What if my cat could talk? What if the coffee in my mug decided to unionize? What if my neighbour's potted plant is secretly a spy? It's relentless, and if I'm honest, exhausting. When I’m idle, those “what‑ifs” start bubbling up like a can of soda that's had a couple of mentos dropped in it. The only way to release the pressure without making a mess is to capture them on paper (or a screen). The keyboard becomes a pressure valve, and each keystroke is a sigh of relief. And I have to admit: there’s something deliciously satisfying about turning a goofy thought into a sentence that actually reads like a sentence.

Imagine you have a super‑power that lets you become any character you want for the span of an hour. You could be a pirate on the high seas, a detective solving a mystery in fog‑filled London, or a bored accountant who discovers a hidden portal behind the copy machine. Writing lets me slip into those skins without needing a costume, a makeup artist, or anyone looking at me as though I've just escaped from the nut house. When the world hands me free time, (and believe me it's a rare occurrence) I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to become someone else. I simply open a new document, type a name, and—bam—I’m inhabiting a mind that never existed outside my imagination. The sheer thrill of that transformation is why I grab the keyboard before I even consider scrolling through memes. I’m not just killing time; I’m spending it on a grand, personal masquerade ball. True, it's not exactly a form of physical exercise; you never see a writer at the gym, but trust me, my brain gets a serious workout. The act of writing forces you to juggle plot, pacing, dialogue, and prose (not to mention a whole host of other mental gymnastics you go through) to put a story on the page. It’s like a mental CrossFit class where you lift ideas, sprint through sentences, and do literary burpees by swapping adjectives for synonyms. At my age it's the only work-out I get and I secretly love the feeling of my brain doing push‑ups. It’s a reminder that I’m still sharp, still capable of stringing coherent thoughts together without tripping over my own mental shoelaces. Plus, there’s the bonus that after a session of “brain‑gym,” I feel a little more prepared for the actual, non‑fictional hurdles of the day—like remembering where I put my keys.

There’s a tiny, mischievous creature living in the back of my mind (and I suspect in the minds of every writer’s head) that whispers, “Just one more paragraph…” It’s like a toddler that refuses to nap, demanding a few more minutes of attention before finally succumbing to sleep. The moment I sit down, that creature wakes up, stretches, and starts counting the “one more” opportunities. Why do I take notice? Because the act of writing is a series of tiny, easily achievable goals, a jigsaw puzzle that starts with an innocuous “Write a sentence about the coffee mug.” It's an easy puzzle to begin with, and the creature will egg me on with simple suggestions like “Add a line about the sun setting.” Before long though, it will become devious, asking questions like "Whose coffee mug is it and why has it been left there?" and so it goes on. Each completed piece that fit's into place releases a burst of dopamine, a tiny reward that says, “Hey, you did something!” My brain loves that feedback loop, and before I know it, an hour has disappeared under a pile of sentences, a paragraph, and maybe even a full‑blown scene in a soon to be novel.

Writing is, at its core, a conversation—only the other party is yourself. It’s a way of hearing your own thoughts spoken aloud (or typed, in this case) without the usual noise of the world. When I’m alone with my computer, there’s no one to interrupt me, no external agenda. It’s just me, the screen, and the quiet clack of keys. Don't get me wrong here, it's not a bad thing, that silence feels like a sanctuary. In a world that’s full of noise and distractions; the constantly pinging notifications about emails, CCTV cameras mistaking webs for intruders, and my boss asking, “Did you watch the Health and Safety video yet?” the keyboard becomes a safe space where I can ask myself the deeper questions: What do I want to say? How do I feel about that? Did I leave the stove on? (Okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the point.)
Writing becomes something more. It isn’t just about the present moment; it’s a little deposit in a bank that someone will one day discover. Even if I’m just scribbling a poem or doodling a picture of a forest elf, I’m leaving behind a breadcrumb trail for whoever it is that finds it. A little sign that says "I was here and this is what I thought" When the free hour ends and I close the document, or post the Blog, I’m not just erasing a blank page—I’m tucking a note into a time capsule. The next time someone opens that file, or reads the Blog, hopefully it will get a chuckle, a shiver, or a thoughtful moment, but it’ll also be a reminder that I once existed, that I once had an hour to kill, and that I chose to fill it with words rather than a half‑finished jigsaw puzzle.

Finally, there’s a simple, almost primal answer: the tick‑tock of the clock. At my time of life, when I see the minutes slipping away, there’s a gentle urgency to do something with them. Watching the seconds march forward can be a quiet form of intimidation— It's like the universe is saying "Hey, you’ve got 60 minutes. What are you doing with them?" Writing feels like the fastest, most rewarding way to answer that question. A tweet can be written in a minute, a paragraph in three, a Blog in fifteen. The clock becomes a friendly challenger, and the keyboard is my weapon of choice. The more I type, the faster the minutes seem to disappear—but then, paradoxically, It makes me realize that I’ve actually spent them well, that I filled my days.

So, why do I sit at a computer and type away whenever I have an hour or two to kill? The truth is, there isn’t a single answer—there’s a whole cocktail of curiosities, superpowers, brain workouts, addictive whispers, silent conversations, future gifts, and a ticking clock all blended together. Each time I write a new Blog, a novel or just a silly little poem, a different ingredient takes the lead, but the cocktail is always deliciously me.

Take my advice, if you ever catch yourself with a spare hour or so, consider swapping the TV remote for a keyboard. You might discover that the same mysterious voice that nudges me toward the screen is actually in you, too—try to be a little more daring, a little more willing to let the “what‑ifs” become words. And if you don’t feel like writing? Well, that’s okay, too. Just remember: the next time you hear that familiar tick‑tock, somewhere out there, a writer will be smiling, ready to turn a free hour into a handful of sentences, and perhaps, a tiny piece of forever.