It was 1996. The new boyfriend and I were taking a break from our London jobs and were holed up in a cosy bar in Prague, smoking Camel cigarettes and writing feverishly in our notebooks with the kind of earnest intensity that only twenty-somethings can get away with. New Boyfriend even had a fountain pen (hey it was the nineties). Massive Attack was probably playing on the stereo.
Let’s face it, starting the big stuff is never easy.
You know you’re ready to go. You’ve done the ground work. You’re prepared. You’re pepped. You’re pumped. Then you gaze up at that mountain-yet-to-be-climbed, summit smirking in the sunlight, impressive and majestic as fuck, and your freshly minted resolve evaporates like morning dew in the hot sun and before you know it, a king tide of overwhelm floods in and you’re hightailing it outta there quick smart.