…But then again, too few to mention.

“I wish the time hadn’t gone so fast, though. And sometimes I wish I’d enjoyed it more on the way, and worried about it less.”

 – Neil Gaiman –

I’ve managed to allocate enough time to write a short post today. Its been slipped in-between the continued production of  “Plan C” and my daily dose of head-butting the wall. (Also known as writing a book.). Those of you that were unfortunate to receive copies of the first three chapters have my sincere apologies, the next three will more indicative of my writing style than the previous have been. If its not then you have permission to set rabid badgers on me until I do something about it. Call it a motivational mauling.

Presently I’m acting as my fathers chauffeur for the next couple of weeks due to a motorcycling accident which resulted in him having his knee pinned back together – again. Sixty year old grandfathers on motorbikes are not known for their impact rating.  Originally I planned to visit for a fortnight while finishing the books first draft. In the absence of my usual bag of tricks to help me compose, a two week stay close to the coast would be an ideal remedy for any occasional writers block.

Instead I’m taking my father to see his elderly clients everyday for corn removal while I try not to mutter (too much) about how I am supposed to be writing. Not that he has appeared to be listening –  I’ve just been informed that we have five visits to make tomorrow. That’s five hours of being unable to do anything productive even after I have carried all the equipment in. Bags, stools, towels, foot-spas, I swear he never bothers with any of it usually.  Five long  hours of not being able to take the notes from my Moleskines and transform them into something worth reading.  Five boring hours of drinking endless cups of  tea while octogenarians regale why they were not allowed to attend dances with American servicemen. Five hours of hoping that the wreak of a Volvo my dad owns fails to start the next morning.

Ultimately though its simply depressing, what with all those withered frames, hoary old tales, and the ubiquitous smell of urine constantly in your nose to serve as a reminder that time, for all of us, is short and at this rate I’ll be the one sat in an overstuffed armchair getting my feet cleaned up while wondering what the title of the book was that I wanted to write.

Bugger…

How can I be unemployed, I’m a professional libertine.

                                                  

I haven’t even had a life I could call my own, and you’re ready to slot me into the grand design. Well, I don’t think I want to go. I want to be my own design.

I admit my volume of scribbling here has been lackadaisical of late. It would be nice if I could inform you its because I’m inundated with people wanting me to collaborate or create. The truth is while I have been working hard, it has been on speculative projects with only a few pieces of paid work in-between.(1) Currently I have three short film scripts in various stages of drafting and rewriting, one disgustingly original script that requires the co-writer to show up or I shall have to write the final forty pages myself, and two short films written last year residing in post-production hell.

On top of this, my friend, business partner, and sidekick has vanished yet again on another poxy job. He turned up last time after spending a fortnight running errands for a fussy, in-docile ex Python.(2)

Dodgy ‘tash: Me.                                   Chunky Monkey: Sidekick.

I’m telling you this because someone recently thought it amusingly clever to refer to my freelance status as part time unemployed. Oh how I laughed…

While I may not be working full time in an office, stealing glances at the clock clawing its way slowly to 17:00, and wondering how my life became such a dull routine of soul crushing florescent strip lighted monotony; I am kept occupied with projects from various sources. Some of them even result in me getting paid.  As I have stated on many occasions, its never been about the money, creation itself is the reward not the fiscal aspect. Ultimately I cannot begin to write, compose, or construct anything if my mind is forced to obey deadlines and monetary concerns.

None of my work is designed with an audience in mind.

I am the audience.

 

 

 P.s.

 Thankfully Christmas isn’t far from the front of the calendar now, which means Moggy’s party shouldn’t be too far in the future either. Readers of my previous blog may have heard the fellow mentioned along with tales of accidental gazebo bonfires(3) and the least romantic encounter in a suburban bathroom I have ever experienced.

 

P.p.s.  Anyone seen Amber lately? 

 

 

 

1Its not quite as grim as it appears. I still receive my disablement pension from the Army that covers rent and utility bills so homelessness isn’t quite around the corner. Yet.

2He was supposed to be working on a music video shoot I had arranged for this singer and his band.

3Just one reason why taking LSD while toasting marshmallows was a foolish idea.