Something something ...

So, I've just binged watched 'Orange is The New Black' on Netflix (I love you, Netflix) in the space of a few days. It's an impeccably written and performed show, I highly recommend it. Writing in TV is surely at an all time high right now. My favourite, writing wise:

1. Justified
2. Breaking Bad
3. Hannibal
4. Orange is the New Black
5. The Killing (The US version, the current season three has really stepped up its game).

I was sceptical at first. A show about a female prison, probably meant it was something like the US version of the ITV show, Bad Girls. Or worse, Prisoner Cell Block H. God, I hated that show, but I also have an irrational fear of Australians too, so there's that.
Of course, when the setting of a show is essentially one building there's always the worry that the stories will become stale quickly with nowhere else to go. And of course, a female cast, convicts, men with power = typecasts galore.

Yeah, OtNB (abbreviations galore!) does typecast, especially with the men, because apparently men just want to screw anything and everything (wait, that one's true? Oh). But show a show that doesn't? This show does a nice job of keeping the inside of the prison claustrophobic without losing the outside world. I also admire how the writing and acting allows us to care for these characters as they try to survive and exist without losing sight of their criminality and so forth.

The main character, Piper Chapman, as the story progresses, I really didn't like her. The more we got to know her and learn of her past, the more I couldn't stand her and I didn't really find her all that interesting. But for some reason, I still found myself routing for her. I want her to be okay, I want her to succeed. I want all of them to be okay, there's humanity shown in each of the characters, even those who appear most evil. As a writer, it's inspiring to see, and I can't wait until season two.

Season one ended on quite a shocking cliffhanger and actually left me feeling quite uncomfortable. Seeing a character pushed to the limit like that. In Orange is the New Black, there is no real protagonist and antagonist. Even the guy who is painted as a bad guy ends up receiving sympathy at one point. It's perhaps the most gray show I've seen in recent memory and not knowing how to feel after the events of the last episode is quite a unique and again, uncomfortable feeling. All I know is - they better release season two soon!

There's an entirely different reason why I feel uncomfortable too. Whenever I become invested in a film, book or show, I try to imagine myself within that world. It's silly, but I can't help it, I become fully immersed in things, it's why you'll never find me doing heroine ... or with a girlfriend, I guess. I always wonder what it would be like being a homicide detective in New York or being Raylan Givens in Justified. I even thought of going to Kentucky to even further my immersion. And so on. But with this show - it's based in a women's prison. I can't exactly relate to anyone in there and I sure as hell don't even want to even think about going to prison. I was forcibly trying to prevent myself from daydreaming about it.

This show has made me feel weird.

Almost Halfway There.

It's almost the midway point of twenty thirtian and this is only my third post. That may suggest that this year hasn't gone to plan, so far. Well, yes and no.

I have spent the first few months of the year to ponder. Pondering is important. I needed to try and shake off everything which I felt was a chain or what I needed to do in order to move forward, which included my work. This included writing for the newspaper and magazine. As lucky as I was, in recent months I felt a certain shallowness in it. I find most of the music scene/industry, anywhere in the world, fascinating and inspiring but also full of posers, who unfortunately outnumber those doing something they are passionate about. Although this can be said of any popular industry. I didn't enjoy pulling teeth, trying to get a unique story out of the same mouth every month. Different person, same thing. Perhaps I just wasn't asking the right questions, but I was finding little to ask about.
Early in the year, the magazine underwent some internal restructuring. I didn't need to be told what that would mean for me. I felt an element of relief, I was only freelance anyway, and this was the nature of the business. I would move on, or I would go back to the garage job I had until I discovered the next opportunity.  If there was one.

Instead, I decided to use the past few months as an opportunity, to remember why I enjoy writing in the first place. Not as a career, but as my passion. This is largely what I wanted to achieve this year. I have since spent the past two or so months writing, almost non-stop. Working on my own ideas, something I haven't had a chance to do, or rather allow myself to in a few years. I have saved enough to be able to do this for a few months, which has allowed me some element of being care free, at least with my work. It has allowed time to slow down, read and learn, just get a grip. I have sacrificed some pleasantries and have very little to show. But I am confident that in time, I will have something I am happy with. I just needed this time to write, no matter what it was. I am glad that I decided to do that instead of panicking. That will come later, I am sure.

It hasn't been without its drawbacks though. My writing environment has been difficult to concentrate in, it has been claustrophobic and problematic and thus, I feel the quality of my work has suffered greatly, as has my mental being at times. I also don't have many experiences to borrow from this year, it's rare that I spend more than a day away from my Celtx and word processor software. Being social has started to feel like a chore, and I worry about this. I wonder where the perfect middle ground is and I hope to find that within the second half of the year. That will be even harder than finding the right writing environment.
But I am writing, therefore, I am. To try and sound needlessly profound.

I have realised, again, that this is what I do. This is all I can do. It is what I am. I may not be very good at it, but for the first time in a while, I am relatively happy and content about it. Even if I am failing at every other aspect of life and still feel myself sinking into a slow pit of depression about every other aspect of life.
Therefore, Twenty Thirtian, although by no means perfect, is going better than I expected. But I can't help but feel time closing in on me. Six months have gone by too fast, that care free feeling has already left and I just hope I can make the next six count for something even more.

Day Three ...

I watched Fraiser this morning.

Day One ...

"Skiver."

 

"What?"

"You're a bloomin' skiver, you are," said Lyn, with what appeared to be a broad smile. It was difficult to tell sometimes, her mouth consisted of roughly five crooked yellowing teeth and on this occasion at least three of them were obstructed by a cold sore the size of a grown man's fist.

I'd have taken offense, but she was only taking the mick and it was difficult to dislike Lyn. She was cranky and moaned about the most mundane things, as any lady of her age does. She appeared older than she actually was, as far as I know she was in her early 50s but resembled someone 20 years older. Her witch like voice cracked at the end of each sentence reaching decibels only bats could hear, especially when she decided to sing, which was often. Her long, unkempt gray hair was beginning to fade around her crown and she would leave a trace of it behind wherever she went, along with a peculiar odour of stale cabbage.

But I liked her, she didn't care what anyone else thought of her and she was bursting with character. We got on like a house on fire too, most of the time. But like houses on fire, at some point you have to extinguish it. I was at that stage and Lyn's presence was a constant reminder.

Let me explain. For the last half of 2012, probably longer, I had been working part time at a local petrol station/convenience shop/late night hangout for drunks, the same place I had worked for a period during my teens. I had taken the job because it had allowed me to pursue my writing career during the day, which was helpful, since I rarely saw a penny for any of the writing work I was doing.

It was all part of the plan, the plan that I had kicked into action at the end of the previous year. I had decided to swallow my pride, let the lease run out on my flat and move back in with my parents with the intention of saving. Saving for what? I wasn't sure but I had hoped that I would figure that part out later, in the meantime all I had to do was concentrate on my writing and creating. It seemed like a decent plan at the time, even if it meant moving back to my old home village.

Only it hadn't quite worked that way. It seems working freelance out of your childhood bedroom and spending 20 hours per week selling cigarettes and switching petrol pumps on isn't the most motivational environment, nor does it pay very well. In fact, I was in exactly the same position I was in ten years ago, my mam was even making my tea on most nights.

Lyn was right, I was indeed skiving. Well, she was referring to the fact that I had quit my job at the petrol station, but I had spent the last year, perhaps longer coasting and worst of all, I was making excuses for it.

Lyn, unfairly to her embodied everything I feared I would become. I don’t mean to belittle her, but if I didn't know any better, she lived in the shop; she was there when I clocked in and was there when I was clocking out. I couldn't stand being there more than six hours per day, it was a depressing environment, yet it was her life. She exuded so much pride when she described how thoroughly she scrubbed the drinks fridge during the night shift and happily recollected memories of her early jobs, in other 24/7 shops. It was honourable, she worked herself to the bone, but for some reason it would depress me to see her do so. Didn't she want more? One day she showed me a birthday card she was giving to a colleague; it was striking and obviously made with a great deal of care. 

 Imagine my surprise when she explained that she had made it herself, she was incredibly talented. It was something she did often and had wanted to take up as a profession, but 'never got around to it.'

That was my life, I couldn't be bothered, I was never getting around to things. I admired Lyn, but there was no way I was going to allow myself to say those words. At least Lyn made her cards as a hobby still.

It was no coincidence that I spontaneously applied for a position as an England exchange teacher in Japan, I began to have panic attacks and I needed to get away from Consett, no, I needed to get away from the country. That was what I would save for!

Unfortunately, a clerical error put paid to that before the thought of living in another continent with an unknown language was allowed to burrow into my head and cause me to meltdown. But it had been a kicker and with the end of the year just days away, it had set the wheels in motion. I didn't need to go anywhere, but I did have to get a move on. I was going to say goodbye to Lyn, quit the petrol station and turn the New Year into a massive cliché. Sure, I and everyone else says it every year, but I had decided that in 2013 I would apply myself, start the ball rolling and make this year my year. It would be ...

Twenty ThirtIAN!*

Read that aloud a few times, surely that's a sign? I couldn't get my name into 11 and 12, could I? Those years wanted nothing to do with Ian, but 13 bloody does! It's going to be brilliant, no skiving involved, no late nights and late rises, no more horrible eating and just sitting around, I might even catch an episode of Fraiser in the mornings. Yes, just pure bum kicking creativity and productivity, and lots more ivities. Lyn would be proud. 

I finished my final shift and woke up at 11am on the Monday morning, ready and raring to go. I brewed a cuppa, ate two pop tarts and switched the TV on. Fraiser had already finished and it began to rain outside. My computer had somehow loaded up Youtube and was showing me a video of a Northern man jumping on eggs.

I guess one more week of skiving won't hurt. Right?

And if all else fails, there's always Twenty FourtIAN.