That was The Year That Was, Wasn't It?
So then, 2018...
Christ, what a balls that was.
The hideous political tailspin coming off Brexit feeding a creeping normalisation of the military and entrenched reactionary ideas leading to the further rise of far right groups. There is a monster in the White House. Or rather there is a monster who doesn't mind being seen as a monster in the White House, one who revels in his own crapulousness, in fact, who makes a badge of honour of it and which his supporters eat up as one-in-the-eye for experts and elitists and intellectuals. There are ongoing gender battles, with Twitter a melting pot of TERF wars. Everything seems to be in flux - the future never more unknowable and nebulous. I don't know what is going to happen. I rarely know what is going to happen - I ain't no Billy Nostradamus, mate - but this time the fog stubbornly refuses to lift. The veil remains unsundered.
I had a somewhat productive year: I wrote two and a half plays in 2018. I wrote (and co-wrote) two screenplays. I have written half a novel. I have written half a book of short stories. I had the first professional production of one of my plays put on. I had an artistic residency at the MAC. I did my first TV and radio. I started working on a number of projects THAT I CAN'T TALK ABOUT YET and which may well pay off into a new sort of career in the new year. I have an album of songs that I have co-written - on actual high quality vinyl twelve inch record that is available to purchase - and which is something I expect I've waited thirty years to accomplish. It's pretty good too.
So I haven't been sitting on my hands.
But I'm still desperately poor. And I'm fat. And I'm old. And the Christmas period has left me puffy, wheezing and suffering from anxiety attacks. I'm refusing to leave the placid calm of the house as I need to decompress. I need to live a Vermeer life at the moment, an Erik Satie life, full of order and silence and cool calm. Traditionally people who are poor are unable to do this.
As for the new year, well, its hard to know what to expect after March the 29th as the country garrotes itself with it own umbilical, but prior to that my play "Everyday I Wake Up Hopeful" is back and touring the island of Ireland in an all new production - including a few nights in Dublin and at the Everyman in Cork, which is a beautiful little theatre.
Simultaneously, I shall start the process of SENDING THINGS OUT AGAIN. I have a lot of things - I need to get them out there. The short stories in particular are good and rich and funny. I need people to read them. I'm actually pleased with them.
So then. Keep on keeping on then, whatever shit is flung at me. Same as last year, then.
Christ, what a balls that was.
The hideous political tailspin coming off Brexit feeding a creeping normalisation of the military and entrenched reactionary ideas leading to the further rise of far right groups. There is a monster in the White House. Or rather there is a monster who doesn't mind being seen as a monster in the White House, one who revels in his own crapulousness, in fact, who makes a badge of honour of it and which his supporters eat up as one-in-the-eye for experts and elitists and intellectuals. There are ongoing gender battles, with Twitter a melting pot of TERF wars. Everything seems to be in flux - the future never more unknowable and nebulous. I don't know what is going to happen. I rarely know what is going to happen - I ain't no Billy Nostradamus, mate - but this time the fog stubbornly refuses to lift. The veil remains unsundered.
I had a somewhat productive year: I wrote two and a half plays in 2018. I wrote (and co-wrote) two screenplays. I have written half a novel. I have written half a book of short stories. I had the first professional production of one of my plays put on. I had an artistic residency at the MAC. I did my first TV and radio. I started working on a number of projects THAT I CAN'T TALK ABOUT YET and which may well pay off into a new sort of career in the new year. I have an album of songs that I have co-written - on actual high quality vinyl twelve inch record that is available to purchase - and which is something I expect I've waited thirty years to accomplish. It's pretty good too.
So I haven't been sitting on my hands.
But I'm still desperately poor. And I'm fat. And I'm old. And the Christmas period has left me puffy, wheezing and suffering from anxiety attacks. I'm refusing to leave the placid calm of the house as I need to decompress. I need to live a Vermeer life at the moment, an Erik Satie life, full of order and silence and cool calm. Traditionally people who are poor are unable to do this.
As for the new year, well, its hard to know what to expect after March the 29th as the country garrotes itself with it own umbilical, but prior to that my play "Everyday I Wake Up Hopeful" is back and touring the island of Ireland in an all new production - including a few nights in Dublin and at the Everyman in Cork, which is a beautiful little theatre.
Simultaneously, I shall start the process of SENDING THINGS OUT AGAIN. I have a lot of things - I need to get them out there. The short stories in particular are good and rich and funny. I need people to read them. I'm actually pleased with them.
So then. Keep on keeping on then, whatever shit is flung at me. Same as last year, then.
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