(Something I meant to post around 2014)
Bit of a weird title, don't you think? It's what I usually fall back onto when people ask me what I want to do in life. It's vaguer than a smudge in a blur factory, but it's a catch-all phrase which I hope at least captures the essence of where I want to go in life. The response I usually get in return is 'Ohhhhhhh....That's nice for you. What are you going to doing aside from that?' Upon which I usually stab their eyes out with salad forks. But lately, I've pondering whether there isn't some grain of truth in their moronic babblings, that any writing I will do is mainly for my own self-delectation, or if not for an absurdly small audience.
Hell, I don't even know if I'm going to post this, what I'm writing now may more be a way to vent and bitch and spleen about my wretched and grey life without incurring the wrath of others too much. So what went wrong you may say? Well lets go back around two years, back to around the last time I actually wrote on this blog to honest.
I was an optimistic sod back then, my brain full of rapidly evolving ideas of success and mild fame (less 'name up in lights', more 'name printed in Helvetica in the sideline') and I decided once I graduated university to try and see if I could get a writing portfolio together, maybe try applying for a graduate internship for a magazine or something. Of course, that germ of an idea got defenestrated as soon as I picked up my diploma.
That was when I realised there were a million and one other people in exactly the same position as me. All angling for their best shot at garnering the attention of someone important in the world of media, then riding that inevitable rocket-ship towards getting invites for Radio 4 panel shows and regular slots in the Guardian's 'Comment is Free' section. Not only this, these others, these hypothetical bastards, were all much better than me. Much better writers. Much more talented. Much more mentally well adjusted. The uber-mensch of those in their early twenties.
This was when I realised that perhaps my dreams were perhaps a tad less realistic than I had been thinking.
I mean, of course, gentle reader, you may rightfully judge me for this. It sounds awfully pompous and self-righteous to ramble about hopes of attaining fame and fortune without having done anything to merit it in the first place. But haven't we all harboured similar thoughts? Not just of being rich and famous, which is standard enough I suppose, but of considering ourselves 'different' and of a higher rank than anyone else in our field? That our obvious special qualities set ourselves apart from the rest of the riff-raff, and of course ensure that success and happiness lurk just around the corner?
Don't we all experience a similar experience like the one I have just outlined? Where we are brought back down to earth with an uncomfortable jolt, to be faced with the equally uncomfortable fact that there are others doing what we wish and yearn to do at a much higher level of skill and quality? Where we are faced with the cynical comments of parents and loved ones that is 'all well and good to do x, but you need to pay the bills as well....'
We are forced to set aside our hopes and dreams, partially through the exhortations of a generation who no doubt faced the same conversation with their parents some thirty or forty years earlier. And so the cycle continues.
We apply for soulless jobs at soulless businesses. We let pieces of our love, our passion for things in life, drain away each and every day just so we can help maintain the status quo.
This is why I grow so depressed at the growing contempt anyone who wishes to work within a creative industry faces, that this is a hobby, a worthless trinket, something fun to do at the weekends, not worthy of respect or a decent wage. I mean, 40 hour a week admin jobs are ten a penny, any miserable sod straight out of university can do those. But doing some like writing, or working in theatre, or art, or dance? Pffshaw! Those are something reserved for a select few! You shouldn't concern yourself with their doings! It's not like anything you do would be up to par anyways!
And so people find themselves feel themselves tacitly nodding along, agreeing with these bastards even though they know they're wrong, and any hopes and dreams of actually doing what they enjoy in life gets swept under waves of apparent 'responsibility' and trying to get through day-to-day life.
Eventually, such hopes and desires kept swept under the metaphorical carpet, shunted aside in favour of focusing on getting that promotion to unit supervisor (it comes with a £200 pay increase!) only to be shared with others when you become drunk and embarrassingly gin truthful, as you desperately try to either lie, or even worse, become melancholy about the whole thing with friends
That's why I say, fuck it. Ignore those spurious bastards. They have no music in their souls. Keep fucking striving. Keep writing awful fan-fiction. Keep throwing yourself into auditions that you know won't probably lead to anything. Keep pressing your unlistenable demos onto anyone who stands still for more than five seconds. I don't know whether it's realistic anymore to keep striving for success and fortune and fame and riches. But at least I'll be fucking happy this way, alone, screaming into the ether.