I’m in another ‘funk’, you could categorise it. I can’t shake this dolour. I actually have a lot to be positive about right now. So why this nagging feeling of inner dread? I’m a pessimist – always have been. That’s a thick skin to try and shed, believe me. I’ve had the rug pulled from under me that many times it’s like I kind of expect it as a matter of course. I’ll try to explain.
I just got back from a trip to my nation’s Capital – London. The last time I visited and walked the streets of mighty London was in June 2004, with my Brother Michael – four months before his death. So the trip was something of an emotional one for me and a bit of a milestone.
I’m a writer. I fervently believe that. It’s the only thing I was ever good at, or so I’ve been told. Currently though I’m under the lovely sunny blue skied weather. I picked up some sort of Summer cold, or nasty little bug from one of the grossly inconsiderate passengers on my Northbound train journey home. I’ll cover that trip in another piece – probably the next one. I’ve been meaning to write something down since I got home last Thursday night. I just haven’t had the bloody energy for one reason or another. When a ‘funk’ takes me in it’s grip I can’t function creatively. Motivation and drive are two qualities I’ve struggled with my whole life. These traits, as slim within me as they are, become dormant in their entirety when the accompanying depression kicks in. I guess the only reason I’m sharing this with you now is because I’ve often wondered if all writers – both published and unpublished – suffer the malaise of crippling self doubt.
It’s a beautifully sunny hot Bank Holiday Monday afternoon outside my patio window. My girl is upstairs sleeping. She has nightshift later and needs her rest. I sit here at my laptop churning this out. Perhaps I should be outside soaking up the vitamin D, as I attempt to flex my writer’s muscles. I’ve suffered a fortnight of second draft block. Two days trekking around the Capital in thirty-degree Celsius heat cured me of that. It’s way more comfortable sat in the shade with a mug of strong coffee, trying to ignore how sore my throat is. Humidity disagrees with me. I tend to sweat a lot as it is (a genetic condition I believe) so a dramatic increase in temperature doesn’t help me with that. I’m okay in a dry heat, but humidity?, not so much.
London was amazing: vibrant, teeming with cosmopolitan life. Once I dealt with the sadness being back there engendered in my heart; that came from the memories of being there with my late Brother (on his business) twelve years earlier, I enjoyed the all too brief trip with my girlfriend. I loved walking the narrow streets of Soho and Covent Garden. Those districts of central London are awash with stores, boutiques, restaurants, diners and bars. The hot summer air was also rife with the mingled smells of ethnic cuisine. A mouth-watering cornucopia of stalls selling the delicious street food of many nationalities. I took photographs. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers and paddled in the soothing cool waters of the fountain at Trafalgar Square. I ate some agreeable meals. I enjoyed several cold beers. Most of all: I absorbed life through my very skin. I haven’t experienced a kaleidoscope of cultural diversity so rich and intoxicating since my trips to New York City – one of my favourite places on Earth.
Prior to boarding the train South I received word I’ve gotten a job, after six months of being unemployed. It’s a day job, you understand, not an agent or a book deal. That’s the gig I really want. Seventeen years of working for Royal Mail, only to be spat unceremoniously out, like so much chewed yet unpalatable meat, have cured me of the desire to ever work for a person of entity other than myself. Everyone has their problems, I get that. I’m not trying to be the king of pain here. I’m (hopefully) getting around to a point that I hope will strike a cord with all of you – that day jobs are a necessary evil, but not what any of us who feel compelled to scribble or tap actually want to waste our breathing hours doing.
My younger Brother Michael was twenty-five when he was taken from me, or less poetically: when he died. Asthma of all things. Anyone who has the condition or knows someone who does? Take it seriously, please. It is not merely a ‘difficulty breathing’ or a ‘shortness of breath’. That hateful shit is a killer. It killed Mikey right in front of me and not only robbed me of my best friend, moral compass and only sibling, but the world of a talented fine and graphic artist. Back in ’04 we were in London on a mix of business and pleasure. Business first – as was always his custom. It makes me smile sadly to think of it now. We flew down on British Airways from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne (my home town) getting into Heathrow early in the morning before hopping the Tube (colloquial name for The London Underground) all the way out to Hammersmith. Michael had been commissioned by a local realtor to produce a new corporate identity for them. By that point in his early career he’d worked as an associate for a couple of firms, ultimately deciding that he was better suited to working for himself. David Allen Homes was one of his few successful commissions. I tagged along while he had his meeting and took publicity shots of their main branch office – all freshly decked out in the eye catching colourful graphics he’d designed for them. I was as proud of my Brother’s work as he was. Still am, even though the business is no more. DAH actually contacted me about six months after Mikey’s death with another commission for him. You can perhaps imagine my pain at taking that call…
What’s my point? I’ve written myself into a tangent maybe? Oh yes.
My point is I’m filled with apprehension at having to start again, in yet another grimly necessary day job. I’m still a ways off having the second draft of my first novel ready for an agent. I was unfairly booted out of my previous employment, during which time I’d had the life force sucked from me with physically demanding eight to eleven hour days. Over the last few years, since the breakup of my last relationship and before I met my current partner, I’d given up all pretence at writing. The day job was simply too demanding. Once I was home showered and fed all I wanted to do was sleep of enjoy the fruits of other peoples writing. Suddenly finding myself without a job and still in some considerable debt (since when does anyone live solely within their means anymore) didn’t bring about the debilitating depression I thought it would. Instead it reawakened my creative juice. I realised that being forced out of a profession that monopolised my energies was a sign to get off my complacent arse and work. I’m only ever truly happy when I’m either engrossed in my own work, or absorbing someone else’s through either the written or filmed word.
I start the new job in a week. Part time. Only four hours a day, which gives me loads of time to write. Okay the salary is less than half what I was making before, but it’s my hope the energy levels will stay high enough for me to actually get where I want to go. We all want to succeed, after all. Right? I’m not really cut out to work for someone else. I never have been. My Brother wasn’t. I never saw him happier than when he was his own boss. Doing what he loved and getting paid for it. He wanted that same satisfaction for me. I spent a decade being blinded by grief and trying to claw my way out from the grave I dug myself alongside his. I feel like I may finally be starting to get somewhere, if I can just keep the disease of self doubt at bay. I’m under the weather and man flu is a bitch. All I’ve felt like doing these past four days since returning home is sleep. When I have slept it’s been fitful at best. I spend all day feeling tired then lay awake half the night because my mind is too active. I can’t fucking win. So, this afternoon, I’ve resisted the urge to wile away the day napping and parked my arse here in front of the computer to bore the shit out you instead. I’m scared. Scared of the new job. Scared of what the future has in store. Scared of the bank, the letters and phone calls I keep getting. I’m scared of what happens if someone likes my fric-tion enough to take me on. I’m terrified of never getting anywhere with the one thing I love. I’m the last male member of my family. I have no children of my own, nor am I likely to have any now. My family name dies with me. So I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to leave something behind. I don’t want much from my life, other than to travel more, laugh more, and love more. I do want to strike a cord with my words though – more than anything. For someone. For anyone.
Bottom line for me is – I’ve slept enough.
Darkgingerbread 