- eight espressos, they do nothing
- sleet and wind scraping and banging at the windows
- listening through stuff for a new SPEKTRMODULE, idly
- mind is wandering – has briefly alighted on the work of an artist I was talking to recently, and am probably going to switch off for an hour and see if I can follow the thought
- the boards are marked up – I have 14 things on the PENDING board alone
- inbox 15, it’s a quiet day so far
- all I could think yesterday was “are high winds really what you want during an airborne pandemic?”
- which reminded me of THE TURIN HORSE and whoops
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Photo from my daughter, illustrating that her and her partner are using their lockdown time well.
I am fried. Wrote a 3000-word story document yesterday. Very slow moving today, which is not ideal, as I have to make starts on two scripts and another story document. Inbox 17, go easy on this shambling parody of a man while he pours coffee into himself and dreams of future booze supplied by the child.
Here’s a thing I wrote a couple of weeks ago for the newsletter:
I’m possibly still brain-dead after the show launch. It’s been a busy week, so busy that it’s kept me away from focussing on writing (focus again). I have managed to fit in thinking time — that’s frequently a different muscle — and am developing some ideas in odd moments here and there. I have a few surprises in store, but for much later in the year.
I mean, when I say “fallback plans”… I’m not a great planner. I wing it, a lot. I listen to the world and try to tell which way the wind is blowing. When I say “plan” I really mean creating the possibility of opportunity. I till the soil to try and grow my own luck. I create options. And I invent things, relentlessly. I am solidly a second-division writer, at best, by any model and definition. But I’m still here because I work and think, a lot, to make new things and try new things. Giving the fuck up is not on the menu.
I mean, I’m often a few years too early or a few years too late with my moves. But, hell, I’m still here. Sometimes, being here and still trying to be better is all the victory you need.
Dwayne Johnson, who fascinates me with the weird position in the culture he’s taken, recently gave a talk in which he said, “at some point you’ve got to be fucking tired of not being number one.” Which is fair, and motivational. But, at some point, you’ve got to decide what you’d have to give up to be number one and whether it’s worth it.
I don’t give up. But I don’t give up myself, either. So I won’t be number one. But I’ll still be me. You have to be okay with that trade. And you have to be okay with looking in the mirror and still seeing a recognisable version of yourself. And if you smile, then the smile has to be real, whether it’s rueful or not — not brave, desperate or terrified.
Still winging it. Still fine with the ride.
Prepping the newsletter to go out later today. Lordess sent The News in overnight so we’re good to go. The clocks jumped forward and I am more confused and shambling than usual.
Nearly noon here. Inbox 17 because I really don’t have the strength to process it yet. I look at the calls I have to schedule for next week and I just get tiiiiired. Today I have to take an idea that I had yesterday and see if I can drive it to twelve episodes’ worth of material. I have the ending already, I just have to see if there’s enough meat there to fill out the rest of the estimated run. That’s going to be the entire day, aside from the newsletter — basically twelve hours with my backside in this seat starting now.