Tuesday, 13 October 2015

DIARY ENTRY 11/10/2015: Are You Willing To Starve?

Carl Spitzweg - The Poor Poet

From my journal:

I'm talking to [name redacted] about the future, as I often do. We were talking, rather dramatically, about whether we are prepared to stave to be creative for a living, He isn't so sure; I think I am. Even though being poor is painful and actually depressing, the thought of not writing for a living depresses me more. Having this convo makes me think about the things I make. I just published a post called 'Danny Zuko, you're a dick'. It was fun to write, but I can't help thinking: 'Is this the sort of things I am willing to starve for? Is this the sort of "art" I'm risking not being able to provide for my mother for? I feel slightly ashamed of myself that I'm risking so much to not even be a war correspondent or something. I wrote before, in a previous journal, about making sure I'm proud of everything that my name is attached to. 

Talking to [redacted] is scaring me a little bit. He said 'How come you're not conflicted?'. I guess because I appear to be so sure, but I definitely am conflicted. What are my other options? I'm not some Frances Ha or Hannah Horvath. I do not have middle class parents that can support me. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I can't even afford to die in a shithole because shitholes in this city are prime real estate now. 

I saw a picture of Rembert Browne on his blog.  He was using a cardboard box as a desk for his laptop. He writes at Grantland now. Could I do that? Could I have nothing? Then I remembered he went to Dartmouth. Not the same thing at all. There are things I could give up. There is definitely no need for me to have an iPhone. As long as I have WiFi, a phone, and some aesthetically pleasing clothes, I am prepared to be poor as long as I can write. But. I think about my mum. It's not fair on her. How do I provide for her? 

The first thing I did when I woke up today was set up my record player, scream when I saw a spider on it, and then listened to Grimes. I had this diary on the bed, I had my laptop and I was pretty relaxed. I could live like that. 

[Redacted] said he's giving up on writing for now. I feel a little devastated. For a second I thought about it and baulked at the idea. Haha. Who the hell do I think I am that I can turn around to my hard-working immigrant mother and be like: 'No mother, dear! I'm going to be.. *flicks scarf over shoulder with a flourish* a writer!'? I told [name omitted] this. We laughed. He said he is not prepared to starve till he's 30 to not starve after 30. That's 8/9 years. In my head, I'm giving myself till 25. What then? Teaching? Ugh, probably. Oh well, I will have a whole bunch of kids to infect with my bitterness.

Agh. No. I just need to keep going. I wrote about needing to calm down but this is frightening.


I woke up today (12/10/15) and looked at my phone to see I had fallen asleep reading this article about a guy's freelance career. He writes:

I've done this. I've been here. Could I do that for years?

Maybe this is all too serious, too pretentious, and too complain-y, I don't know. It's just frightening. 

Sunday, 11 October 2015

Danny Zuko, You're a Dick

Danny Zuko, you’re kind of a dick. 

Kenickie loved that car, spent so much time tinkering and stealing shit for it, after you mashed up the first one, and you just get in at the end and drive it up into the clouds? MATE.
Kenickie made a flying car, some chitty chitty level stuff right there, and you just took it and went, who knows where. Where are you going, Zuko?? 'We Go Together' means nothing when you're gonna get you're leg over, right?' Rama-lama lama ka-ding da-dinga DICKHEAD
That was his ticket out of douchbaggery, Kenickie could have started the first pimp my ride, Why everything gotta be about you, Zuko?

You think you're so cute. Okay, well, you are. You're so cute. Like wow. Seriously.

No. Don't look at me like that. I'm annoyed with you, Danny Zuko.

You know how much he loves cars, those... eyes...and you just hop up in the car with... full lips...NO, stop it! with Sandy! And Sandy, you couldn't say nothing yeah? Think you're a bad chick yeah? Just cos you borrowed some leggings and got a blowdry? Nah fam.

It could be Kenickie driving Greased Lightning with his arm around Rizzo. You go fix up a car if you want one. Can you? Can you even? Yeah you can sing and dance, oh yeah and run, I guess. But Kenickie can sing and dance too! And make crap cars into amazing ones. So how's Kenickie getting home, Zuko? On the bus??

You're a dick

Thursday, 8 October 2015

Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard

I've been feeling a little restless lately. I've been writing a lot more and plucking up the courage to pitch, and I have a few things coming out soon, but I feel really antsy. But at the same time I've been exhausted? BBC Three have been showing a series of documentaries about race and this week's ones were about Britain in particular (last week's focused on America). I got into a twitter argument with this racist guy and realised racist people are energy vampires.

I want to write for a living so I need to be able to get motivation even when I'm feeling out of sorts, but I won't lie, I am the kind of person who works best when I'm really "high". It's like those rockets you can get at Toys R Us. You can pump me up (that sounds awful, sorry!) with visual stimulation, great films, great music, a brilliant passage of writing, and then: a light bulb moment, and off I go into the stratosphere and it can last for days. But when there's a dearth of that feeling, I find it hard to do anything, to make anything, which then makes me feel useless. I don't know why I feel I have to be ON IT all the time.

Sunday, 4 October 2015

My Top 3 "Moistest" (aka embarrasing) Moments

I write to exorcise sometimes and inspired by the talk I had with my friend on my birthday (in July) about our high school selves, I have decided to invite you to share in some second hand embarrassment. I was actually pleasantly surprised for a while that it was quite hard for me to think of my most embarrassing moments, as though they were rare, but then I realised that my repression-game is super strong. I just realised, all of these have taken place within the last two years. Ughhhh. Okay, here we go: 

3. Telling Conan O'Brien I wanted to die

I was meeting one of my heroes and feeling euphoric and also perhaps a little bit hallucinate-y: in excitement I had not eaten in 2 days. I looked up to where his beautiful freckled face was, more than a foot above mine and squeaked out: omg I want to DIE.' I want to say I thought I was thinking it in my head and it came out of my mouth but I can't even say that because I have no idea what the hell I was doing. I think I wanted to say, I'm so happy I could die. or omg I could cry? and it came out as... well, that. Being the kind guy that he is, Conan very sweetly told me not to die. There is actually footage of this somewhere on the internet.