I awoke with a mouthful of maggots that even minty fresh Colgate, and the last dregs of the Dentyl bottle, couldn’t exterminate. Last night I did a dirty deed and devoured a Domino’s, imbibed a bottle of wine, and passed out face down on an electric blanket after fumbling and stumbling a blog post. Combine all that into the melting mire of my mouth and maggots emerge as an indelible unbearable taste. The cup of Yorkshire I just supped tasted bitter, thin with a gakky overtone, instead of its usual heavenly glow. And the back of my throat still feels like the queen maggot sits on her tonsil throne, gently excreting green fluid.
Ahem, excuse me. What I meant to say was ‘Good Morning’. So there you go good people of blog land, Good morning to you all. And today is effectively my Saturday away from the day job, but my Monday morning in my writers cap. I have almost fully made the decision to keep drawing and painting as an enthusiastic hobby. I am an idiotic amateur and will never be more. I find it difficult to express anything through drawing; I cannot properly express myself visually, and certainly don’t have the technical ability or even patience to get anywhere. There are a million better illustrators than me with a million better connections, and none of them are getting anywhere either. Almost every time I complete a drawing I am massively disappointed with the results, and I think the reason for this is basically just that I don’t know what I am doing. But when I am writing I feel strong and confident, and genuinely think that (although I have a long way to go) I am better than lots of successful writers. Writing is an extremely difficult craft, but one that I am sure I can develop. I am not even dissuaded by my failure to advance to the next stage of the ITV Script Workshop application process. No, I am good at writing, and with continued daily practice, and the self discipline I am slowing eking out of my pores, I will become a very good writer. Then all it takes is a lot of persistence, the thick leathery hide to resist all those forthcoming rejection slips from agents and publishers, and a few lucky breaks.
I want to write a novel, short story, or something or other... no, it has to be a novel, that get’s made into a Hollywood movie. I want millions of movie dollars, first class travel around the world, dream houses falling out of my arse, and the expensive private health care to fix the damage. I want yes men, and no men and accountants and lawyers. And swimming pools, and wine cellars, and an art collection. But most of all, what I really really want, is just one month - just one – where my bank account isn’t emptied by bills and rent. Where I have a small saving and can do something nice for my girlfriend. And if it takes writing a novel, getting it published and turned into a movie, to do that, then that is damn well what I will do.
It doesn’t necessarily have to be a Hollywood blockbuster. It could be a Korean gore flick, or a kooky French rom-com, or a Welsh family drama about miners, or an animated Japanese porno, or Nigerian witchcraft horror, or a Bollywood Bhangra bhanger, or cloyingly cute London based comedy about a floppy haired dick and his wonderful life. Feck it, it could even be a low budget student film, as long as it’s one of those that makes millions like Evil Dead or The Blair Witch Project. And so with a few catchphrases, some canned screams, Plasticine gore, and a video camera nailed to a wooden plank, the next Evil Dead falls from my tapping fingers and into the DVD players of millions.
Or is it?
<Twilight Zone theme>