Apologies in advance that I am writing this from a laptop
which is on death’s door. It’s been on death’s door since well before Christmas
and I keep meaning to buy a new one but then I’m torn between do I buy a tablet and keep up with the times
or do I buy a laptop which I need for writing? It’s been a constant problem
for months so me being me, I’ve done my typical response: I’ve buried my head
in the sand and ignored it.
However, it’s getting pretty hard to ignore something where
the fans have broken so it heats up uncontrollably and is currently burning me
through my pyjama pants onto my leg. Also, the letters N and B aren’t working
unless I really press down on them. So, I’m writing this hoping it will be
worthy of publishing but suspecting it might not be.
Back to the problem with the laptop – I keep talking myself
out of buying a new laptop for a couple of reasons. The first being the expense
of forking out several hundred pounds. Every time pay day approaches, I make a
mental list of things I need to pay for (usually my list complies of which
child’s birthday is it this month?) and every time I mentally calculate my
wages factoring in paying for a new laptop, I hesitate. It’s not that I
desperately need the money for something else. Okay, last month I crashed my
car again. (This time it was my fault.
Luckily, no one else was involved. I drove into a wall. Okay. There. I’ve said
it. Laugh away)
So, yeah, okay, last month I had to fork out to have my car fixed. But
other than that, I know that I could afford a new laptop if I just saved
gradually, month by month. So why am I hesitating?
Because I haven’t written much in a while?
Because I’m constantly tired and struggle to find the time or
the energy to write anything?
Or is it because I’m from a generation of people who were promised
big things which have yet to happen?
It’s quite sad really. Sometimes, when I’m sat in
particularly bad traffic coming home from work and I’m listening to the radio
and shuffling along in first gear, my mind will begin to wander (perhaps this
is why I’ve crashed twice in fifteen months?) and I’ll think about when I was a
student at Priestley College. We were young, we were fresh faced and we were
eager. So eager. Eager to please, eager to show off, eager to learn, eager to
go out and get drunk and go to parties and get into clubs and start our driving
lessons and lose our virginities and yes, somewhere in the back of our minds we
vaguely thought about the future, but it didn’t worry us. We weren’t terrified
when someone asked us “where do you think
you’ll be in ten years time?”
Well, guess what. It is
ten years. I started college in
September 2006. That’s ten years ago. A lifetime ago. I remember my first day
very clearly, when I was sat in the performing arts room wearing all black
clothes with bare feet and we sat round in a circle and spoke a bit about who
we were. I remember thinking God, I wonder who’ll make it first. Who will be the one to get the first BAFTA or the
first to appear in a film?
It pains me to admit that it was none of us. The same goes
for the wonderful souls I met at university and then at drama school. Hugely
talented and incredibly driven people. But again, for some inexplicable reason,
it hasn’t happened for them. We were the generation who were going to make it.
We were the ones our parents proudly bragged about to friends they bumped into
at the supermarket. We were the ones who used to see people lugging briefcases
onto a packed train at seven thirty in the morning and we pitied them, because
we didn’t for a moment think that would be us.
As the years have passed by, more and more people faded into
the background. And now we are all approaching our twenty sixth birthdays. We will
soon be in our late twenties. For the remaining ones still at home, we are
feeling increasingly guilty and worried. Will I move out? Because if I do, that
would most likely be the end of most of if not all creativity. Creativity is wonderful
but I've discovered the hard way that it doesn’t pay the rent.
I remember a conversation with Eva McKenna, the actress who
played the lead role in A Walk in the Park back in November. We were talking
about her journey after university and I smiled in recognition as she admitted “I’m
so lucky, I haven’t had to get a real job yet”. That is our generation down to a tee. A real job. Also known as a
nine to five job. An office job.
How I wish I could wake up in the morning, lie in bed for
another twenty minutes, shower, eat my breakfast and sit and write. And get
paid. How I long for the day when I have my own theatre company and going to work is the thing I look
forward to each day.
And on the days where I’m sat in stop start traffic, my left
foot burning on the clutch, my mind will wander to why. I must know at least one hundred actors or performers of some
kind, all of whom are disgustingly talented, yet haven’t had their lucky break.
Why? I don’t think it helps that reality TV is overtaking the world. I read an
article online the other day about how White Dee from Benefit Street has landed
a role in the hit TV show Benidorm. It angered me. I thought about it for days.
A woman who was made famous for being on benefits for her entire life who,
thanks to more reality TV programmes such as Celebrity Big Brother, is now a
millionaire and about to land her first role in a British drama.
I know so many actors and actresses who would kill for a
role in Benidorm. They would most likely do it for free, just for the
experience and the exposure. Yet once again, producers choose a familiar face
to hopefully pull in the masses. The same as when Shane Ward landed himself a
part in Coronation Street. Or how Katie Hopkins, who is only known for her
wicked tongue after being on The Apprentice, is in the news day after day after
day. Or when Cheryl Cole got a part in a film despite having no relevant acting
qualifications. Repeat for Lily Cole in Snow White and the Huntsmen.
The less parts there are out there, the less new actors are
needed and the more that happens, the more people lose their spark. There’s
only so many times you can be told you aren’t good enough or you aren’t right
for the part.
So the fading sparks seem to have split into a few groups. Some
people went travelling after university. Others have started a family. Some
threw themselves into building a career. And some people completely disappeared
off the radar. But there’s a few – and it is only a few – who are stuck in No
Man’s Land. Half in and half out of reality. Dipping our toe into the grown up
world of holding down a full time job and saving to move out, but constantly
hiding from the question “what did you
study at university?”
We are the
generation who can’t quite let go. The generation who fiercely defend anyone
who is still courageously striving for their goals. The generation who smile
and hold back tears when explaining to our grandparents that it’s not that we don’t
like acting anymore, we are simply trying to please everyone.
That’s why I hesitate before buying a new laptop. If I commit
to spending approximately £400 on a new laptop, it is a commitment from me to
continue to write. I enjoy writing and I know it’s something I’m good at – but it’s
surely tempting fate to splurge such a large amount of money on an item that
may not be used professionally again? The laptop I am typing this from is five
years old. It is the source of many a good play and book. I’ve got hundreds of
scraps of Microsoft Word documents containing snippets of a new book or an idea
for a play.
But will they ever be used? Or will they sit and fester in my
documents, showing the last activity as being over two years ago? And if I
decide to buy a new laptop, am I saying goodbye to the previous me? After all,
I bought this laptop with the money I got for my twenty first birthday. I wrote
A Walk in the Park on this laptop. And Scarlett Fever. And Vee for Victory. And
goodness knows what else. If I accept that I need a new laptop, am I accepting that
this part of me is all in the past?
Or am I being overly sentimental about a bloody laptop for
crying out loud?
Do I just swallow and accept that I cannot live off solely a
writer’s wage? Do I admit defeat? Is it better to throw myself into a more
sensible career where admittedly, I might not be as happy, but on the other
hand I’ll never be hungry?
No. I can’t.
Every time I hesitate and every time I worry and every time
I question whether I’m doing the right thing, I have to give myself a quick
kick up the arse to remind myself how I felt on November 13th and 14th.
Seeing a play that I had written taken to the stage with a sell out audience
for each performance was exhilarating.
I cried at the end of each performance. The first night, I just
brushed away my tears and wandered over to the bar where people were foisting
drinks my way (which I was glad of). The second night, I just gave in. My
neighbours had come to watch it and when the lights came back up after it had
finished, they were all in tears. Which of course set me off. I had this lump
in my throat as I was passed from little old lady to little old lady, all of
whom have known me from when I was in the womb, and they all sobbed into me as
they told me it was the best thing they had ever seen.
Perhaps they were just
being kind. But it was what I needed to hear at the time. Not particularly that
night. But at that stage in my life. I needed to hear that my writing was good.
It was life altering. I still can’t quite believe we pulled
it off. It’s not something many people can say they’ve experienced. But I can.
So I guess yes, right now, I feel a bit lost. A little bit
bewildered. But so much has changed in the last few years for me and the only
constant has been my writing. It’s quite comforting really. Even just sitting
here in front of my computer with a Word document open in front of me soothes
me.
I think this is what I’m meant to do.
So how on earth can I give that up?
