Apologies for the long lapse between posts. The truth is, I've been depressed. Or rather, Depressed with a capital D - for Do Not Ask Me How I Am. This question has of late instantly reduced me to a blubbering ball of misery who embarrasses everyone within a 100m radius with the amount of snot and tears generated. Literally within seconds.
Nor do I need any trigger. I'll be sat at the dinner table eating potatoes, and the next moment I'm flooding them in salt. It must be alarming to watch. Not even the most nostalgic Irishman should get teary-eyed at a plate of mash, no matter how pissed.
I've used up my three work-allocated counselling sessions to no avail. In fact, the last time I visited, the counsellor looked at the clock after 40 minutes of desultory chat, saying brightly "Well, you seem a lot better. Shall we just call it a day"? I've known stuffed elephants that were more effective. I'll stick to increasing my meds.
I'd be interested to know, however, just what proportion of writers wrestle with the dog. I can't be the only one living 12,000 miles away from the centres of film-making excellence and wondering how to bridge the gap between dream and reality. I think Writer's Despair is probably even more prevalent than writer's block, if anyone wants to commission a study.
The truth is, I know that even if all my imaginings come true and I hit the literary jackpot, with contracts thrust in my face from publishing houses and film studios of all stripes - it's not the cure. Depression doesn't have one. Only look at Stephen Fry's struggles with bipolar (I love you Stephen, don't you ever give in). Still, a contract would sure as fuck help.
Just how low can it get? Here are the darkest depths of my desperation. I actually bought a plane ticket to Wellington a few weeks ago - in winter - just because I read that the premiere of The World's End would be attended by Simon Pegg, Martin Freeman, Edgar Wright and Nick Frost. I live in Auckland, which is an hour's flight, by the way. And Hot Fuzz is my favourite movie.
I queued in the freezing wind outside the cinema at 5.45am for a ticket (and there wasn't actually a queue at that point). I bought a new dress, shoes and belt, and typed away like a demon robot in order to have something to show them. I wrote 100 pages in a week, and put up with my Wellington sister's three cats, even after one of them peed in my bath, and then on my bed. I Fucking Hate Cats.
Didn't matter that I knew how much actors and directors ABHOR being accosted by wannabes.
Didn't matter that I knew my chances of an Audience were slimmer than a starving whippet.
Didn't matter that my thing was a novel, not even a script yet, and it wasn't actually finished.
Nope. I had to try. I just wanted to talk to them - to get some goddamn advice.
And persuade Martin he was going to be in the film.
I was on coals all week. Went through two loo rolls in five days, such were the effects on my colon.
I don't think I need to tell you how this ended.
It turned out to be an enormous event, instead of the small but select screening and Q&A session I had fondly hoped for, and the whole assortment vanished as soon as the credits rolled. It really did feel like the world's end. My sister dragged me away for an $8 hot chocolate (and they call Aucklanders venal!) but even it couldn't punch through the fog.
The lesson is you can't leapfrog fate. I wasn't ready, my novel/script wasn't ready, and the timing just wasn't right. Can you imagine the reaction of those guys if someone had pushed their way over through 800 guests and minders to thrust a memory stick on them? Or leapt on them in a restaurant afterwards? It probably would have looked like a scene from the film.
But it's hard. Last week:
I was turned down for a writing scholarship that would have given me time and money to finish my novel.
I got a rejection email from an agent, just a week after submitting my pitch.
And to cap it all off, I went to a publishing roadshow hoping to meet my former editor for a chat, but she wasn't there. Instead, a former colleague of mine approached me, and the first words out of her mouth were: "So, you've given up on writing then?" I stared at her, gobsmacked, and then replied: "No - my publishers gave up on my series, but I haven't stopped writing". To which there came: "Oh, so you're just writing for fun, then".
Why do some people bother to breathe?
Meanwhile, seeing my doctor tomorrow, and still waiting to hear from some agents...Here's hoping it gets better. Any offers of representation welcome. Will also accept chocolate.
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