Invisible Influence

A few weeks ago, Kevin Smith almost died from a “massive heart attack” due to a blockage of his LAD artery – also known as the Widow-Maker.

Thankfully, he survived the encounter, even taking the time out from, y’know, recovering from said heart attack in order to tweet about it from his near-miss deathbed. Total Kev Smith move.

 

After the first show this evening, I had a massive heart attack. The Doctor who saved my life told me I had 100% blockage of my LAD artery (aka “the Widow-Maker”). If I hadn’t canceled show 2 to go to the hospital, I would’ve died tonight. But for now, I’m still above ground! pic.twitter.com/M5gSnW9E5h

— KevinSmith (@ThatKevinSmith) February 26, 2018

 

If he hadn’t pulled through, this would have marked the first of my personal heroes to have died.

This person who I have never met, but have been a fan of since I was teenager, has helped to shape me in countless ways, just as he has for thousands and thousands of others.

From his clever wordplay and irreverent pop-cultural observations to his commentary on everything through nothing helped to mould the way I view the world, myself, and how I wanted to be. How I wanted to write.

We are all an amalgamation of our experiences and influences. Kevin Smith just happens to be one of mine.

Wary Jubilation

On Monday 19th February, after diligently working on it since November 2017, I completed the vomit draft of my second manuscript.

Me? Yeah, I just finished the vomit draft of my second book, no big thing.

*Internally celebrating with unrepentant, victorious screaming*

Externally…#AmWriting #AmQuerying #StillTrying #TeamPerseverance #NeverGiveUp #Writing pic.twitter.com/tK3oE9yB6S

— Steve Russell (@stevetendo) February 19, 2018

The very next day I was back to my ‘day job’, earning the cash needed to put food on my table and keep the lights on by [job description redacted] with [expletive deleted] [description redacted].

Because writing in the dark is hard, especially as my process sees me perpetually bathed in the light emitted from my screen.

What’s the alternative? Actually write with my hands? What are you, a barbarian?!

It was a tough reality check after such a personal high, to once again make my way into a day job that was always meant to be a temporary (no pun intended) gig.

Let’s just say it didn’t work out that way. Yet.

My therapist once asked me what I get out of my job.

Satisfaction?

Career ambition?

Happiness?

The answer surprised me.

Time.

Wonder For Years

Turns out the pursuit to live a creative life is a constant struggle between managing fantastical expectation vs reality and the need to get some damn food in your stomach on a daily basis.

It’s also one that should see you take influence from everything you can draw from.

I’ve written before about the importance of being able to take that influence, that inspiration, from a number of different outlets. Limiting yourself to only one, in a world so rich and abundant with great stories, told in wonderfully engaging and, occasionally, dynamic ways is akin to blind stupidity. A tunnel-visioned idea that if you’re not writing, well, you should be reading, right?

There’s truth to that, make no mistake, but in a world where some of the best stories in the past decade have been told through not only novels but cinema, comic books, and video games, then actively depriving yourself of these experiences simply because of the form they are delivered in just highlights a pretentious refusal to accept their potential.

And this brings me, of all things, to one of my favourite bands, The Wonder Years.

Hobbled New Year.

I flick the switch and watch as the fluorescent light flickers with an audible ting-ting-ting, flashing multiple times until, mercifully, it decides to stay on.

Surveying the room – a downstairs basement long forgotten – I notice the lone desk situated in the middle, a weathered leather chair situated on the other side of it.
Dust had decided that this was its domain now and blanketed everything in a fine, undisturbed layer. If it were snow, you might think it was pretty. As it stood, it only made me want to sneeze.

Walking over, I observe the computer sat proudly on the desk, the only thing on it bar a notebook. Leaning in, I find the power switch on the back of the bezel and with a single press am reassured when a familiar chime booms through in a pleasant sing-song tone.

The screens blue hue joins the fluorescent yellow as I pull the chair out and take a seat. Picking up the book, I use the back of my hand to cast the dust aside, opening the cover and taking pleasure in the crack the spine lets out.

All my notes are still there. The computer still works, and my story was ready to continue.

“Let’s do this,” I say to myself, ignoring how alone the walls make me feel as they absorb the sound. “Let’s do this, 2018, you sonovabitch”

***

So it’s a new year. 2018. The future.

The last time I updated was back in the long, long ago of 2017 – before November came and went, before Christmas consumed my December, prior to my being promoted to purple belt (!!!), and before New Years brought with it a mixture of merriment and punishment…

Still, when I’m ringing in the New Year with this crew of misfits, I can’t complain… ❤️ pic.twitter.com/wzwY06kW6C

— Steve Russell (@stevetendo) January 2, 2018

So what demanded so much of my time?

Lean closer, I don’t want everyone to know just yet. Just you, because you’re special. Not like him. He’s awful.

*hears disgruntled objections*

Huh? Oh, nothing. Just saying how great you are!

You see? Quick now, let me tell you what you want to know…

I’ve been working on a new story.

Turning Points.

November is only a few weeks away, and following that comes December. Then, as fast as that, 2018. We’re not even past Halloween (a grossly overlooked calendar event over here in the UK) and already the push is on for Christmas.
Time is cruel and never ever slows, much like the corporate agenda. (I mean, four months of promotion for Christmas? Are you serial?)

Temporary has been a part of my life in some form or another for a while now. Years, no less. I knew that the querying process would be slow – glacial even, though…global warming is a thing…so I don’t know how much that comparison really hits now – but I never expected to be sitting here years later, still processing rejections.
I had hoped that, given the months of graft and effort to finesse, submit, and query (you know, the hard work and emotional commitment of it all), it would have connected with somebody, anybody, by now. A connection that would lead to, at the very least, a request for a full manuscript that could then be rejected. As far as hurdles go, I’m still stumbling out the gate. Still, at least I’m OUT the gate. A story unwritten won’t get you very far, after all.

Here we see a visual representation of Temporary, stumbling hopelessly, but charmingly, out the gate.

But as the days get shorter and the weather turns colder, I would be lying if I said it didn’t bother me…that I wasn’t ready to exorcise this story and move on, clear, to the next thing.