What’s My Age Again?

NOTE: This post is in turns an emotional outpouring as well as a personal, cutting to the core, dissection with how I feel/where I am at 30. Like my previous posts, I don’t pull punches, and I don’t want to self censor. Others have felt this way; some probably feel the same right now, but I just wanted to take a moment to capture and express my fears, hopes, worries and dreams on Write Steve Write.

With that in mind, enjoy…

It’s been 10 days since my birthday. Since this…

Honestly, I’m still accepting that I’ve finally ticked over into my 30s. No more will my age start with a 2 until I hit 200!

As I sit here pondering about all that I had dreamed of accomplishing in my 20s, all that I thought I would have done and what I thought my 30s would have looked like, I struggle at times to cope with the reality. All that I haven’t achieved. All that I thought I would be, but am not.

Kind of makes me feel like this:


And then someone comes along, shows you what it’s like to be truly cared about, and does something amazing to help you usher in a new birthday, a new decade, a whole slew of new opportunities, adventures and possibilities…

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If you ever get the chance to go and watch writer/director/podcast magnate Kevin Smith speak, then, quite simply, do it.

I’ve written about Smith and his style of public speaking before on this blog, having highlighted a particularly meaningful monologue he made regarding encouraging artists and the creatively inclined, which, in a shameless plug, you can check out here.

But despite my familiarity with Kevin Smith, his wondrous ability to take a single question from an audience that fills an hour and a half, and his overall opinions on the creative landscape, I still found myself excited at being able to see him deliver his mantras live.

When the e-mail from the Prince Charles Cinema appeared as a Notification in the top right of my screen, it took me about 10 seconds of deliberation before I had already punched in my card details. Hell, I was one step away from simply throwing money at my monitor to secure the tickets.

The man just has a way of cutting to the core in what he says, in such a genuinely moving and passionate way that you can’t help but be inspired by the end of it.

Even if “the end of it” is 20 minutes over the scheduled end time, causing a hectic, full on butt clenched, power walk back to Charing Cross for the last train home.

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It’s In The Blood.

I’m sad to say it, and ashamed to admit it, but there has been virtually no progress with Temporary in the time since my last blog post, Pivot – though, if you’re interested, I have been providing minor updates via my podcast, Sweet Story, Bro.

I’m acutely aware that it’s been almost a month of inaction, but it was while providing a brief update to Temporary during the intro for a future episode of my podcast that I realised I had a topic to share that I haven’t blogged about yet, and considering that Write Steve Write is the HQ for all major updates for my writing, Temporary, and, only because I love you (yeah, you, gorgeous), some travel writing, I wanted to provide a further update on what’s going on and why I have yet to shift it into gear the way I’ve been meaning to.

Hell, sticking to that analogy, I’m still obsessively checking mirrors. I haven’t even shifted into first.

So why?

I’ve not been myself recently.

You just know when something isn’t right? When something feels inhereably…wrong. Yeah, that.

Fun, right?

A few weeks ago I felt weak. Incredibly weak. Like, ‘blacking out at BJJ’ weak. ‘Couldn’t do the warm up’ weak. Something was up. So, I’ve been trying to figure out what, exactly, caused me to feel so fatigued. So drained.

It’s because of this that the past few weeks have revolved around beautiful (grey), warm (raining), British Summer days as I traipse to the Doctor’s for scans, prodding, and (multiple) blood tests.

It’s a good thing I don’t mind needles and like post-jab lollipops.

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I’ve been trying to figure out the perfect way to express my feelings on this subject, but found that days (*cough*weeks*cough*) magically slipped by in my efforts to find the perfect words, so rather than internalise they way I have been, I thought I’d start typing.

I’ve spoken before about my ambitions of working within the Film industry – a dream that now seems more unlikely than ever before, made more apparent when I commit the cardinal sin of comparing where I am in life opposed to others, chiefly the people I did my University course with. Sure, not all of them seem to be working within the industry, but, hand on heart, a lot of them are, even if its within capacities they don’t want.

Jealousy is an unproductive, vile emotion, and it’s one I’ve become frequently accustomed to. We Netflix and Chill all the time with our other bestie, the Deep D. (That stands for Depression, you little pervert) It’s a great circle jerk, as I’m sure you can imagine.

We are the result of our decisions. Committing to something, rejecting an idea, or even doing nothing are all active choices to any given situation. My relative inaction in pursuing my dreams of writing and directing have led me to crafting two short movies that have achieved nothing and led to a staggering amount of sweet FA (despite winning awards and getting the chance to fly across the world to support one, which I chronicled here) over the course of 6+ years that have seen me struggling to keep my chin above water. (Wonder Years ref, yo.)

It was whilst on the journey to support First Date that I committed to a life changing detour with the dreams, goals, and ambitions that had stood so steadfast since 18.

I’ve written about the impact those Writer’s Panels have had on me, and in that time I’ve written a complete manuscript that has been edited multiple times, finding myself in a (naively) hopeful position that, yes, now is the time to strike. Now is the time to start composing my query letter. Now is the moment to find an agent.

Now is the time to fully commit to the Pivot.


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Conned, Man.

It was all going so well.

My trip away to Dallas, Texas for Wrestlemania 32, followed by 5 days of pure Dallas exploration and fun, had been a great trip. The wrestling was amazing, the atmosphere electric – despite the unfortunate, dangerously overcrowded, queues that led us to being stuck outside the AT&T Stadium in searing heat for over 4 hours, missing the first hour and a half of the event, including the pre show/intro to Mania/national anthem, as well as the first portion of the first match – and Dallas had proven to be a welcoming city with plenty to see in the remaining time we had.

Last year, I chronicled my Vancouver vacation with a daily round up. I didn’t do that this year, primarily because I’d forgotten to bring my wireless keyboard and I hate using the iPad keyboard for blogging. Also the WordPress app seriously lacks compared to their web build.

I was going to reminisce and roundup our Texas vacation here when I got back, uploading fun photos and experiences to share on Write Steve Write, recounting all the good times we had for those interested (note: I still may do, if anybody wants to see our snaps!)

What a shame then, that in the last few hours of being the USA, Thea and I fell victim to a con man LITERALLY on the Dartline (think metro system) to Dallas Fort Worth airport.

That’s right. On the way home, en route to the airport, in a momentary lapse of tired judgement that is totally out of character for the both of us, we allowed ourselves to be conned out of $35.

The money itself isn’t the issue for me, per se. Don’t get me wrong, it IS an issue, but it’s more the situation. More the fact that I like to think I’m not a stupid or easily manipulated individual, yet here I am having been well and truly Jedi mind tricked.


It sucks, and the more I think about it the more it eats me up, despite advice from my parents and Thea to let it go. Don’t let it ruin the vacation and all the time we spent there, all the things we saw together. Let it just be life experience. Unfortunate, stupid, messy life experience.

And I will. I’ll get over it. But first I need to deconstruct it. I need to understand how, and why it happened.

So…how did it happen?

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‘Cause Baby, You’re A Firework.

Since yesterday’s blog (‘Breadcrumbs‘), I have since written in the necessary…well…breadcrumbs that I spoke about.

It didn’t take long in the end, thanks to the in-depth search features that Scrivener offers. I knew the scenes I needed to amend, popped in there the right search term, and sprinkled those goddamn carb cubes where they needed to go, done in a (hopefully) subtle way, so as to not completely signpost what’s happening, whilst still acting as enough of a clue that will leave the reader with an ‘Aaah, shit, that makes so much sense!’ moment.

I’m thinking of trademarking that, by the way, so don’t you go stealing the ‘Aaah, shit, that makes so much sense!’ Moment™.

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Yesterday saw me finish what will hopefully be the last major redraft of Temporary. Only hours before a few friends came over for dinner and general shenanigans did I get to that final full stop in my, now dramatically changed, manuscript.

A lot has been ripped out, a bit has been added, but it’s all been honed. Fingers crossed I’ve done a good enough job to draw the attention of my inevitable next step in this journey: somehow finding a literary agent.

I figure I might try laying down pages in a row, leading towards a crudely assembled box trap as I wait discreetly behind a big rock. Or something.


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