Plays, Jobs and Brain Chemistry

Over the years this blog has been a catalogue of the disastrous and ridiculous. Sometimes both at once (we all remember Murder Admin Job right? Right). So, it feels like a moment to also reflect on things going right…and the part of my brain and all the…well many and wonderful things this blog has catalogued, that make that difficult to take in.

2019 has been an up and down kind of year. But when I wrote about Finding My Theatrical Home a few weeks back, it felt like a tide was turning, 6 months in. And even more so now, 2019 seems to be dare I say it...doing ok? 

So where to start?

Today feels like a day to record in part because today the cast start rehearsal for my play ‘Don’t Send Flowers’ (tickets on sale soon. Do any of you REALLY think you won’t be hearing it until you’re sick of it when they are?). In so many ways it felt like a day that would never come. I’m not even sure I really believe it’s a real think that’s happening either. If writing a play is hard getting one on stage is like climbing Everest…you could probably die in the process and you’re not quite sure what’s up there (Bigfoot probably). And we have to give special mention to companies like Clock Tower who are doing this nonsense without any Arts Council support, without a ‘home’ venue, and just sort of getting on with it.

To that end I don’t think anyone involved would mind me saying it’s not been easy. The logistics of putting a thing together- in a city where theatre space is guarded by more gatekeepers than Mordor. Where costs increase almost daily, and everyone involved is wearing about 10 hats (my secondary hat being ‘Resident Cake Maker’ I know my strengths). And where you rely on goodwill and often blind faith. Just to get a script in a room to rehearse it seems like an achievement we should all take a moment to applaud.

As a writer too. I feel like, without any trace of personal ego, I should take a moment to applaud. Not my own script- lord knows it could still be an utter dogs’ dinner of a script (Interjection from the producer: it isn’t, please buy tickets). But as a writer to get from writing, to bounce back from all the rejection and keep trying. To bounce back from all the setbacks and keep trying, and to silence the voices in my head (and outside of it) that say you aren’t good enough, just long enough to do something with it. I’m taking a moment to celebrate that.

Or at least I’m trying to. Because silencing all that is hard. And in the arts, much as it happens, like academia, there is very little scope for celebrating what you’ve done. Only the ever-present ‘but what next’ or ‘yes but…’ the idea that, oh yeah cute you’ve got one play on…but what are you doing next. Without a pause to celebrate the fact…you got a fucking play on and that’s an achievement. Second the ‘yes but…’ you got a play on ‘but it’s not in x y or z venue’ or it’s ‘only with x or y’ or so-and-so did something else. And yes, I get it. I’m nobody. My play is a little nobody nothing existing in this tiny spec of a corner of the theatre world. But it’s my-no our- little spec. And lots of people have already worked really hard on it. And will continue to do so. And we think it’s worth sharing. And that’s worth celebrating.

So that’s that. And there’s lots of other creative stuff bubbling away. None of it concrete or finished, but that’s ok.

And then there’s the book. Let’s not talk about the book here this is a happy place…ok I just somewhat. The book is better than it has been. I feel happy with some words on a page. Scared of the gaping holes elsewhere. But the other week I finished the last totally unwritten section- meaning that for each section, there is at the very least a skeleton of what should be there. It’s far, far from finished. And there is a deadline looming again. But it’s getting to the ‘not perfect but written’ stage. So let’s hope it gets there. More importantly, I love it again. I think the problem was never not loving it, but loving it too much. Feeling the weight of expectation, of my own passion and love for it in parts. And that’s never going to go away because the thing wouldn’t ever get written if it wasn’t for that. And so we have to make peace with the fact I’ll occasionally cry writing it. We have to make peace with the fact I’ll occasionally cry about rain machines while writing it.

And so, for the book, I need to disappear for much of August to write it, because I need structure to write. I need discipline and I now find myself with less time than before because I’ve got a new job…

Ah, jobs. It’s been a ride, as this blog has often testified.

I did a PhD for lots of reasons. Some of them selfish (I really, really wanted to be a Doctor obviously, I have that much ego), I really wanted to write about what I wrote about. But also because I genuinely thought it was a great career move. Yes in hindsight you have to laugh at that or you’d cry. And I’ve cried, oh boy have I cried.

Suffice to say, the post PhD years have not been kind. There have been years of secure but horrible jobs, secure but ok jobs…and a year that should really be the-one-we-don’t-speak-of. And I’ve been open about the fact it left my mental health in shreds, and my career whatever that was, likewise.

So, it feels like jinxing it to say things could be, seem to be improving. And most importantly I’ve stumbled (as much of my career is still stumbling) into a job that’s both a brilliant opportunity to develop skills, for my career…but is also just a really lovely place to work. I can’t quite find a way to express what an almost unbelievable thing this is after nearly five years of exactly the opposite in every way.

I was compelled in part to write this because yesterday while working an event at work a woman I worked with at a horrible temp job- Receptionist at a private hospital- came up to me and asked me a question. She didn’t acknowledge that we’d ever met, let alone sat next to each other for seemingly endless shifts. Let alone that she was instrumental in making my life a misery there. I always swore if I ran into her, I’d tell her what a misery she made my life. And that I wasn’t just some dumb poor kid she could do that to (she liked to talk about how rich she was…). And while I’d never have done so while in work anyway…as she walked away I looked at where I was working, thought of the brilliant people I now get to work with, the creative interesting work I get to do…and thought ‘the best revenge is a life well lived’.

And I think that about the job, the play and everything else. There’s so much I could justifiably or not be angry at. So many people I could be bitter towards (and am). But I could also just laugh and think about my PhD supervisor trying to get my personal twitter shut down because ‘academics shouldn’t have twitter’ and that a good part of my job currently is sending silly gif responses on twitter. I could equally be bitter that the other PhD supervisor said I write like a journalist, and that I’ve written as a journalist for some pretty awesome publications. Or the former friend who said I would never be a proper playwright because I didn’t have an MA in it. Or I could just continue doing those things and kicking ass at it (especially sending silly gifs, that’s my number one skill).

What is hilarious (in a dark and twisty way obviously) is that in all this, right now my brain is spiraling into epic anxiety mode. Right now, that dark corner of my mind is slowly taking over and is utterly convinced that, among other things, I’m going to get fired tomorrow. Or that my play will still fall apart even though they’re rehearsing right now. There’s obviously zero rationale for either of these things. But a combination of brain chemistry, and all the stuff that’s led to this moment- the insecurity, the setbacks, the bullies and more, means that probably for a long time to come that’s the way my brain is wired. So what should be a relaxed Sunday after a job well done (I think) at work yesterday, and a day to be excited about creative pursuits, instead is plagued by my number one enemy (outside Murder Admin job and PhD supervisors) which is my own brain. On one hand, it helps you appreciate what you have when you get there- I can look at what I’ve got now and remember those dark days in January 2018 when it was all very very dark in every sense. But there’s always the lurking thought similar days are never far away. I wrote a lot more about anxiousness of having anxiety here it's exhausting some days, others just annoying. And just because life starts going well, doesn't make it go away. 

There’s no real moral here. There’s still much to celebrate and be content with which is the main point of this blog. But there’s also as ever the memory of what’s gone before and what that does to the now- specifically the now that lives in my head...

Talking of head. To end the blog with a shameless plug. One thing that is improving my mental health is running again. And foolishly training for a Half Marathon. A big advocate for any kind of exercise as therapy, but also of my own lack of sporting ability...I'm running for a charity called Big Moose that among many wonderful things, supports mental health. So if you're feeling generous...sponsor me here