If you had to choose books, art or film, which one over the other, which way would you go?
Every piece of the arts, is a piece of someone’s soul. Their being has been displayed in a few pages, frames or brushstrokes. Time, energy, blood, snot and tears go into these pieces – a lot of each. We live in a technical society where we can instantly review, ruin or recluse someone. Via a keyboard. From thousands of miles away. The risk of putting yourself out there, flayed and bare, far outweighs any initial reward.
Writing a blog, forcing it on friends and colleagues makes my soul cringe, it turns the tiny heart I have, a darker shade of hatred. Mostly because if someone tries to force me into anything, I revolt. Noisily. Creating a scene like a toddler, throwing my arms aloft and screaming the place down. I know how to adult. But, I believe in what I am writing, it’s not perfect, there was much better writers, hang on, why am I doing this again..
I’m asking people for time and shortly, money. These are the two things we don’t have enough of. Or certainly not enough to go throwing them at me.
We spent this weekend with friends in the Midlands. No longer my wife’s friends. Our friends. It’s fab to see our collective of micro humans play, cough, run and fart together. What a wonderful age, where you can fart during dinner and rub snot into your hair and people think it’s cute. I must try those at work tomorrow.
I’ve realised that socially, I’m a bit of an arse. Anyone who knows me and is reading this, will be nodding so hard right now, their left eye is loose. Whenever the subject turns to books or films, I end up talking bollox and bringing up vague, obscure books that people haven’t heard of. My own personal Booker panel.
I ended up talking about Ready Player One and asking a ten year old if he’d read the book. Seriously. I should have throat punched myself. It is one of those subjects that gets people going, to me books are better than films. They just are. If you like books, that is.
If you’re a massive film buff who watches twenty films a week, buys Empire and trawls IMDB for news, books might not be the top of your Christmas list. I understand that. There is a special place, up there, reserved for those people who love both and can’t figure out their favourite.
Speaking to a buddy of mine recently, he was going to spend an hour, just an hour, one simple hour l, reading a week or so ago. With a family and life, that’s almost impossible. He was so looking forward to it. Obviously it didn’t happen. Kids, nappies, snot, farts, they all get in the way.
That’s what makes this silly hobby of mine so difficult. Not only am I asking you for time and money (please, designer shoes won’t buy themselves), I am also asking you to give up something else. Something or someone you love, to indulge in my warped mind. That’s a big ask.
I had to do a photo shoot for the local paper last week and Dave, the terribly nice photographer, was very kind. We walked off from my office and found a green area for the photo. As I resembled a poor model in the Littlewoods catalogue, he asked:
‘Think about the book, the characters… what’s the book about?’
I have a usual sales patter now, when it comes to Comedic – it rolled off the tongue:
‘It’s about how men can be so bloody retarded, they don’t talk about their problems. Instead, it festers inside of them until, just like the protagonist (Ronnie) they end up chugging a bottle of vodka to chase 200 ibuprofen, listening to Jay Z, as the suck in the fumes of their sensible, four door estate. In white. Ronnie ends up in purgatory, a huge white space that houses a group of people all facing up to their pasts. Dragging up the parts of life that destroyed them. It’s a comedy. Hilarious. Honest’
I don’t think Dave will be buying a copy. In fact, I expect to hear from Dave’s lawyers about the injunction he wants. Hopefully, after a very strong cup of tea, he was fine.
32 days until publication and I can leave you alone.