Why I Write

With the silly season upon us, the incidence of social functions increases astronomically and I find myself looking for new excuses not to go. End-of-year do’s are rife with traps like people you swore you’d run through with any handy pointed instrument the next time you saw them, or small talk that turns to the inevitable question of what one does for a living. The former situation, I can deal with; the latter situation, however, is a challenge:

  • If I’m keeping a low profile, I tell them my day job which guarantees a very quick change of topic to current affairs or sport.
  • If I’m feeling full of myself assertive, I’m a screenwriter. Which leads immediately to Have I seen your work? and It must be so exciting!, and then sooner or later, the dread Why do you write?

If I had Mr Molloy‘s foresight, I’d merely refer them to a blog like his. But Indelible Freckles isn’t about disclosure – it’s about being confident and self-deprecating, witty and wise, and compulsively employable. Being the professional that I am, my posts are not written with the aid of alcohol or similar chemical stimulants… and year-end functions are thankfully lubricated with said stimulant/s, and my answers to those dread questions depend on my level of inebriation:

  • to meet girls – no longer applicable, of course, as I have my own Goddess;
  • to be rich and famous – a cute and very naive reason that, after seven years of hard graft, borders on humiliatingly embarrassing;
  • to make a decent living – like, Hello? – as a screenwriter? puh-lease.

The more painful and unflinchingly honest answers are likely come as dawn approaches and the alcoholic buzz has given way to proxy Irish philosophising, or, in the words of Alan Moore, [I] am reduced to a blubbering wreck that just slumps in the armchair and whimpers about it has no talent whatsoever and will never write again.

And as a new day rises, and birdsong envelopes me… and The Dog whines at the door to be let in, and The Chickens squawk and complain to be let out of their coop… I can’t wait. I’m excited. I can see the finished product already —

— the only obstacle between me and a finished film/television/theatre project is me

— and – no pressure, of course – I get cracking.



Last week, The Goddess and I had lunch with Sean Molloy and Helen Rickerby. It was a great get-together: even though I’d met Sean only one time earlier, the atmosphere was very congenial. A fellow screenwriter and Guild board member, the conviviality was due largely to his being a fellow blogger and Guild forum loiterer. Oh, his taste in comics can’t be faulted; well, except for his Marvel bias. Anyway, we sat around a table and talked and talked and talked, and all of a sudden two hours had just gone.

I’ve tried to post about the very pleasant experience but, despite five false starts, have been unable to satisfactorily tie it in to the business of this blog. I knew what I wanted to say but was unable to execute it in such a way as to be a). appropriate, b). informative, c). entertaining, and d). easy on the reading eye.

Yes, meeting fellow scribes is b). informative and c). entertaining, and the lunchtable conversation was a). blog-appropriate – but you, Gentle Reader, don’t want a transcript of the conversation that accompanied our repast.

You want something to take away from this post, some nugget of wisdom observation, some kind of distinct perspective on an everyday occurrence (having lunch, not meeting fellow scribes).

… Nope. Still don’t have it.

But I got a lot farther with this post than the others.

– No, wait, I have it: if after [PICK A NUMBER] attempts, you lose heart and focus, remember: Every time God closes one door, He opens another.

Here endeth the lesson.


Point & Click

Okay, the short didn’t make it into the local festival but – half a kilo of Whittakers‘ finest later – life. Goes. On.

Mm. This week, for your infotainment: