Last month I was asked what kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind – that if I had ten years left in my writing career, what would I want to be known for – film? television? theatre?
I was stumped in that moment as the following questions fizzed and Twister-ed through my head:
- did I want to keep writing for the silver screen?
- or did I want to try a running jump for the golden-age-of-television train?
- or was theatre – with all its in-built ‘Nam-movie-like flashbacks to the terrors of Sunday school – my metier?
All I managed in reply was a drowning fish impression.
The past few months has seen me more focussed than usual on a number of projects*. Whenever I’d stall encounter a problem challenge – like a question of plotting, or a certain character inconsistency, or finding the right typeface for the title – the question of a “D F Mamea legacy” would flick about my head like an annoying insect.
I can understand the motivational aspect of thinking about a legacy. I already know what I want to achieve in five/ten/twenty years’ time. For me, the thing about the question of legacy is that 1). it assumes a level of control from beyond the grave, and 2). it infers the kind of ambition that I don’t think I have.
I want to tell stories. I want to keep close around me the people I enjoy working with. I want to hold onto my loved ones because they’re a dream come true.
So. The plan is to a). continue writing whatever turns me on – and/or pays handsomely – over the next five/ten/twenty years, b). enjoy the process not just by myself but with my fellow creatives and collaborators, and c). persuade The Goddess that the installation of an half-ton AS/NZS3809-compliant safe is a heckuva deal for as many Kaimanawa ponies as she wants.
Legacy, schmegacy: write it – and if people like it, good.
* Winning a couple of awards is a wonderful intermittent reinforcer.
