Blogging - What's it for?

At the end of 2012 I congratulated myself (publicly - in my end of year sum up) for increasing the consistency with which I wrote on my blog. I saw this as something, in a profession where it's sometimes difficult to work out how you're progressing, as something I could keep tabs on, as a sign that I was improving or at least disciplining myself a la Seinfeld into working consistently on a skill set. I then proceeded to write far more sporadically during 2013 before disappearing completely. I made a cameo appearance in November 2013 during which I wrote a single blog -about writing blogs- entitled 'I'm back' and then disappeared altogether once again. Until now. So I can see why you might not (providing you care at all of course) have great faith in my return to the uh, small screen of blogmanship. 

But that's okay. 

As someone who is still finding their unique voice or purpose or whatnot, a blog is a perfect way to train myself in all the necessary disciplines and skills without hanging too much importance on it. I don't yet write with any regularity and nor do I have a specific subject or style that I stick to. Sometimes it's theatre but then it might just be something I've been working on and want to mention, or perhaps a response to something I've read or seen. I don't have a huge readership, just my stalwart supporters but, when something does work, it seems to find its audience naturally. For example, my piece on the Oscars, when Seth MacFarlane hosted it, got shared quite widely around the UK and the US while the blogs following the transformation of the actor I used for my play Rachael's Cafe got a massive number of hits from people interested in the trans community or cross dressing. Sometimes feedback points me in the direction of how I could improve my research, brevity of the posts or the way in which I structure my information which is very helpful and always appreciated - honestly! 

You see I'm one of those people who gets very caught up in trying to label a project before I've even started it and so, ultimately, giving up. I think ideas through for plays and stories so much and am full of enthusiasm until, putting the first sentence onto paper, I freak out when I realise how it's not going to match up to exactly what I had figured out in my head. David Mamet mentioned this syndrome in his book Theatre, pointing out that writers are prone to 'bemoaning or exploring (which are the same) the difference between the draft and the (actually non-existent) ideal foreseen version of the play'. I seem to go one better, never even finishing the blooming play itself because my mind leaps straight forward to get to the 'bemoaning' that bit quicker. Similarly I foresee myself playing a lead in a play and then find it complicated to work out how I can possibly progress to that point if I find myself only cast in the ensemble. Devising and improvisation are beyond me, simply because I have a need to know how it's going to be structured rather than being prepared to make that structure out of the created chaos. I know it's important to break free of a mindset which is obviously so over sensitive to its OCD love of filing things properly that it is, ultimately, fatal to creativity. 

So although I'd love, of course, to have a readership ready and waiting to devour my every word, to be one of those hot shot freelancer bloggers who have streams of comments down below each post, I realise now that that's not what the point of this blog is at all. It's just a place (that isn't, thank heavens, as personal as a diary) but where I have the flexibility to write about what I want and to do so in any way I'd like. I suppose that if it gets to the point where I am starting to develop more of a theme to my writings or to what I do then I'll think about starting a new, more professional looking blog. In the meantime I just need to remember to write in this one a bit more often. And if anyone out there is reading this...that'd be great. Thanks! 

PS On that note - I imagine there'll be a few more blogs than anticipated over the next couple of days as I catch up with all the stuff that's been happening without having taken the time to write any of it down or reflect on it. 

Short Story - My Boy James

As I pull up to my mother's house to drop her off after our shopping trip my little red Golf slams to a shuddering halt that lets me know it is, once again, not planning on restarting anytime soon. 

"Fuck!" 

Unladylike a word this may be but, if it's any consolation to my staunchly middle class parent, I do say it with the crisp enunciation she drummed into me.

"Sarah!" It's no consolation it turns out. "I don't know what's happened but, as you're not bleeding or unconscious, I can't imagine it deserved that response," she returns as she climbs gingerly out of the car.

Every day is fairly exhausting but today, Friday, has been particularly taxing. The normal stress of my single working mother life has been complicated by this breakdown which immediately throws my carefully regimented day into chaos. 

"For heaven's sakes," my Mother throws at me. "What a Drama Queen. You're wasted in Human Resources Sarah, you ought to have been on the stage." It's a pretty cheap shot seeing as my childhood dream to flee to London and be an Actress on the West End stage was somewhat scuppered by the arrival of my son James and the subsequent departure of his father, Tim. But then again that was a while ago now, and she's pretty old, so perhaps she's forgotten. Or assumed I've got over it. Which I suppose I have. I'm mostly just getting annoyed with her because I'm already riled up over the car and worried about James. 

"Take my car. I'll wait here for the AA man. And relax," she orders me. I jump into her car and drive off. I already have the keys, it's mostly only me who uses it anyway - when mine's conking out like now. She doesn't want to admit it but she can't really drive very easily any more - a combination of watery eyes and arthritic knees. Let's face it, she's old. But that's one more thing I'm not willing to think about. So long as she's chirpy and getting around, albeit with my help, I don't see why we should dwell on it. It's life right?

My worries race away as soon as I see James' face and I smile as his hands, sticky from PVA glue, grasp at my face as he greets me with the kind of wild abandon expected from kidnapped journalists being reunited with their families after a decade's separation rather than a two hour break while I went to Sainsbury's and he hung out making art. I don't care. You tell me what feeling could possibly be sweeter than knowing you have the total adoration of your child and I will almost certainly instantly dismiss whatever you come up with. I'd happily give birth all over again, without painkillers, just to experience this wonder in my life. It's a bit of a cop out to say that I suppose since, no doubt, my baby bearing days are over, but I do mean it. I'm trying to say goodbye to his teachers, trying to organise times for tomorrow, checking everything was okay today and all the while he is trying to get my attention: clinging, grabbing, kissing, giggling, "Mum, MUM, MUM-MING!" me. 

"James!" I bark sharply. Perhaps a little too sharply because his beautiful -mucky, but beautiful- face crumples. Luckily, years of practise have prepared my automatic response. A kiss on the cheek, a reassuringly firm stroke on the back and a plastic bottle of the appealingly bright coloured Fruit Shoot drink emerging quickly from the Sainsbury's bag and finding it's way into his grasp. Everything's fine. As he sucks on the bottle I finish my conversation and then we make our way back to the car. "This is Granny's car," he tells me, surprised. 

"Yup," I confirm. "My car broke down." 

His eyes widen and the arm holding the juice bottle drops to the side. He studies me seriously. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" 

"No, no," I reassure him quickly. "Everything was fine. It didn't crash."

"No crash?" he demands to be told again.

"No crash." 

"Okay." Calmed, and assured that I'm in one piece, he gets into the front passenger seat and wiggles around to get himself comfortable in the unfamiliar chair. I click his seatbelt in and take the opportunity to straighten the collar of his polo shirt. I set off back to my mother's house, hoping against hope the AA man has arrived. James has recovered from the shock of my supposed near destruction and is bursting to tell me about his day, literally dribbling with excitement, as he and his Fruit Shoot war for control of his mouth. "Mum?"

"Yes?"

"It was good today."

"Was it? Good." 

"It was Art."

"Yup." 

"I made you a pot."

"A pot?"

"Yes! It's in my bag. It is brown and it is little. Do you like it?" 

I laugh. He's silent. I realise he thinks I'm laughing at him. "I haven't seen it yet silly! But I'm sure I'll love it." 

"I wrote Mum on it in red paint. And a strawberry - I drew it. You like strawberries." I smile. James' memory is still pretty much linked to whatever happened the day before. Hence why last night's strawberries are currently taking centre stage in his rendition of the most loved aspects of my life. I used to feel queasy listening to people listing how great their kid's foibles were but now I realise I'm probably the biggest culprit of them all. James can tell me he sat on a Ladybird and the sky is made out of poo and I still gaze at him like he's Einstein.

We arrive at my Mother's house and I'm relieved to see the AA man is there. Once I meet him I'm less thrilled. He turns out to be an impatient, patronising, ever so slightly misogynistic soul - "Looks like those tyres are wearing a bit thin. Not got a hubby to sort out all this sort of stuff for you Love? Imagine it's a bit of a dirty job for a bird like you to handle?" - and I'm grateful Mum is entertaining James inside so he doesn't witness me trying to beat down my ever-rising hackles.

Finally we're on the way home, James having sloppily administered several loving kisses onto Mum's face while she giggled like a schoolgirl, and soon we're sitting down to a dinner of "SAUSAGES!" His roar is deafening. I think it's fair to say that he's delighted with the sausages. I smile but my mind is elsewhere. It's getting late, I still have to sort out a lot of paperwork, James has a hospital appointment due that I need to chase up and...

..."It's my birthday tomorrow," he informs me. Ah, his birthday. The one date he never forgets. He knows the date, the day, the hour, the minute he was born and he loves the fact that for one day everything can be about him, a celebration of him, without having to censor himself or his wants. James' birthdays are always an Event. Yes, with a capital E. 

"That's correct," I confirm. 

"And I'm having a party." 

"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. William is coming."

"And Daniel. And Gemma."

"Yes."

"And we can have cake?"

"Yup. Pirate themed remember?"

"Yes! And I have an eyepatch!"

Pirates of the Carribbean didn't come out too long ago. It's the current fad. He and his friends all fancy themselves the next Captain Jack. The birthday party confirmed and dinner finished we attempt the washing up but James' attempts to help ends abruptly with two broken glasses, a smashed plate and an extraordinarily loud screaming fit. The explanation that, thanks to the delay caused by the car breaking down, we don't have time for tonight's movie, goes down equally well. By the time we've struggled through a bath, pyjamas and an episode of Scooby Doo we're both exhausted and, not for the first time, I catch myself thinking about getting some help. I could even get someone to stay with him one night a week while I go out, I catch myself thinking. Mum's not really up to it anymore but maybe...James laughs at Scooby and Shaggy and I stop myself guiltily. I don't need to go out. What for? To find a man? I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror across the room and laugh bitterly at myself. Who'd want me now? I feel a tightness on my shoulders and I realise I laughed out loud. Or perhaps snorted would be a better word. James is hugging me to him with his right arm and staring at me quizzically. I smile brightly and give him a little hug. Reassured he turns back to the TV. 

When I tuck him in to bed he holds me to him and solemnly reminds me not to forget it's his birthday tomorrow. I promise and walk to the door. Finger on the switch I turn to blow him a kiss before I click the light off and he's gazing at me with his big, soft brown eyes and a huge smile. "I love you Mum". 

"I love you too son." Tears pricking my eyes I spin round, turn off the light and go back downstairs where I sit, revelling in the quiet, at my desk. Slowly I pull out all the paperwork and bend over the various forms and lists. Somewhere in the next two hours I pull out the final preparation sheet for the party. Clearly James has found it already. He's printed in large, unsteady letters along the top, 'DEAR MUM. DON'T FORGET MY BIRTHDAY!!! LOVE JAMES'. Yeah Sarah, I tell myself. Don't forget. Tomorrow it's your son's birthday! I'll throw him the pirate party of his dreams. He deserves it. It's a big one. Tomorrow my son will be thirty. 

Things ain't what they used to be---primarily me.

I haven't blogged on here for over a week now. Being in Edinburgh and producing my play Rachael's Cafe has taken pretty much all of my time and energy. Plus I often have very little to say other than what I upload on the Whatsonstage.com website as working the festival tends to shrink the world down to a tiny little bubble where nothing outside of Edinburgh exists. Obviously the London riots have broken through this protective little screen we so painstakingly erect between us and the real world this year, but although there is so much more than the festival to think about, it still tends to take over in the here and now. The result of this is that trying to think about anything other than your show usually threatens to frazzle your brain and greatly disrupt any small sense of equilibrium you may have established.

What I'm saying is that I'm an empty vessel right now. I'm finding it hard to collect my thoughts together enough to produce an actual coherent thought, I've forgotten the concept of mealtimes and I discovered that I only have to touch alcohol to my lips briefly to appear and feel instantaneously inebriated. I remember working the festival when I was 16 and effortlessly switching between painting the town red until 3 am (sixteen, I know!) and being up and at 'em first thing in the morning, flyering with a cheerful smile and personality on it's highest setting. I'm not sure when I aged thirty years or lost my stamina, but I sure as hell intend to find out this Fringe.

Until then? My cup of tea and bedtime book bid you goodnight.

Humour - The best form of defence?

It has long been accepted that, in the never-ending procession of defence mechanisms that mankind inevitably carts out one after the other, humour is one of the most present, one of the most human and one of the most controversial. Whether you're consciously constructing a joke to calm your nerves or momentarily lose control and blurt out laughing at a sad story, there will always be someone ready to slate you for doing so and someone gratefully commending you.

Stand-Up Comedy, a practice revolving entirely around the art of making people laugh and entertaining them, doesn't necessarily seem like the most natural choice of vehicle with which to express sadness, depression or fear. Indeed, not all, but most of the comedians we see on television are of the 'poking fun, buying into stereotypes and exuding cheerful charisma' variety. But step into a comedy club and you'll see humour being used to delve into the psyches of these performers who have entered a profession stereotypically famed for attracting 'damaged' people.

Stewart Lee (famed for co-creating hit musical Jerry Springer the Opera) is known for his angry tirades about...well, about pretty much anything. For example, talking about TV programme Top Gear, he easily explains away Jeremy Clarkson as someone with 'outrageous, politically incorrect opinions which he has for money'! Andre Vincent and Dr. Oliver Double both created stand-up shows that deal with health problems, the former's battle with cancer (Andre Vincent is Unwell) and the latter's experience of his two sons having diabetes (Oliver Double in Saint Pancreas). In a moving documentary Conflict Revolution, comedian Andrew Maxwell uses humour to try to bring two warring Irish neighbourhoods together with the tag line 'Can laughter unite what religion and politics divides?'

Even outside of the comedy sphere humour is used daily by all sorts of people to help defend against fear, melancholy or worse. I remember standing by my father's hospital bed when he had a heart attack and joking about him looking like a turkey in his heat protective clothing and him not wanting to leave the hospital because he fancied all the pretty nurses. I knew a very shy, socially awkward boy at university who suddenly came out of his shell to present a play he'd written about how he used humour to try to mask his shyness. In Howard Jacobson's novel 'The Finkler Question' he says of a dying wife lying in bed next to her husband 'she could look deep into his eyes, beckon him to her and whisper what he thought would be a fond memory into his ear, but which turned out to be a raucous allusion, an obscenity even. She wanted him to laugh, because they had laughed so often together. He had made her laugh at the beginning. Laughter had been his most precious gift to her. And now she wanted laughter to be her final gift to him'.

I embrace humour with my whole being. For me, it's one of the most inspiring and natural comforts I can hope for. There is, however, a fine line between the kind of humour as defence that I condone and another, far less tasteful, type. While it's impossible to find a universal line to draw, recently my personal boundaries have been so pushed that my acceptance of 'humour as a defence mechanism' has been sorely tried.

In the past two weeks alone we, as a country, as a world, have been inundated with catastrophe. There is famine in Somalia, massacre in Norway, economic difficulties and we still have wars raging left, right and centre. We've always fallen back on humorous newspaper headlines (thanks mainly to The Sun), television political comedy programmes and, nowadays, facebook and twitter updates. This 'chin up' culture is, and has always been, a major part of the British attitude. But what about when gentle joking turns into spiteful jibes? Is this still an acceptable response to tragedy, or have we lost our compassion as a people? I leave with you a selection of these 'jokes' and let you decide for yourselves. Who knows...maybe I'm just a tad touchier than others.

For example:

DEATH OF AMY WINEHOUSE

Brazilian comedians have made a mockery of mourners at Amy Winehouse’s funeral Tuesday, as they cried crocodile tears to infiltrate the private event in London reserved exclusively for family and close friends of the famous singer.Two Brazilian comics, Daniel Zukerman and Andre Machado, who work on a Brazilian comedy TV show called Panico na TV (Panic on the TV), were seen posing as friends of Winehouse...The tasteless stunt included the two comics giving comments to German broadcaster RTL, and they could be seen smirking on the verge of laughter as they told the interviewer: “Amy changed the world. We lost a friend, the greatest singer. It is difficult to explain how we feel.”

In honour of Amy Winehouse, we shall all be doing 15 lines in the pub toilets, tonight!

It seems that this is the end of the line for Ms. Winehouse.

Elton John will perform at Amy Winehouse’s funeral with a beautiful rendition of Candle Under The Spoon.

Before telling such sick and abusive jokes about Amy Winehouse, think about her poor close friends. Imagine how they’ll feel on Thursday, when they finally come round and find out.

NORWAY MASSACRE

I want to go to Norway, I heard its the bomb. Mate went there last year but she just shot through. Utoya Island must be a great place. People are dying to be there.

DISAPPEARANCE OF MADELINE MCCANN

'Patrick Kielty joked that if the McCanns wanted to dispose of the body of their daughter, they should have checked her in as luggage on a Ryanair flight. He added that the couple had been backstage but had disappeared two hours later when he went to check on them. The sick comments prompted members of the audience to get up and leave the show.' (Sept, (2007), Dailymail.co.uk)

HOLOCAUST

'Trouble is with Holocaust films is there’s never any gag reel on the DVDs,’ (Ricky Gervais, (2009), Golden Globe Awards, dailymail.co.uk)

COMEDIAN LINKS

http://disappointingchildren.com/2011/07/stewart-lee-angry/

http://www.chortle.co.uk/shows/edinburgh_fringe_2002/a/635/andre_vincent_is_unwell

http://www.diabeticinfo.co.uk/#/oliver-double-diabetes/4526898630

My Head

It's getting more and more widespread. Everyone from your secondary school student to your bank clerk seems to be doing it. Some people start early in the morning, others do it from their smart phones (though heavens knows how on those tiny screens and deceptive touchpads) and I normally do it last thing at night.

I'm talking about blogging. It's a phenomenon. Whether people are putting words, pictures or videos out there, they're all taking the time to sit down and share something about themselves, their lives or their opinions with the world. And why? Is it further proof of what BBC in-house Documentary maker Adam Curtis has termed the 'Century of the Self'- an era in which we all consider ourselves, our lives and our personal thoughts important to the world as a whole? A time in which we encourage personal development over utilitarian movements? Is it mere vanity? Perhaps a shout for attention? Maybe an alternative to a world in which people actually communicated their hopes and fears to those close to them on a face to face basis?

Whatever the reasons, there's now a lot of rubbish out there. I know because I've looked. One of my major qualms with the internet has always been it's lack of censorship- a point I'm certain Ryan Giggs will now happily concede to me. What I mean though is that anything can be put out there. It doesn't need to be confirmed, considered publishable...basically it doesn't need to be true. And often it isn't. There are ways to help make sure you're likely to be accessing information with real evidence to back it up: Using academic websites or those affiliated with major newspapers and companies, and avoiding Wikepedia or unofficial websites. But once you veer away from scholarly material and start testing the waters in the world of blogs you'll be rewarded with opinions aplenty but -unless people enjoy using references- very little idea of how much is true. Perhaps this isn't important. Maybe that's not why people write and/or read blogs. We have specific sites to go to for facts and, if anyone's blog does become widely read, the writer is far more likely to keep a tight rein on their sources of information.

So here's another big question: How does your blog become widely read? We keep hearing about the modern freelance writer whose blog becomes so popular that they make much of their living selling advertising or getting commissioned work off the back of their online wordage. What do these bloggers have in common? At first look not much. According to The Guardian's article 'The World's 50 most powerful blogs' back in September 2008, they are a mix of personal writings from people famous and previously unknown, and blogs created by groups or companies to spread a particular message or idea. The general similarity that ties the majority of these blogs together is the concept of a theme.

For example: 'Chez Pim' writes about food, 'Girl with a One Track Mind' writes about...sex, 'Michelle Malkin's' theme is -and I quote- 'how liberals betray America by being soft on terrorism, peddling lies about global warming and generally lacking patriotism and moral fibre' (http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2008/mar/09/blogs). When famous people write, the main theme is obviously them. Of course they might write some interesting stuff but the main reason people will have begun reading their opinions over someone else's is, basically, because they are who they are.

But I don't have a theme. Look- we can grasp at straws here and say that my over-arching theme is my persona...who I am...a 24 year old girl living in London, trying to make a living in the creative industry and writing about her experiences. But that's not really a theme...it's certainly not a solid stance or consistent opinion. Sure, give me a theme and I'll wax lyrical about it. Believe me, after 7 years at a highly academic girls' school, doing A Levels in English Literature and Modern History, I can turn out column after column, blog after blog on the same subject with new information, research and opinions in each one. But without that structure imposed out me I jump around too much, I change my mind, I get distracted by new people and experiences. So will I interest anyone? Is there anything in what I write that would arrest someone's attention, make them say 'I want to read this'.

If not, I'm not going to stop writing. Just after JD Salinger's death I heard Erica Wagner talking about him on Radio 4. In reference to unpublished works by the writer, she commented that 'in this time of celebrity people forget that people used to write because they had to write'. This hit me hard. I realised that in this world where events, emotions and possibilities are immediately broadcast to our friends and -further afar-, and where money and image are holding more and more importance, the concept of sitting down and slowly creating work for the work's sake is becoming near to obselete. So I'll write regardless. It calms me down, it forces me to stop, think and reflect. I think it might even be leading me to finding out who I am...what I want to do with my life...but let's not get carried away.

Wait! What's this? There might be a loophole in my favour here. It turns out that there are a small number of bloggers who just write about...whatever, who manage to entice people who aren't just their friends (presumably because of sparkling wit and impressive verbosity) to read their blogs on a regular basis. A perfect example of this is 'Dooce' (www.dooce.com- I notice all successful blogs have purchased their own URL address aswell. Is this therefore indicative of success being achieved or the reason why it has already been reached? Egg or Chicken?), a woman named Heather Armstrong whose blog shot to fame -or infamy- after the dotcom company she worked for fired her when she criticised them in her blog! As a result she garnered a huge amount of public interest, and now has a huge following reading her every blog- be it about her cats, her mental health or her career. I wonder if it's just the sensationalisation of it or whether it was just the nudge people needed to start reading an interesting, well-written opinionated blog.

This said, my research has turned up the result I was most expecting. The general public for the most part are not interested in reading other people's diaries. Most of us do, it seems, have a limit to our nosiness and need to spy on other people's lives. But much like the way that newspaper columnists have always garnered a following, sometimes for their subject matter and sometimes for their writing style, bloggers are just the new generation of this. They tend to get the material out faster, there is a briefer pause for editing and publishing, and it gets directly to their readers.

So I've thought about it. I've mulled and mulled and then...written this article. And now I've decided.

I

think

I'm

overthinking

this.

Yup...I've come to the conclusion that I should just shut up and write - excuse the paradox - and keep my fingers crossed that I'm writing for someone other than myself. Good day.