And thus concludes everyone’s favourite year. Thankfully my intense denial has rendered me immune from horrifying global events as thoroughly as though I were in my own lead-lined bunker, though with fewer rotting canned goods and slightly more daylight. Though I’m certain 2017 won’t disappoint in terms of increasingly less abstract horrors, for now I’ll be looking back at some of my favourite events from what has actually been a pretty successful year. You know, aside from all the bombings, …
[TRANSCRIPT; SEPT 2016]
MISSING PERSON A: I hope this works, I really do.
MISSING PERSON B: It has to.
MISSING PERSON C: Do you really think he’ll listen? Lately he’s been–
MISSING PERSON B: Quiet, here he comes. Hi, Redfern!
ME: Oh wow, all my friends and family are here? Is this a party?
MISSING PERSON A: No, this is–
ME: How thoughtful! And only 11 months before my birthday!
MISSING PERSON A: –an intervention, we’re worried about–
ME: Still, you might have got some balloons, it’s quite drab …
Spring for writers in 2016 is much like spring will be for everyone in 2116: it’s that time of year when you get to eat discounted chocolate eggs, insert a slightly brighter bulb into your desk-side SAD lamp, and conjure up the increasingly distant memory of flowers.
(Pretty sure that’s it.)
If you’re anything like me (and the increasingly concerned looks from those around you will confirm that you are), it’s also the traditional time for taking stock of everything you’ve accomplished this …
Hello! Now you may have noticed that I have been absent since October. This is because I’ve been very very busy. As such, I would like to correct the following rumours:
1. I was not ‘buried in an avalanche’ and it was not ‘just what he (I) deserved’. The snow in Berlin is not that deep, and at worst I deserve slipping on some ice and falling down a small flight of stairs.
2. I did not ‘get involved in organised crime …
How To Be a “Real” “Writer” This “Summer”:
Ah, summer. Lovers frolicking barefoot through the abandoned needle-strewn streets; furious, disowned dogs chasing children through the underfunded wilderness of once-proud public parks; the delightful bikini top worn by the strange man who waits for you outside your front door. Yet you won’t be witness to any of these delightful sun-month traditions. You’re a writer now, and that means dedication, isolation, and total darkness.
Close the blinds. Don’t let the shameless, sinful lure of …