It’s been too long since I’ve written a blog, and I think it’s about the right time to start again. Not that I can promise this will be a regular thing, but right now, in this moment, I am going to write something. Apologies in advance if it makes no sense.

Today is my day off. I am sat in the cafe where I work because there is currently no toilet in our house, and I get free tea and coffee here. It’s cold outside. I have drank too much caffeine. I’ve got at least another two hours of restriced movement. So I write.

I’ve written a book. It’s something that started off as a blog on Tumblr in my first year at university, then on WordPress, until people actually started reading it. And then I thought it could be something. So I took the fragments of the story, the snapshots of this fiction, and jigsawed them together. It became a book, Cracking, and I was proud of it.

And then came the task of getting it published, and people started using dirty words like money and agent and could you stop shouting and someone call security.

So I stopped. I left it in several manilla envelopes at the bottom of my bookshelf. And it slipped from my mind.

But not for long. There was this feeling, you see, this hollow heaviness in my heart that told me I was missing something. And so I returned to the book. I re-edited with fresh eyes, I changed names, I cut and chopped and transformed it into what I wanted it to be. But still nothing. Until a friend told me I should turn it into a show.

It’s happening. Abbie – my friend, my literary heroine – gave me the kick I needed, has the organisation and the drive that put everything into place to make my book into a script. We organised a venue. A date. A crew. A cast. Everything was coming together. Last night I finished the final edit of the script, ten thousand words lighter than the book. Ten thousand.

It’s happening. Today I set up a crowdfunding campaign, I got the first promotional picture, Abbie organised the readthrough, we’re going up on the theatre’s website, everything is happening at once and it’s fantastic because it means that something is working. Something somewhere is working. All those hours spent scribbling away because it was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, all those hours playing pretend that I was a character in a book, all those conversations with imaginary characters, day after day after day working crap jobs to fund my addiction to words, something is working.

It’s happening.

And I don’t even care if I get paid. It would be nice, but at this stage, something is happening, and that’s what I need.

So I guess that’s all I want to say. That things seem to be working out in some fashion. For now. And for now, that’s all I need.

Keep on keeping on.


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