As you know, this week I turn 35. Not that big a day on the scale of birthdays, except if like me you work in marketing. If you do happen to don the denim suit, heading into the studio each day (seriously who works in an 'office' these days) then you would know that those aged between 18 and 35 are in the desired 'youth' demographic. That means that I am about to enter into my last year of official youthdom.
You and I need to part ways. I have some living to do. But to do so, I'll have put in a mighty effort, like a conqueror of nations. A procasti-nation as it were...
I noticed I had a problem with you towards the end of last year. You know how I am trying to write that screenplay? The one that's more for my own personal creative fulfilment than for any Hollywood Studio (although if Judd Apatow is reading this and interested in a RomCom-investigative caper story in the vein of 'Napoleon Dynamite' than he should reach out). I just haven't been able to get past page 15.
It's not writer's block; quite the opposite. I mapped the whole thing out in a spreadsheet scene by scene. This is purely about you. Procrastination.
You are like arthritis of the mind. Turning up and ceasing the muscles of motivation.
Lately, it seems like you are always around and it needs to stop. Seriously, I don't even like you. Case in point -- after that last sentence I remembered my sister-in-law had gifted me a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and that I should open it. So I did. Rather than keep writing, I went to the cupboard and poured a glass. Somehow convincing myself that was what all tormented writers (and failed actors working in kids educational theatre) would do on a Wednesday night.
It may have worked because I realised the rise of your presence in my life corresponded to the fading of my youth.
Could it be that as I age, I'll have more of a fear of getting on with living and doing, as the reality of there being less of life in front of me dawns? Will you dominate my persona to the point I won't even bother leaving the bed to shower or eat, hoping to compost away in my filth until I escape the chore of living altogether?
You are like arthritis of the mind. Turning up and ceasing the muscles of motivation. Flashing up trailers in my mind of shows I want to watch on Netflix, remembering that door handle I needed to fix or reminding me that such a thing as social media exists and I haven't checked in the last four minutes to see if Judd Apatow liked one of my tweets.
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Even writing this post I am three days late to the keyboard. To avoid it I've made pumpkin soup, watched a Mel Gibson movie and taken a bubble bath. Sure, this may sound like a normal Sunday to some of you but not me! I am young and 34... for a few more days. There are things to do. They don't include experimenting with vegetable stock bases, understanding the cinematic vision of an anti-Semite catholic or wrinkling up with 'Mr Matey'.
I look back on my life so far and wonder if I have achieved enough? Are there enough stories? Will the chapters of my memoirs entitled 'Youth' be the best bits? Or will it be more a book about overcoming feet fungus in your retirement years whilst travelling Scandinavia by kayak (I don't actually want to do that. Kayaking that is. The feet fungus thing is a no-brainer, should I ever suffer from it.)
So, Procrastination. I point the finger at you. You are on notice. This year is going to count. I am going to summon up all my remaining youthful vigour and come at you like a kid on Wizz Fizz hitting a birthday party jumping castle.
To do this, I won't be posting here for while. Instead I will be deep in my script and hopefully skyping with Mr Apatow about script development issues.
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