When people say solving the Millennium problems are the hardest thing a person can do? They lie. They lie like big lieing things that have obtained their – phony – degrees from the University of Big Liars. Or something. I may be exaggerating, but if I am it is only very slightly. No, the thing I absolutely cannot do – and believe in the Devil solely for as how else would you succeed in this painful endeavour without engaging in some pact where they receive your firstborn gift-wrapped and accompanied by some kind of hideous Barbershop quartet singing Muzak? – is writing.
Because you’re sitting there on London’s fine transport system (running approx. 5 minutes late as there appear to be signalling issues at some station you’ve never even heard of), minding your own business as you randomise the awful music you downloaded to your iPod solely because the band names made you laugh but all turned out to be thrash metal, when… suddenly, an utterly brilliant, life-affirming, hilarious* lyric comes into your head that you just have to write down before someone else in your vicinity somehow reads your mind and beats you to the acclaim you so rightly deserve.
Great! Excellent! You’ve achieved comic genius status in the space of 4 simple lines, what could possibly go wrong?
…I had clearly forgotten the bit where something needs to be completed before it is universally acknowledged as the best thing to comes out of Wales since Bryn and Nessa. That wasn’t a country chosen at random, by the way, it’s where I’m from. Boyo.
So, I have… two characters singing to each other. Except, not really as who are they? What are their motivations? When was the last time they were really angry?
I have… an idea that involves a particular group of people in an amusing yet possibly predictable situation that ends somehow.
I have… nuthin’.
Whoever invented the word plot was a tricksy thing and have definitely been crossed off my Xmas card list. But hey, Eddie Murphy’s entire career was built upon the foundations of plotless drivel, so I figure there’s hope for the rest of us, right?
And the truly, horrific thing about it all? I somehow decided that it should be a musical. With music. I can’t write that – the best I can manage these days is playing Wipe Out – badly – on a guitar. Just what the hell was I thinking? If it ever comes to the point where I’ve finished the story and am not dead? I’m moving to Mars; somebody else can think about chords and harmonies and glockenspiels, thank you very much!
In conclusion, writings is hard. I should’ve stuck to my original ambition of working for NASA.
And, on that note, I abandon this project and return to my breakdancing nuns…
*in hindsight? It was none of the above