Numb me out


Struggling again. Sciatica pain has stopped me from doing more than just walking (which hurts). Now that I’m close to the end of my radio drama script, I took the time to really look at the terms and conditions on the BBC site. Those lovely terms and conditions have changed. Thanks, Brexit. Now the BBC won’t accept anything from outside the UK or Ireland. So I feel deflated, and like I’m working my ass off on one more thing that will never see the light of day, because of course I haven’t received any reply from the place running the competition….

I’m so fucking useless.

And sure, there’s one or two places out there that will do my hard worked script for free. …How insane have I been lately, thinking a radio script written in English has a chance in Hell as I sit in the Netherlands, surrounded by Dutch? Just about every English speaking country is under some isolationist spell at the moment; don’t even bother submitting if you don’t live here. Fuck.

Right now, I’m wondering if I haven’t made every wrong decision I possibly could have made. Shoulda done this, shoulda stayed there, shoulda said yes to that, shoulda, shoulda, shoulda…

Sundays suck.

Keep telling myself to keep going. Forge ahead. Pull myself up by the bootstraps. Obscurity does not necessarily equal shitty work.

It just makes it damned hard to keep the faith.

I take a little comfort from the fact that the door to acting is still open to me. I worry about my ability to physically get through it; to stay healthy, to keep my back feeling good, to be able to walk and move…these are real concerns for me. But at least I have that chance. I have something that gives me hope, and cements my determination to perform on stage again.

Writing isn’t like that. Feels like I have to beg at a table for scraps. Please, please consider this…please read my work…please, someone, answer me! Wonder who I should be blowing. Wonder if I would blow said person to have that chance.

…Have two weeks vacation. Two weeks, essentially, of Sundays. Gods! Will I even survive it? …Why was I looking forward to this time off?

Oh, yeah. So I could write. Go back to spinning my wheels. Churn out another tale no one will care about. Another script no one will ever perform.

Needless to say, I’m dragging my feet on contacting everyone about a read through. I’ll do it, regardless of how I end up feeling. I said I would, so I will. But I’m dreading it a bit. Dreading hearing whatever they think they need to tell me; the story is bad, the timing is off, the characters aren’t real, it doesn’t read well, I should try doing this or that, change the action – whatever. Can’t imagine anyone saying anything good about it.

Tomorrow I can pick up my refill of codeine laden pain pills.

Just in time. Numb me out.


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