It's Taken Me Until November...

It seems breaking your hands and deciding to move one’s life 10,000 miles back to the UK has resulted in my blog being severely neglected over these past few months. Four entries this year and that is frankly unacceptable. To those of you who have logged on looking for the next gripping installment of ‘The Laughing Buddha’ only to find the same old entry loading up in your browser, I apologise profusely. It must be like flicking through the TV channels only to find the only thing worth watching is a rerun of ‘Friends’ on E4. Personally, it’s quite frustrating as I try and pride myself on being disciplined enough to keep this diary of musings going. I can only blame distraction, apathy and most of all lack of inspiration due to my head being full of half baked plans that I have been urging into realisation. Kicking my life into, well, something that resembles ‘a life’ I suppose.

I find myself in a state of flux (hardly anything new I hear you cry) which is not just a mental state for me but it seems to be materialising in several other aspects of my life like my career, my home and even some of my friendships. Being back in London is unfathomably easy and way too familiar for my liking. It is the mental equivalent of slipping on an old pair of slippers, yet this time I also have my eye on a shiny pair of new shoes (the shoes in question happen to be in a swanky New York department store, on sale and put on hold behind the counter with my name on them, making them especially alluring even though I am stuck on a different continent). My life has moved on so dramatically now, that certain parts of it that once fit in quite easily with my daily routine now seem to be totally defunct or inappropriate. You’d think living out of a suitcase since April and not working properly since July would throw me into further disarray but to be perfectly honest I have never been more happy in my life than right now. Attempting to carve out a new life back in London, not knowing if this next step is the right step forward, is the thing that fills me with the most unease and doubt.

The idea of sitting behind a desk and working for someone else fills me with so much dread I’d rather vomit onto a porcupine then lick it up. I have to be creative. I cannot and will not settle for anything less. Sounds dramatic and I suppose it is. For the first time in my life the thought of permanence and routine bores me - this used to be the safety net I would seek out and hold onto desperately to in order to give my life structure. I don’t know what the antidote is but I know I need to step out and embrace my creative side again. I need to be embrace the unknown and allow creativity to flow back into my bones. It scares me as I really don’t really know how to achieve this. I feel like a priest who’s been asked to become an atheist or a dog being ordered to meow. I know what’s involved, I’ve seen other people do it, I just don’t have the tools available to make it the transition. I read the fantastic book ‘The Creative Habit’ by the choreographer Twyla Tharp which has been a great starting block for me as it’s practical and full of sound advice. No airy fairy crap most self-help books insist on preaching. I realise it’s just inexperience and fear that holds me back mostly. Practicality is also an issue, I simply don’t have the funds to suddenly be a full time writer or performer. I went to a talk given by Stephen Sondheim, a musical theatre hero mine and to many other theatre fans. He spoke about his mentor Oscar Hammerstein II and it made me think how envious I was the had someone in his life who saw enough potential in him to be something greater than he was. I’d quite like a mentor. A guiding and enthusing force of good in my life. I can lend my talents towards many things but my concentration and impatience tends to let me down. I am reminded of this constantly with the random notebooks full of ideas stuffed in various bags and boxes of mine, the half finished documents and scripts on my computer or the songs yet to be memorised and technically mastered. I do wonder if it’s cynicism, perhaps indecisiveness or even age that stops me from committing or just a life long habit I have failed to keep in check. To be great at one thing when I have the urge to do a hundred million things all at once. ‘Focus’ is the big word I need to remind myself of over the next few months.

Sorry, what was that?

A Couple of Screws...

Those who know me know that last year I had an accident. Quite a big one. I broke my hands. Yes, that's right - in the plural sense. In fact, I broke eight bones in total - both wrists that now have what are affectionately known as 'Herbert Screws', some other small bones in my left hand and most significantly my left arm, which needed a 'Wolverine' style plate bolted into place. I only realised today, I never wrote in detail about how this happened but to cut a long story short: I was on a date.

You'd think this would have been quite an ordeal for me, well it was and quite hideously painful too (strange how I curiously never imagined broken bones to be that painful until then) This aside, the episode wasn't that surprising given my track record with dating; just ask my friends. So much so, when news of my injury reached my best friend back home in London, it didn't illicit a sympathetic and frantically worried call, no quite the opposite really. As I lay in the hospital bed with my arms bound in plaster and bandages, with my iPhone on speaker mode balanced precariously on my chest, I could hear the faint unimpressed voice of my friend Dan say "Richard, it's time to write that book now."

I've toyed with the idea of writing about my dating escapades every now and then, I've even posted a few of them on here - but a whole book? Too self indulgent and self deprecating perhaps? It sounded like a crazy idea before and too 'Bridget Jones' for my liking but now I'm thinking it might not be such an idiotic idea after all. Gay fiction in general makes me want to hurl into a cheap plastic carrier bag in front a room full of strangers and the only gay biographical authors I do admire are David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I'd have to have some message beyond "Hey look at the crazy dating antics of this guy, ain't he hysterical?!" Writing something bigger than a few paragraphs is what this blog has been leading up to I suppose; the trick is for me is to stop thinking and actually do more and just sit down and write goddamn it. Am I capable of doing it? I just have to let go of being such a perfectionist and allowing myself to be distracted by, let's face it, everything.

Where to start?

Here's the wonderful David Sedaris reading and extract from his last book "When You Are Engulfed In Flames":

Thoughts on the boy Potter...

Okay, what I'm going to say will be considered controversial. Well, not if you're a literary critic, although they have all been quite praising about it I've noticed, but I've just finished the final installment of the Harry Potter septilogy and, well, I have my opinions I'd like to air after being sucked into reading the entire saga these past few years. I suppose I should prewarn those of a fragile idiotic nature who don't want to know what happens to perhaps 'look away now' or maybe the title of this entry should also read *SPOILER ALERT* But lets be frank here, if you didn't think I was going to talk about plot points when talking about the last book and are shocked to learn crucial elements to the story by reading this, then you're a bit of an twat really. Yes, that term was quite eloquent of me, I'm glad you noticed.

I'd like to say now, the only modern children's books I have read are Rowling's Harry Potter, Pullman's Dark Materials Trilogy and The Hungry City Chronicles by Philip Reeves. I have only got into reading these as working in the film industry as it's always good to have a bit of foreknowledge of potential movie campaigns you could end up working on. Although Reeve's Mortal Engines was a pure coincidence and a chance to read a signed first edition for free. Harry Potter has been 'fantasy-lite' entertainment, I realise it's kid's literature and perhaps I shouldn't be so harsh on the material but I think the elevated status deserves some critic, as no doubt the books will be compared to existing classics like the epic Lord of the Rings trilogy or Roald Dahl's various deliciously horrid and captivating children's stories.

Maybe I'm impatient with these books, but I found myself skimming the pages at a hundred miles an hour, perhaps it is merely the style of writing that didn't captivate me instantly and maybe I yearn for more meandering, fantastical passages and clever word play that I remember lapping up as a child. I personally itched a bit when scenarios got repetitive, like the 'camping whilst on the run' parts. The deaths were dealt with in a very real unglamorous way, which I congratulate her for, although I think I did suffer from total memory loss reading parts of it, as I didn't even realise Lupin was dead until he appeared as a ghost with Harry's folks and Sirius at the end. Calling Voldemort 'Riddle' made the final stand-off all the more striking, subtle changes in character dialogue were a clever touch. She should have made the importance of wands more apparent in the other books though, as I felt it certain plot pieces/devices like that were all too convenient and materialised out of nowhere. Bit like in Star Trek when they go "Oh my God we're slipping into a Worm Hole, how about we press this button that will release intermittent tachyon beams that will create a static warp shell." which to me, makes as much sense as me saying "Oh my God I don't have a boyfriend, how about I switch on my toaster."

It's not my favourite book from the series. Azkaban and Goblet of Fire still remain firm favourites. Had the first third been structured in a more entertaining way and punctuated more with other plot lines to build up the tension it would have been the reached the top of my list. My favourite parts were Snape's back story and Mrs Weasley calling Bellatrix Lestrange a "B*tch". How many parents will be self-sensoring that part when they read it aloud to their children I wonder. Still, I'll pay good money to see Julie Walters and Helena Bonham-Carter fight like cats in a bag.

On another note, I apologise for the lack of entries on my blog. It has been a ridiculously long time and have faltered badly on the maintenance front. I have now got a lovely spanking new Powerbook that purrs nicely and allows me to go wireless and even has Final Draft so I can write 'professionally'. I have news on Centre Stage, writing a musical and the usual pointless banter about men and life and will endeavor to write this all up soon into those lovely, little, eloquently written passages I do love to toil over.

Oh dear...

I've been looking back at my blog in recent months and I seem to have done it again. Well, the opposite this time. There I am writing flippant, jocular entries to satisfy those who worried my blog was getting morbid and now it's just silly, of little substance and frankly has no thought whatsoever. I need to verbalise my thought processes more carefully, however mundane. My writing suffers badly and it becomes dry and something the editor of Heat may think was an 'interesting Carrie Bradshaw approach' to observing life. I'm shuddering in my cheap IKEA chair now. Dear Lord. Strike me down now. I'm meant to encourage great writing. Actually, don't strike me down just yet, I have a show to do in four weeks time and have no understudy. Anyway, I digress. I've decided and I'm sorry now in advance, if future musings seem depressive. I'm not. Please don't call social services or suggest seeing a psychiatrist. This is what writing is about - exploring every aspect and the negative parts are so much fun to write about. Exorcising those demons and woes in tiny, thought provoking words, syllables, sentences and paragraphs, it helps put everything into joyful, toe-tapping, 'Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder' perspective in a weird way. I miss it and I will now write whatever the buggery-hell I want to write. Self-editing in order to please the masses is for people who go round saying things like "I do love The Vicar of Dibley but I just don't get BBC2". (I wonder if John Craven worried as much, putting together his child-friendly news stories for Newsround.) I hope this will eventually kick start something within me to get my novel and script ideas into shape. After the show, I must start breaking the concepts down and figure out what will work and what is shockingly bad, I might as well cast it aside and lock it up in a small safe marked "Step away now. Dull beyond words".

Blatant additon to BFM List...

It's unimaginative, a huge and blatant teenage crush of an addition, but over the last week I have been watching, what Americans call 're-runs' of the first season of 'Heroes' on the Scifi Channel (yes, Sky finally got their act together) and have fallen for the lovely Milo Ventimiglia, who plays Peter Petrelli. Heroes is a kinda regular Joe X-Men style science fiction show that has more twists and turns than 'Lost' and is more confusing than an epileptic inside a duvet cover. I desperately need to be more selective with my exclusive list, I know but I have a small, yet hopeful sense of hope that evidence of their personality and intelligence will shine through with many of my candidates. I have faith Milo might have something going for him apart from good hair. Heroes is totally addictive and I've been willing the creator and director, Tim Kring to include a scene where Milo has to take his shirt off. (Currently it stands as one shot of him getting out of bed with his back to the camera - not good enough NBC. Shame on you. Don't you know gays flock to sci-fi? it's as natural and predictable as cows eating grass, dogs catching frisbees and imbeciles reading the Daily Mail).

Still, he goes on my list, as does Jonathan Kelly who is the executive assistant to the Editor of Vanity Fair. He's like the male version of Ugly Betty and Andy Sachs from The Devil Wears Prada. (PAs are obviously the 'in-thing' over in America it seems and they now get they're own cover stories) I can't find a photo of him on Google, so you'll have to do your own undercover investigation online or just buy this month's edition. He's preppy, well-groomed and seemly successful, as he is contributing to this month's edition of Vanity Fair for starters. I imagine he's a very savvy and smart journalist too; likes to stop every morning for a frappaccino before heading into the office, working the hours God Graydon Carter sends him and then heads home to make seafood risotto for him and his boyfriend in the evening. Okay, I'm assuming a lot here. Total flights of fancy, of course. He may hate risotto.

Apologies for not writing in my blog sooner but I've had an awful lot go on in the past month and will fill everyone in soon I promise.

Charlie reminds me....

I've decided. I must procrastinate more when I write. About random things. More the things that annoy or confound me, like men or those dire chewing gum ads that supposedly declare it's "mastication for the nation".

Certain entries about my life and hobbies are certainly quite dull, well not dull exactly, I'm just not in the slightest inventive when it comes to prose. My fault is that I don't write enough. Midnight blog entries are never going to win the masses for the prize of hilarity. And that's why my book and script ideas are still, well, just ideas.

Thank you Mr Charlie Brooker.

This Year I...

... said goodbye to my flat mate ... and hello to her again in Melbourne two weeks later ... saw Madam Butterfly at the Sydney Opera House ... jumped out of a plane at 14,000 feet ... swam the Great Barrier Reef ... trekked a rainforest ... accidently convinced a new friend I belonged to a cult ... wasted money on an upmarket dating agency ... made friends with my neighbours ... finally got to go to the Ivy, and found it overrated ... fullfilled an old resolution by finally joining an Am Dram group ... bought tap shoes ... got to see Idina Menzel soar on Opening Night ... read at my best friend's wedding ... mistook Beverley Knight for Beverley Knight ... partied all night for the first time in years ... hugged a 6ft 2" sailor ... sang at the Royal Albert Hall ...

... started a blog.

Happy New Year everyone. May 2007 bring many exciting new changes to your life!

Recently...

I've noticed over the last three months I've done some hardcore reflection on my life. I have to start writing some more flippant entries. You know, the ones that remind people how loud, mad and silly I am.

I need more observations about daily life. Those 'you never know what happened to me today' stories. You know, the ones people actually listen to, rather than the ones people nod to politely, as they try remember if they flushed the toilet before they left the house that morning.

An Open or Closed Book...

I have been criticised by some, that I have been quite open and candid on this blog. Have I? I'm not sure. It does make you ask questions, I suppose. I'm aware there is an element of risk, but on the otherhand, if you're not personal and intimate enough in a journal, it becomes dry and unreadable. There is the 'exposure' factor, that anyone could read your daily thoughts and use them against you, to judge you perhaps, but I'm finding it therapeutic in a way. Almost exhilarating, like pressing your foot down on the accelerator, when you know you're past the speed limit. It forces you to analyse your actions, your attitude, observe lifes bumps and grinds or jiggles of fun from another angle. I want people to know they're not alone in their neuroses and expectation of what life brings. We all desire a decent amount of happiness and luck once in a while as we go through daily dilemmas, it's what keeps life compelling and thought-provoking. I don't want to join the ranks of those bloggers who put up photographs of their cats, their collection of plastic buttons or men they they'd like to shag, but don't have the time to as they spend 24 hours a day scanning the internet for porn. I love the undiluted pleasure of writing. Those dormant creative muscles, being forced to warm up and stretch their literary legs a bit. Remembering that there are numerous words to be found and used to describe one's life, more so, than the proverbial terms of 'nice', 'boring' and 'okay'. One of my close friends, who is a far greater writer than myself, exclaimed that she couldn't write about her life as it would be a bit dull, I don't believe her. We all have stories to tell and within them, we find allegories, lessons to be shared and jokes to pass on.

Through this reflection, we find our potential, our boundaries, our lust that drives us forward and sometimes mad. The disgraced author James Frey said in this weeks Guardian interview, that we live in a fast world, we think fast and everything has to happen now. Not a new observation I know, but not enough of us do take the time out to reflect, to stop, sit back and breathe in what has just happened to us. The paranoia of the 'now' grasps many of us by the throat and usually its our own hands which are strangling us. Will we be the generation that had everything available to them, but never took the time to stop and truly embrace it? We constantly look for future happiness and never think about whether it's in the palm of hand already or literally round the corner from us all along. I will stop this diatribe now, in fear I will come across as bleak or morbid, which I'm not - just having a very profound moment that's all. I do think it is important to take stock and cherish what we have though. I whinged about being nice and so dependable a few weeks ago, as it never seems to get me anywhere. Only to receive a letter the next day from my dearest godmother in hospital, who wrote me a simple line of praise saying, 'I love you for many things - one very special one being your constancy'.

Life is hard; especially when you go through it resisting the 'norm', in order to keep the faith, to retain a sense of identity and worth. It's so easy to take the simple, hassle-free route in life. Follow the herd. Get swept away by the current trend. I've always believed if doing the right thing was the easiest thing to do, then we'd all be wearing halos. Sometimes, you do lose the fight and it occasionally makes you want to give up your cause. Yet this obstinant determination does have its rewards. Especially, when the braver friends and strangers around you, notice what you do and what you believe in. I thank those and admire them for their resolve, especially my godmother Jean for recognising those qualities within me at a time I wanted to simply give up, while she faces much more unimaginable challenges.

It begins Oh Buddha of mine...

So I have a Blog. How cutting edge of me.

How scary in fact. The idea of any stranger reading my daily thoughts puts me off, if truth be told. Lawsuits of people being fired from their jobs because they moaned about their unruly boss or having posed in a raunchy photograph wearing their company's uniform springs to mind. (I believe it was an air stewardess or something, how man-made fibre in Easyjet colours can be made too look sexy is beyond me.)

I shall therefore be sensible. Use pseudonyms to protect those who I may embarrass, which I will no doubt reveal in a fit of anger if they wind me up something chronic. It will be about me, naturally. A way of keeping my writing skills up to date and in practice. The long term goals of writing a book have been so poorly executed and I have no one else to blame apart from myself. So many ideas, so little time, so little drive after working all day. So many excuses not to actually write. So lame. So pathetic. And therefore, so not going to have a novel under my belt by the age of 30. This will be like stretching the muscles before a work out, I hope.

I have also been asked to write about my life and tales of dating boys, having caused much amusement to many friends over the years. Not sure if that is tragic or a reason to celebrate how varied and ridiculous my life gets. I have old tales that are out of date by now, but will no doubt reminisce on these,when the opportunity arises.

So, I write this. Will it last? Will it be a distraction? Will it bore people livid? Who knows, only time will tell.

I've noticed I've posed a lot of questions in my first blog post. I'm not normally like that.

Well, maybe I am.

The Laughing Buddha Looks On...

The Buddha himself. Sage. Sympathiser. Supporter. Onlooker, champion and general piss taker of my humble life. How his laugh mocks and comforts me so.