It’s all in the fucking translation

Or, to put it another way:  Context Is Everything Stupid.

I say that to me a lot.

Here’s what I mean.

There are common sense rules, right? Rules of such blindingly obvious, erm, obviousness that only an utter twat would deliberately break them.

Rules like:

• Don’t stick your head in the fire
• Don’t pee on your bosses desk when s/he’s sitting behind it
• Don’t go back to your ex, and
• Don’t, under any circumstances, redefine the scope of the big literary project you’ve been working on for a year.

Yeah, that last one.

The thing is, and I’m no stranger to scope-creep in a variety of environments, so yeah, the thing is, what I want to do, what I really, really, want to do is…

*sigh*

Not sit down and finish writing Shelved.

No, I don’t want to do that write now.

Hahahaha! Oh, what a joke.

OK then, no, I don’t want to do that right now.

What I want to do now, what I really, really want to do, what I feel highly motivated – even, maybe, to use a better word, driven – to do right now, is to sit down and produce the slickest piece of dark, dark, black, dark, blackermost, darkest, wry, hyperdark, bittersweet comedy that my brain can imagine.

Oh sure, this desire is a good reflection of where my head is write now right now.

And it’s also a fair barometer of how I feel, emotionally, as well as mentally; but neither of these things are bad things.

If I can channel these feelings, this desire, in to a more creative outlet I could have a bloody good stab at producing something that (to be honest) no mainstream TV company would touch with a bargepole.

But it might make a good radio play.

Hmmm…

*puts on black shoes, black socks, black trousers, black jumper and dark-glasses*

*sits and thinks black thoughts*