I make it up as I go.

Thursday 28 July 2011

Boys don't cry, but they really should

Before you read any further, please watch the video below. It is both the context and inspiration of this post.


Now for my story...

Saturday 23 July 2011

Speaking in stutters and fuck the world

This is an adaptation of a shorter piece that I wrote earlier in the year. It was up for consideration for Voiceworks #86: Other, but the editors were looking for more extensive analysis and research to raise the credibility of my personal experience. I figure I might as well share it here.

I don't think I've ever told anyone this: When I was a young child, I had speech therapy. I expect this would come as a surprise to the people who know me—and perhaps also to those who have merely met me—since I speak articulately and eloquently (usually). I speak with no stammer, lisp, or impediment of any kind. And I never did.

Apparently I was too quiet, too withdrawn, and people thought there must be something wrong with me. They thought maybe the reason I didn't talk was that I couldn't. My parents knew this wasn't the case, but agreed to set me up with a speech therapist anyway—neither they nor I had anything to lose.

Friday 22 July 2011

Bordering on madness

I wrote this near the end of April, before Borders collapsed completely in both Australia and the US, but didn't have anywhere to publish it...until now. Borders retail stores are all empty now in Australia.

I'm sitting in the midst of an event that is at once bizarre, sad, frightening, and surprising. My local Borders store, like many others around the world, is closing. ‘EVERYTHING ON SALE!’ and ‘NOTHING HELD BACK!’ signs hang all around the store. Additional tables have been put out, with books piled on top. The magazine racks—usually bursting with glossy pages and eye-catching covers—appear ransacked, plain, and sterile. Only the most and the least popular ones remain—the rest having been snatched up by shoppers eager to get their fix (at a lower-than-usual price) while they still can.

The store is packed with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes, with a turnout that better resembles the week before Christmas than a quiet, overcast Sunday afternoon in April. But there's an edge to this crowd. They aren't looking for the right gift—the book they know or hope their loved ones will cherish. No, this has a feral quality. Everyone wants a piece of this dying beast, once so proud and mighty but now collapsing under its own weight.

Thursday 21 July 2011

A note on the name

There's still a strong societal expectation to pick a career before you've even finished high school, and if you pick one that runs against the grain, such as writing, or music, or acting, or dancing, or something else deemed either unstable or not respectable enough, you're told to pick another -- just in case, because that isn't a real job and it probably won't pay the bills. If you aim high and respectable -- say, surgeon or astronaut -- you're told to pick another -- just in case, because you might not make it. Everyone needs a fall back plan.

I have a supportive family that would rather I be happy than respectable -- hell, they even tried to talk me out of going to university -- but I still felt the pressure. And I saw it eating up other kids -- still do. Some want to chase the dream of being a professional athlete or musician, or to drop out and start a business with their million dollar idea. But they're scared. Maybe of their parents. Or perhaps the unknown. Or something else. Few take the chance and go for it.

For me, the story is a little different. In high school, people told me I should become a writer. I didn't know what I wanted, but it certainly wasn't to be put on a path laid out for me by someone else. So I pursued other interests, knowing full well that if I really am as talented as they say, I could fall back on writing.

In an odd twist, writing is -- and always has been -- my fall back plan.

I'll be seeing my undergraduate degree (more specifically, my Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Science double degree) through to the end, since I like to stick to my commitments and I'm almost finished. But university is no longer a means to an end (the "end" being a career in a relevant industry) for me; it is now an expensive distraction that I paradoxically want to go away and want to enjoy while I can.

Why? When I graduate, this shit becomes real. I don't have a fall back plan for my fall back plan. If writing doesn't work out, I have to hope I get lucky and stumble into another career that makes me happy. I don't ever want to get stuck in the daily grind, every day the same dream.

This is my fall back plan; I make it up as I go -- always have, and probably always will.