what does somewheretofit mean? also do you make $ with your blog using peepspayerDOTcom?
somewheretofit, roughly translated from the original Cherokee, means “one that shall not believe any crap sent to him via anonymous spammy bloggers”. Also, “peep-spayer”? Is that something that stops marshmallow animals from reproducing?
How many scripts have you written?
Loads, probably a hundred or so in total when considering everything I’ve tried over the years from plays to films to skits and sketches. None of them ever really amounted to much, mind you - I’ve had a couple of plays performed and made a few things into short films myself, but nothing that’s ever been made commercially or professionally.
The sitcom I’m currently working on will be the first time I’ve tried to write professionally to a brief.
Sometime within the next couple of weeks, all these Post-Its will evolve into a sitcom.
This is how my wardrobe currently looks. Each door contains a section of development - top right, characters; bottom right, location; top left, gags. The largest door contains the layout of the basic story.
I’ve never really been one for planning but, for some reason, this time around all my brain wants me to do is scribble things down on little bits of sticky yellow paper so I can rearrange, replace, remove and expand on various ideas as they come to me.
It is possible that somewhere my subconscious is using this as a form of procrastination to avoid actually writing the bloody thing, but I’m hoping it’s instead a sign that I’m growing up and actually thinking something through before starting it.
Another comic-inspired image I created with my limited artistic skills to replace some of my existing profile pictures as half are outdated and the other half a tad rubbish.
Once again I’m uploading a high quality version of it here as Facebook will undoubtedly compress the living hell out of it.
I created this for the new Timeline feature on Facebook. Unfortunately, Facebook compressed the living hell out of it so I thought I’d upload it here too in (hopefully) higher quality as I did work quite hard on it (I’m no artist so countless hours were spent on teaching myself to not hold a pencil like a chimp).
Anyway, here it is.
This year has not been a great year for me.
I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished much of anything and now, seeing as I am now officially closer to thirty than I am twenty, some alarm clock has started ringing somewhere at the back of my head telling me there are some things I really should be getting on with.
I won’t pretend I’m the most motivated individual, even amongst a group of peers who seem to be quite happy chugging along at as slow a pace as they can get away with without actually grinding to a complete halt. I won’t pretend I manage to finish half the projects I start. I won’t even pretend that I think I’ve made a good enough start on the road to achieving any of my life goals, but what I know for certain is that there were things I was sure I would have done by now.
Things that people around me have been doing, seemingly effortlessly, that I’ve been sitting around daydreaming about but not actually doing. Getting a place they can call their own. Furthering their education. Going to exotic places and doing interesting things. There are so many things on my to-do list now that I can’t just come up with a checklist and tick them off as I go. I can’t begin to think about what order to do them in. I can’t even think of them as being individual goals, just a big lump of… more.
And that’s when it hit me – I’ve become a Disney Princess.
Give me a moment to explain my logic.
The heroines of the movies made during the Disney renaissance of the late 80s/early 90s only ever wanted one thing: More.
Occasionally there were a few specific details given (Ariel wanting legs, for example) but for the most part they were referring to an idea of something they weren’t quite able to articulate – a sense that there was a whole lot of something out there that was simply passing them by. What’s worse is that for the most part they did a grand total of sod all about it. Nothing concrete at least – bargaining with a shady character for a quick fix doesn’t count. If it did I could have accepted one of the email offers I’d got from a friendly Nigerian prince and solved all my problems.
Unfortunately for me I don’t have the luxury of being able to wait for a handsome prince to come and take me away. At least not without making some serious life choices.
There are no evil sorcerers, no genies, no gypsy curses, no flying carpets. The only obstacle standing in my way is the very same thing that could spark the positive change I’m looking for: Me.
The year is 1966. Barbara McVay, a seventeen-year-old from Maryland stows away on a British submarine, the HMS Walrus, docked in Baltimore and making preparations to return to Scotland. She wants to get to the UK because she likes English boys. First time for everything, it seems.
She secreted herself away in a conning tower for more than 12 hours before finally announcing her presence to the crew as she was on the edge of passing out from inhaling carbon monoxide fumes.
The boat, only four hours into its trip across the atlantic, turned around and took her home.
When interviewed by the press, Captain Douglas Scobie told them:
“Certainly, we can’t have that sort of nonsense going on in the British Navy. Taking away one of Baltimore’s citizens is rather overextending our appreciation of their hospitality”.
Dry British wit; the real reason I’m proud of our little nation.