I’ve been pretty quiet on the writing front this year, mostly from a lack of inspiration. My mum had the theory a while back that I’d become too content. To be honest, this has been a pretty great year. I got a new job, which has resulted in a lot less staying up at night stressing about things. I have a lovely gentleman friend, who shares my passion for seeking out delicious burger joints and lets me scratch his beard. And I got to travel again, making my way around the UK and Ireland with a quick jump over to Paris so I could cross Euro Disney off my bucket list.
So was my mum right? Am I one of those tortured people who can only make art when I’m feeling all the feelings? ‘Tortured artist’ is too cool an image for me. And ‘No longer an artist because I’m feeling pretty great about things’ is not a cool image at all. Something needed to be done. I had to prove this theory wrong. But how? I needed to find inspiration deep within myself. And deep within myself, there was a passion that can only be understood by those who share it: I really freakin love Doctor Who.
I have an ever increasing collection of DVDs, books, merchandise, t-shirts (even a skirt patterned with tiny TARDIS-es) and an urge to fight anyone who speaks ill of David Tennant. I think very little of Stephen Moffat, will correct anyone who refers to the Daleks as robots, and on one occasion even found myself defending the sixth Doctor. I know, right?
And that UK trip I took this year? I met up with my aunty over there, and we booked in a few days in Cardiff just so we could go to the Doctor Who Experience, a magical walk through experience and museum of props and such that I went to a few years ago in London before it moved. Having booked the trip at the start of the year, we were unaware that it was actually closing five days before we got there for ‘regeneration.’ Also, on account of the fact we arrived in Cardiff the same day as all the world leaders arrived for the NATO summit, most of the city was closed and there was nothing we could do except take a photo of me in front of the closed building, on my knees, with my arms in the air, cursing the sci-fi gods (I have chosen not to post the photo as it is still an open wound oozing with disappointment and nerdy, nerdy heartbreak).
‘Hey, Lauren, why not give writing sci-fi a crack?’ my brain said late one evening when I was tired and delirious enough to think this was a good idea. ‘You’ve got a notebook and pencil, you’re halfway there!’
Now I present to you, ‘Lauren’s list of things you need to write
A mysterious hero
A human to ask aaaall the questions
A popular TV program to steal this formula from
So yeah. That’s what I’m playing around with at the moment. And even if it’s badly written balls, I’m just happy that I’m trying, which is another sign that I’M TOO EFFING CONTENT.
Things that are working well:
The worlds, and the people and things in them, run by MY rules. Because I made them. I am their creator. I AM THEIR GOD.
Things that are not working well:
Naming things. Everyone is cool with Jerry the alien, yes? And describing things. I’m not convinced that ‘Jerry the alien looked like an alien’ is going to cut it, or ‘The spaceship smelled like a spaceship, and had a cold chill like… a spaceship.’
Finally, because I’m feeling generous and can see the need to face my emotional demons, here’s that photo of me at the Doctor Who Experience.