The future

I never thought I’d live to see the future. And 2024 is about as futuristic as it gets.

Now, I’m going to let you in on a little secret and tell you of the one sure-fire way to tell if you’re in the future or not.

Go book a ticket for something. Set up an account on any website and see how long it takes to scroll back the dial of years to nineteen-eighty-something when they ask for your date of birth. If it’s any more than three thumb flicks, you’re in the future.

But what does that mean? And what does it matter?

In short – it means you no longer are the future. Whitney ain’t singin’ ‘bout you no more, honey.

That leaves me – a mid-thirties creative – trying to figure out a place in a future that left me in the past.

JANUARY

Miserable month, January.

The warmth given off by those twinkling Christmas lights and the goodwill of the festive season is now replaced with shut curtains and furrowed brows. No patience, no smiles. Just a steely determination to get to the next Bank Holiday.

A heartfelt thanks to the supermarkets for providing some festive cheer though. Who doesn’t love Easter bunting and offers on chocolate eggs in Jan? A classy way to cheer up even the bluest Blue Monday.

Driving rain and wet socks, still dark by four 0’Clock. And for Capricorns like me, there’s a birthday to deal with.

So yeah. Miserable.

Now as glum as I may sound, dear reader, I do have a bit of a spring in my step this January.

(Though I must confess that 85% of my cheerier disposition is thanks to getting back on the magnesium supplements. A psychiatrist once recommended I take some to help with low-mood and boy did they work!)

Magnesium aside, there’s something about a new year that can really sharpen the mind. We all feel it – the chance to start fresh. Set some resolutions, maybe. Buy a new Moleskine to jot out how this year will be different. Throw cash at a fitness routine. The usual things.

But as I race to 40, I really do find myself thinking and acting in new ways compared to when I was racing towards 30. Yes, my brow is furrowed and no I don’t have as much patience for things (any things) anymore. But there’s optimism deep within.

A fire still burns.

A FALL BEFORE THE PRIDE

If I plot out my creative career trajectory, it might look a little something like this:

Allow me to talk you through the chart.

As you’ll see, things were going well from my teens into my early-twenties. With the momentum of naivety, the fearlessness that comes with the optimism of youth and an overnight loss of “puppy fat” thanks to a growth spurt – I was in a good way.

I hit London in 2005 and within mere weeks I was hobnobbing with the so-called “gay mafia”. I’m not sure who coined the phrase, but it was certainly an accommodating group – arms (and more) stretched open for an eighteen-year-old chicken with a love for older gay men*.

*Side note – always entirely platonic and to this day my friendship circle consists largely of those same older gay men.

Soho’s a small place, and it wasn’t long before I found myself mixing in quite famous circles. I was on cloud nine – truly feeling that I was living the London dream. I thought success would rub off and that it was only a matter of time.

Now, avert your eyes along the chart to the right a little. That big crash and burn.

That, folks, is where the optimism of youth will get you!

Blind belief is a lovely thing. It’s cute. But it doesn’t replace graft, talent and luck. Not by a long way.

Now you might be thinking that from 24+ I was sitting on my laurels waiting for the phone to ring. That isn’t true.

I was grafting, pure and simple. Working four nights in a Soho bar and five days temping for a marketing agency all to pay for trips to the Edinburgh Fringe. I wrote and rehearsed shows in the little free time I had and on my nights off I performed preview shows. It was all go.

Of course I still found the time to bop around every decent club as well. I’m talking about Nag Nag Nag and Wig Out at Ghetto, Popstarz, DTPM, Discotec and Trade @ Turnmills.

Happy times.

The trouble was, I wasn’t directing my time and energy into the things that needed it.

So utterly convinced that success would come, I wasn’t honing my craft. If the material didn’t work – it was just the wrong audience. We had something, our little troupe then, and frequently enjoyed enthusiastic audiences.  But we weren’t following through on the work. We were on our laurels with cute, stupid blind belief. 

But it was a phase I needed to go through. I needed to fail and fall. I needed to meet Leonard Cohen through a port and gummy bear fuelled haze. And how glad I am that it happened.

RUN BEFORE YOU CAN’T WALK

The scramble to early-thirties was actually pretty pleasant. I lost some weight, started a professional ‘alt.’ career, met my partner and got an agent.

I was bobbing along quite nicely. And with all of that came confidence. I’d continued writing, but I’d put in the graft. I collaborated with new people. Produced an award-nominated sketch show and followed it up with an episodic comedy set in the world of football (and yes, before Ted Lasso!)

I started working with production companies on sitcom treatments. I suddenly found myself doing things I always hoped I would.

Not for any money, you understand. Still only for the love of it.

And that’s why, Dragons, projections for the run-up to 40 are good.

I’m moving at pace, as I did years before, but now I move with necessary caution and with keen attention to detail. I no longer plunge myself into something, I make sure it’s a good idea first. I enjoy the process.

And I don’t blindly believe in anything anymore. Not even the Easter Bunny (but If you are reading this, Sainsbury’s has a decent Ferrero Rocher mega egg on offer. Don’t fuck about).

Anyway, you don’t have to believe it. You just have to do it. Whatever it takes.

However long it takes.

DL x