It’s mid-March and I’m in a cold shed, (re)writing the screenplay for Tilo in Real Life, a story I’ve carried in my head for seven years or so. I'm reflecting too on why I write the kind of stories I write. I can’t say whether I had a uniquely cruel or deprived upbringing, but I do admit a tendency towards the dark side, thanks to my late mother, whose death twenty years ago resonated with me as Mother's Day came and left, uncelebrated.
Perhaps in another life I was a Victorian author of horror tales, given my talent for creating films with strange, disquieting auras, judging by the effect they have on others. When a plasterer came to do some work in the house recently, on seeing the posters for my films hanging in the hall he remarked on how they looked ‘ominous’; he’s not the first.
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My husband caught me tapping on my laptop the other night. He asked what I was writing. “A blog post,” I replied, so he said, “Then write something self-affirming, something uplifting.” It doesn’t come easily. It’s over a year since I last posted on this site but on each attempt the words refused to be positive, so I lost heart and pressed delete instead.
On an overcast Friday in early February I’m writing this in my shed. Only I’m not. I’m staring at a set of colour-coded index cards on the wall, each card representing a scene for my ongoing project, Tilo in Real Life. On a shelf, alongside other props, sit three small electrical appliances purchased from eBay who appear as characters in the film, but right now they act as my conscience, taunting me to get back to work. This year, I tell them, this year.
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From my opioid cloud I look up from a blank computer screen to the window. I should be writing but somehow it’s easier to stare at the trees and sky. On this December afternoon it’s not yet 4pm and already it’s dark, a winter dark so deep it can swallow one’s soul.
This lack of light is a metaphor I could extend to life in general but that would be too dramatic - or would it? On the streets, shops and parks, as I see people going about their business I suspect many are struggling with their mental wellbeing. As Covid mutates, with the economy in the bin, the government mired in corruption and the BBC unable to say the word "Brexit" clearly something's amiss.
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Forgive my magical thinking but in storytelling the number three is said to have magic properties, a trope of folk tales such as the one I'm currently working on. Oddly it's taken three attempts to write this post, not helped by the opioid haze of the last 600 (and counting) days and an existential crisis where I try to reconcile my desire to make films with the reality. At such times I remind myself that filmmaking - the good stuff - is supposed to be hard even if it's on a spectrum ranging from 'thankless' to 'futile'.
Another reason I've avoided writing is because I don't wish to dwell on the negatives. 'Scottish film isn't the hill I'm prepared to die on,' I tell my husband. 'Hummock, more like,' he replies. He's right. I recall a conversation I once had with a writer acquaintance outside a local supermarket about the goings-on at a Scottish film awards do. I was taken aback when my companion said casually, 'Oh, and so-and-so won the keep breathing award,' referring to the recipient of a lifetime achievement honour.
I thought about this for a long time.
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