Forgive my magical thinking but in storytelling, three is a magic number and a trope of folk tales such as the one I’m currently working on. Oddly it’s taken me three attempts to write this post, not helped by the opioid haze of the last 600 (and counting) days and a crisis that tells me it’s increasingly hard to reconcile my desire to make films with the reality of what’s involved. At such times I remind myself filmmaking – the good stuff – is supposed to be hard even when 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.