Festive frolics

As the Edinburgh festival was kicking off last weekend a small gaggle of us were out taking in the atmosphere (and the beer) and a friend, let's call her Sabriena (because that's her name), decided to 'help' a performer whose flyer-hander-outer had clearly shirked their responsibilities and left the whole pile on one table. Now Sabriena has an impish streak at the best of times, add wine and naughtiness is guaranteed - so out came the eyeliner and said performer, unbeknownst to himself, was soon offering free shows and discounted tickets, not to mention taking on new personalities. Imp-girl then began distributing the flyers to passing punters, forgetting that Edinburgh is a very small place…

It took no less than three flyers before Sabriena was handing one of her special flyers to the performer himself. Caught rotten. He did see the funny side, but there was a definite tone to his good-natured repartee when he realised just how many of his 'very expensive' flyers imp-girl had ‘amended’ (see also: defaced).

So, by way of penance for the sins of the imp, if you are in the vicinity of Edinburgh I encourage you to go and see Trevor Browne – he is, apparently,  'probably the greatest folk-rock musician of all time’, ‘brilliantly funny’, and he's low on flyers - so tell your friends.

As you can tell, you don't have to actually see any shows in the festival to enjoy it, but it’s worth it all the same. Last night we went to see Mark Watson: The Information - the geeky non-welsh, non-Jewish funny guy from Never mind the Buzzcocks, 8 out of 10 Cats and Mock the Week (in his words; a 'non speaking role'). His show features plenty of audience interaction (the mark of a fine comic in my book) and the better half even got kudos and a big laugh for the comic timing of his interaction. This was not heckling, I hasten to add, for heckling rarely comes off well for the heckler - the hecklee generally takes the chuckling glory, and rightly so, because the majority of hecklers are an embarrassment.

Just two statues, shootin' the breeze

We followed Mr Watson with a mime act. Yes – I said a 'mime act'. What’s more, it was bloody brilliant. Words I never thought I would hear, much less write, in connection with mime. Had you said to me a guy could keep an audience totally enthralled and entertained for an hour without uttering a word I would have been skeptical at best, but that is exactly what The boy with tape on his face bloomin' well did. He is a man, but the boy title suits him so much better - and I say that with the nicest possible intentions, because he clearly hasn't lost his childhood imagination. There are lots of positive words to describe the show, but lighthearted does it best. Go and see it - you will come out with a BIG smile on your face.

People watching gold

Its ability to surprise, with the likes of good mime acts, is one of the many reasons I love the festival. I’m also a huge fan of people watching and during the festival it is absolutely golden. Maniacs, midgets and massive cows – its got it all, and more. My 9-year-old nephew put it best when he said 'Edinburgh is weird sometimes'. Yes it is. Weird and wonderful.

This is NOT how gingers should be treated

moooo!

Desperately seeking inspiration

I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with inspiration, my fair-weather friend, for a couple of days now. I can’t find the little bugger anywhere.
I’m working on an assignment that demands ideas on ‘widely different subjects’. I’ve already covered my mainstay, travel, and I’m guessing booze and food, my other major ‘areas of focus’ are not going to cut it in the differentiation stakes.

My new muse?

Perhaps I need to get myself a muse? M-cat is currently in repose beside me, legs akimbo, and I think she may be auditioning for the part – she’s giving me a very sultry upside-down look. Hmmm… upside-down… maybe a different perspective…

Nope. Looking at the world upside down has done nothing but give me a slight headache (and increased my risk of throwing a hip). And no – the headache is nothing to do with my booze-based buddies thank you. My body is a temple and no drink has been taken for three whole days(!) Although maybe that’s the problem, maybe the creative and grape juices need to mingle. They do play very nicely together - and have spawned manys the (a)musing…

Positively glowing with inspiration...

Alas I can’t pop my cork just yet. Aside from the fact that drinking alone on a Thursday afternoon for the purposes of creativity may have those unidentified imbibers knocking at my door, I have to go for a run later. In the rain. Deep joy. My dedication knows no bounds and my body is indeed a temple …of doom.


Apparently Jack London said;
'You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.'
And so I shall. I think running with a club in hand might raise a few too many suspicious glances, so hopefully tracking down my stimuli and force-feeding them endorphins will do the trick. Right you slippery little suckers – I coming to get you!

I can't bring myself to say it

'What do you do?'

'I'm a writer...'

Nope – I can’t bring myself to say it. Despite writing for years on subjects as varied, and generally dull, as pensions, banking systems and charity fundraisers, I can’t call myself a writer. Maybe it’s because it still feels like an aspiration, or that I need to fulfil a stereotype in my own head to gain the title - the novelist deeply engrossed in their latest work, beavering away in their shabby-chic lakehouse, or the tortured artist, wrestling with their latest piece in a dimly-lit bar with a cigarette burning away endlessly in the corner of their mouth (pre smoking ban of course).

The nub of the issue is that I’ve never written about what I wanted, just what was required by the job, and corporate-land is not know for it’s blazing creativity. So I bit the bullet and started a writing course, thinking that would give me a kick up the bum, get me writing 'my stuff' and earn me the right to call myself a writer (and maybe a few pennies here and there). What I discovered, though, is that very few writers get to blather on about whatever they’d like – and a lot of their time isn’t even spent writing. Research is king. Viable ideas don’t come from thin air (or chin-stroking musings, pondered while staring into the middle distance), they generally come from analysis and similarly ‘uncreative’ activities.

That put a stop to my gallop. But it also made me realise that (sadly?) I could be closer to calling myself a writer than I thought. Research and analysis – I’ve done that for years, I just need to point my skills in the right direction. So I’ve thrown myself into it, making lists to my hearts content (my, oh my, how I love lists...), and found that there is inventiveness to be found in the mundane. Amongst the 'constraints'  of length, style and suitable subject – what’s the best angle? Where’s the fresh perspective? How will this entertain people? Not so much a creative flow as a tentative trickle, but it’s getting there.

But what of my typecast writer image? Will I ever be able to unleash the random thoughts that dance around in my brain at stupid o’clock? 

Of course I will – isn’t that what blogs are for…?