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Tag Archives: Smock Alley Theatre

Who am I to share my grief with?In which a transcendental moment is revealed to be an infinity of piss, and other observations of a similarly bleak mien.

Apologies in advance. This is going to be a rather sloppy, rather mawkish entry.

The year is marching on and we’re almost at New Year. I am hip-deep in that period of introspection I always seem to go through in the weeks leading up to my birthday and the end of the year. I take stock of what I’ve achieved in the year and the direction I seem to be going in. (Summary: Professional — OK. Personal — Fucking abysmal.) I think I am a little bit depressed. Not too much, just a little bit. Like everything I see or do is tinged with a mild but pervasive pessimism.

First of all, there was that glorious moment late in the night of December 14th. It is recorded in my writing log as ‘MAD NIGHT OF CREATION.’ (Ah, the hubris) I filled page after page of my notebook with ideas and plot that I would soon turn into a beautiful, exciting novel. I didn’t fall asleep until 6 in the morning, a wide grin on my face, my fingers inky. I was so excited to start writing, I cut short my little walk towards Clontarf the next day and scurried home eager to write.

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