“A wise man once said nothing.”
I lost my voice.
Maybe it was walking Line 7 in the rain (see previous entry), the peaks and troughs of Beijing weather leaving me vulnerable to the organic equivalent of ransomware.
Thing is, I like my voice. Whether I’m a writer or a drama teacher, my voice is my living.
Several years ago, when I first went searching for my writing voice, I did what everyone who’s looking for something is supposed to do: I armed myself with the right ammunition. I sought out allies. I looked for mentors. I sat with gurus. I went to readings of authors that I liked, and asked them how they got started.
For whatever reason, I found myself spending a lot of time in Soho, London. First at the bar of an art house cinema, outlining an urban fantasy project for an aspiring transmedia producer. Then at the Groucho Club and the BAFTA building, always at someone else’s expense (sometimes the transmedia producer; sometimes the writer Geoff Thompson, who became an early supporter. He told me to keep shouting at the cave walls and to follow whichever path offered the most echo).
This time I searched elsewhere. I dosed up on Chinese medicine. I shut the hell up as much as I could, speaking only during a Star Trek movie to explain raspily to the gf: Firstly, that a man was blowing up stars in order to redirect the gateway to a land of happiness. Secondly, that I had no idea why I was watching it; Thirdly, that it was indeed perfectly fine to turn it off and go for hot pot.
I polished up a spec script to send it to the producers of a Glaswegian web series.
Then I packed a bag and went to Korea for a few days.