Suggested Audio Jukebox:
 Sue Saad “Looker”
 The Beatles “Help”
 Years & Years “Border”
Every last one of us wants to be noticed. Life tends to move at breakneck speed and it can be hard taking note of one’s immediate surroundings, let alone keeping up with the movements of others. Hours soon turn into days, then weeks and, before you know it, it’s months since you last discerned the lights that shine all around you. I’m in prime position to wax lyrical on this particular topic as I struggle constantly with taking in the vista and have a tendency only to look to the tip of my nose on occasion. Ignorance doesn’t come into it, I just have a habit of juggling those plates in such large quantities that I fail to notice how shiny the cutlery is. Recently I took a much-needed break from the daily grind and spent an entire month of Sundays kicking back in an environment conducive to my healing, in the name of tackling ill-health and halting my body’s slide. Needless to say, my interactions with others during this time were limited, although I tried my darndest to grease the gears while I was away. I’ve been back on home turf for a week or so now and it thrills me to report that my writing has arrived at a new level since my return. Nevertheless, it may appear that I’ve been a ghost as my presence on social platforms has been all but non-existent and this is very much the calm before the storm.
Moreover, I’ve had rather a lot of free-time on my hands to do some soul-searching. You see, I’ve been in this game for over three years now, and not a solitary second of that has felt wasteful. Every post I publish offers a lesson learned, each stanza reinforces my swagger and, syllable by syllable, I’m scaling this mountain. The thing is, I’ve had my fingers in a number of flans over the course of my tenure as Keeper, and I’m starting to figure out where I fit in the bigger picture. Acting for camera was one of the most emotionally and professionally rewarding undertakings of my entire life, one which I would snap up the opportunity to explore further. However, I’m starting to realize what a long, desolate path that can be and one fraught with great peril and crushing disappointment. While I’m not saying for one picosecond that it’s a fruitless endeavor, I cannot place all my eggs in this one basket as time has a tendency to get away from us and appears to know all the shortcuts. My case in point is this: in 2014 I snagged myself a reasonably beefy role in a movie and spent seven weeks in L.A. finding my hidden game. I was immensely proud of the results and returned buoyant from my expedition, expecting the winds of change to come rolling in soon after. I’m still waiting for the gust.
I’m not bitching, heaven forbid, as there are reasons well out of anyone’s control why The Orphan Killer: Bound X Blood remains in limbo after a brief run-out on Vimeo. But the fact remains that my achievement is perhaps the best kept secret outside of the true identity of Donald Trump’s copper hairpiece. Do your homework and you’ll discover that it appeared at around the same time as Rupert Grint dropped off the celebrity radar. Evidently, Trump had been patiently waiting for the Harry Potter franchise to reach its natural end so he could kidnap poor Ron Weasley, shave him from head-to-toe, and head for the nearest windbreaker. I feel your pain Rupert but at least you got in a few good rounds of Quidditch before your broomstick was laced with chloroform. I couldn’t even get past Hagrid. While I still hold out hope that the movie will reemerge and finally earn itself its own IMDb page, the world is still spinning around me and I have to find another way of taking this shit to the bridge. For the record, I should be popping up on your screens in the foreseeable, in a one-minute short named Hazard for the upcoming 60 Seconds To Die anthology planned to surface before the year’s end. But I need myself a Plan B and think I may just have stumbled across one y’know.
For as much as I believe in my aptitude as an actor, I’m a scribe first and foremost and feel that is my most significant endowment. The amount of content on the blog is staggering and I count myself way beyond blessed that words come easily to me for the most part. That said, my business mind is simply shocking and I haven’t the faintest idea how to monetize this venture. I’m not looking to have my balls coated in white gold or anything ludicrous like that, purely to reach a place where my art can begin to support me. If I ended up working 45+ hours in a coffee shop until state retirement, a little piece of me would perish. Now I’m not suggesting I’m too good for what I would imagine quite a congenial placement, but I had to endure a nervous breakdown and marriage break-up to realize that I’ve not been placed here to pour latte, and I simply cannot allow that to become my legacy. I can hear them now down at the local Starbucks – “I miss that Keeper fellow, he sure knew how to roast a good bean”. Come now, must it really come to that? Can’t I be remembered for the vocation I clearly have vested interest in? Is anyone out there even aware I exist? I feel like Carol-Anne and that sucks extra hard since Tangina gave up her house calls some time ago.
So here’s my plan Grueheads and it’s crazy enough that it might just work. Having acted for camera, I’m more than au fait with performance. In addition, I’m aware of how to wrangle the English language for all that it’s worth and possess a scribing style which I am told is unlike any other. Moreover, I’m always looking for my work to negotiate as many of the five senses as is feasible in an attempt to resonate on multiple levels, aside from the all-important Keeper prose. Thus my strategy is as follows: to take this show on the road and slot right into the gaping hole in the marketplace simply yearning for something truly out-of-the-box. Are you aware of the Golden Age of Radio? During the 1930s and 1940s, broadcasting was taken to an entirely different level and that is effectively what I’m looking to emulate. Any English readers will no doubt be aware of scruffy genius Tim Minchin and humorous everyman Dave Gorman. Both introduced something fresh to the platter and have gone on to make names for themselves with a worldwide audience. What I am proposing is similar in a respect, but a thousand miles apart in another. Think stand-up comedy, throw in a dash of seminar only far less dry, and gently bring to the boil with some good old-fashioned story time the likes of which we used to hang out for as pre-scholars. Et voila – the all-singing and dancing Keeper Experience.
I can hold a tune too. Granted I’m no Bocelli, but I have no problem breaking into verse if it pleases the crowd and would gladly facilitate the inclusion of a live band just to lend a little je ne sais pas. Little old me would then tour from state to state, transporting my little bag ‘o’ tricks to whichever small town will have me until which time as things begin to take off. I’m telling you, there is nothing quite like this in existence and, even if there is, one stray sniper bullet from the balcony and I’ll soon rise up that pecking order. It should be no great secret now to learn that I write directly from the soul every time without exception and anyone who has had the true Story Time experience will be aware that I perform with the very same deep-rooted purpose. Thus it seems like a no-brainer to me. Now if only I had a quarter of a clue how to put my devilish plan into action, we’d all be laughing. Everyone wins that way and believe me when I say that remaining rooted is in my nature so the Ego Monster of Madrid need not figure into the equation. If I can pull this audacious feat off in my lifetime, then so many lives can change beyond just mine and I would pay every ounce of faith awarded me forward in kind I promise.
However, this is where it begins to get a little tricky. You see, I’m resigned to the fact that I have in my possession a creative mind. You know, the old blessing and curse double-header. While this may appear all hearts and flowers, it does come at a distinct cost, that being the almost complete lack of discernible business acumen. Until recently, I believed that a spread sheet was something you laid out at make-out points when attempting to pop Betsy Cline’s cherry. Moreover, I’ve been tuning in on my FM dial for months now just to see if Auntie Mabel’s Cherry Bakewell delight has managed to make a dent in the Pie Chart. Moreover, I’m fairly assured that a Powerpoint presentation is effectively subway flashing and shares are when you allow your best friend Timmy to grab himself sloppy seconds. Not so keen on the stocks part as those manacles chafe something terrible. As you can see, I’m practically Pat Gibbon and unlikely to see myself on the cover of Bloomberg Business Week any time soon or thereafter. I guess what I’m saying is that this operation needs a brain, someone to play footsy with the taxman while I plunder heavily manned fortresses in my search for that elusive magical unicorn. Turns out that, while I can write a feisty fable or two, I have no great knowledge of how to how or where to cash a cheque. Hamstrung I believe is the term.
Now I don’t want it to seem that this whole rant is some kind of global casting call or anything as organized as that, it’s more just a case of thinking out loud and seeing what comes from it. I’m as open to suggestion as Miley Cyrus and promise I have no intention of stripping off anytime soon and straddling a wrecking ball…honest. Any artist worth the salt in their shaker listens to those who matter and every solitary last one of you fit that particular bill. I am nothing whatsoever without my readership, and the man I always dreamed of becoming because of it. It has always been a team sport to me and each last word of support, encouragement, and love equates to a home-run in my estimations. If we all play our cards right in unison, I may just hit a homer or two myself and finally earn us that shot at the major leagues. What have we actually got to lose? Faith? Never. Money? We cannot lose what we ain’t got now can we? Time? That marches on regardless of any alarm calls set. Marbles? God I hope not as there’s only four left in the jar and I’m reasonably certain one of those has been planted there by Bill Gates to keep an eye on me. Nothing to lose then? You betcha. The best way. When our backs are against the wall, we grin that much wider, can bear that much more, fight that much harder, and love that much truer. If it all goes tits to the sky, then I’ll see you in ward twelve for a spot of backgammon before my afternoon shock therapy. Speaking of which, I’m not altogether sure that they washed this sponge y’know. Nurse!