Better_than

BETTER THAN NOWT

By Matthew Craig

I'm trying something new.

Yay me.

I'm writing this in a different program than as per usual. I'm keeping it relatively light, both in length and in mood, and I'm going for two columns in one long, long night.

You lucky, lucky people.

At least until you see the scribbling I'll be adding to the next column. I told you I'll never be an artist!

Despite the apparently dour mood of many of the essays in this series, I'm not an unhappy man. Far from it: there's a certain...joy...in my existence, I suppose. I have everything I really need: a roof, my family (including the Sainted mother, who, yes, still does the washing - I'm such a fanboy stereotype, my Talking Yoda in I should turn), and enough distractions to make even a second term of unemployment...well, bearable at any rate.

Yeppers, there's worse things to be than me.

(*leans back, relaxes*)

Except.

Except I've been !between careers" for a month now, and I don't see Mr. Tony Blair, Mr. Frank Glaxo (well, I don't know what he's called!) or Mr. Joe Quesada at the door with a sack of cash and a large Ferarri.

Or, for that matter, a voucher for Our Price and a large ferret.

So. I have to make some decisions. Fun though it may be to sit here writing this, and let's be honest about this, spurious fist-shakery for you all to read (and I spent a half-hour looking at webcams today: be very afraid), I'm going to have to get some greenbacks. And quick.

Because somebody at Barclays will notice that my four-figure balance has the letters DR after it, sooner or later.

And because the new Spider-Man game comes out for the PlayStation in seven weeks.

(Sixty days and you're mine, yeh flat-top fuck!)

I like being able to buy more tat. Who doesn't?

But I suppose I need something more. I need a job that'll make me really want to get out of bed in the morning.

I still don't know what sort of job yet. But I need to make a decision, and soon.

Because this chair is getting mighty comfortable...

(metaphorically speaking; in truth, my piles're giving me gyp.)

I think I have to make some hard decisions. Make a start on building something new.

(*slips into poncey Scotch voice, like that self-abuser on that arts programme on the telly*)

I'm reminded of something W. B. Yeats once said to Benjamin Behan round at Oscar Wilde's house:

"Jaysis! This isn't my house! And you're only three years old, man!"

I don't know what I want. I think I'll put a bit of pressure on. Give myself a fortnight, and see what happens.

Because I seem to have told you good people just about every thought I've had in the last three...no, four weeks (Jaysis!), I'll keep you abreast (chuckle) of developments as and when they...er, develop.

Just what avenues I can take, I don't know yet. I'm looking in all the magazines (with the qualifier that this is kinda on the Internet, though), I'm using all the jobsearchy things I can find.
Observation: Worktrain doesn't have openings for superheroes, sperm donors or Porn Stars, although, when you search for the latter, you get openings for van driver, hotel porters, Stevedores, dockers and slingers, all of whom have been the driving force behind many of the 1970's cheesiest "Confessions..."movies, so maybe there's something in it.

There don't seem to be many openings for people of my kidney anywhere on the Internet. So, if I want to try my hand at professional scribery, I may have to try and make my own position. Maybe I'll write to some people, and see what, if anything, is going for a guy with zero expericence and a cheeky grin.

As to the professional lying (writing), I'm not ready to send stuff out yet. There are magazines looking for submissions, but I'm way not ready for that yet.

But with a fortnight to go (until what? I don't know. I'll play it by ear), I think I'd better try and find something. Before I take root in this chair.

Because, while this website is a labour of love, it ain't paying the bills.