#oneaday, Day 221: Remember The Fallen Bloggers

It's with some sadness that we've said goodbye to several of my favourite #oneaday bloggers recently. No, they're not dead, thankfully, but various life circumstances have meant that it's no longer practical or desirable for them to fit daily blogging into their schedule. So a moment of silence, if you please, for Rhiarti and Chris Schilling. And after that moment of silence, a big round of applause for their hard, thankless, unpaid, voluntary work on the whole project up until this point. I hope you will continue to write, guys, because I've always enjoyed reading your work, whatever the subject, and whatever you might have thought of the quality of your posts.

Although nowhere near as many people—if any—will make it to the end of 365 days as started, I know that speaking personally I'm very pleased to have made the acquaintance of some amazing people through this whole business. And I'm sorry that there are still more whose work I didn't have a chance to enjoy while they were still involved, too.

I feel particular mention here should go to Andy "Ultrabrilliant" Kelly, who started the whole thing off and Lauren "Atheistium" Wainwright, whose tweet about the whole thing got me interested in the first place. While neither of them are still taking part, they're still active on Twitter and on their own blogs and doing proper worky stuff too, so do pay them a visit.

I've made it 221 days so far. That's quite a lot—over half a year, in fact. I'm pretty pleased with myself, but if anything I'm more determined than ever to make it to the end of this year. I nearly typed "unscathed" there, but those who have followed me from the beginning will know that I am anything but "unscathed" after the events of the last 18 months. Scathing is very much in attendance.

But those who have been following me for this period will also know that this whole process has provided an excellent sense of release. There have been times when I've wanted to say things that were stuck in my head, and this was as good a place as any to say them. And there have been other times when I've been able to channel that energy into something creative or "funny". Whether or not you've found my attempts at being humorous to be, well, humorous is beside the point, really. (No offence. Though obviously I appreciate it a great deal if you do enjoy things I've done.) It's given me the opportunity to try out all sorts of things and to find different ways to express myself.

You only have to look at the way the presentation of my blog has changed to see that. From pure text, to text with a quickly-located and vaguely relevant stock image, to clumsily-drawn cartoons that are shamelessly inspired by Allie Brosh's work on Hyperbole and a Half, to daily forays into Comic Life; I feel that the opportunity to experiment with and develop my craft has been a particularly valuable one.

And the self-discipline required in order to keep this going has been immense. As I wrote about yesterday, I feel this is a skill that I've partly learned from the things I enjoy. As "Don Woods" (*cough*) pointed out in the comments, though, perhaps it's an innate skill, also. I couldn't say. I know that this whole process has helped a lot, though.

So a huge thanks to everyone who's ever been involved with #oneaday, whether I've had the chance to speak with you directly or not. Thanks to those who inspired me to write something—anything—every day. Thanks to those who have read every single one of these entries (I know there's a couple of you at least). Thanks to those who comment. Thanks to those who lurk. Thanks to those who have clicked onto just a couple of these entries out of curiosity. Thanks to those who have helped me through the toughest time I've ever gone through in my whole life. Thanks to those who enjoy my stupid drawings. And you, reading this right now, too? Thanks to you, too.

Ah, that was disgustingly profound, wasn't it? Whatever. I mean it.

While you're on, pay the fellow Survivors a visit and support them. And if I've missed anyone out, please feel free to harangue me in the comments or on Twitter.

#oneaday, Day 206: Hello.

First up, please excuse me for just one moment.

AAAARRRRGHH!!
AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!
GRRRAAAARRR!!!
RAWWWRRR!!!

Thanks for bearing with that for a moment. It was deeply and completely necessary. Also, I had to reformat it so it didn't mess up the formatting of the page. Rawr.

Right. So, this post then. I thought I'd introduce myself. Why? Because my first ever post on this blog was a long time ago, and many things have changed since then. Also, due to various things that I'm not going to go into and rant about right now, I am still looking for work.

Particularly writing work.

I am a writer. That's what I do. First and foremost. More than anything. It is what I spend the vast majority of my days doing. I write this blog every day. I write news for the very awesome Kombo, staffed by some of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to work with but not meet in many cases. I've written two articles for IGN. I've scribed a number of articles for utterly wonderful DRM-free digital-distribution site Good Old Games. I've submitted a bunch of stuff to BitMob, most of which was promoted to the front page as a "featured article". I've covered a variety of things for parental gaming advice site WhatTheyPlay. And I edit and produce the podcast for the Squadron of Shame, which will shortly be relaunching in a triumphant new format. I also set up the Squad's community site, the Squadron of Shame Squawkbox, which you're welcome to join. In fact, there's a big-ass list of most of the things I've done right here.

I have been semi-to-moderately prolific. And I love it. There's more stuff in the pipeline, too. Find out more as it happens.

So, using the power of Web 2.0, I'd like to ask a favour of anyone reading this.

Pimp me out. Share my stuff. Tell people how awesome I am. Point them at this blog, and the #oneaday project. Tell them about my stupid stickmen drawings. Show them my in-depth, opinionated news articles on Kombo which actually provoke discussion when I dare to mention Phantasy Star in anything less than positive terms. Dazzle them with my mad interviewing skills on my IGN articles about Crackdown 2, the first time I'd ever visited a developer.

'Cause I'd very much like this all to work out. Writing is awesome, and through it I've learned a lot about myself, met some fantastic and awesome people and joined a community of people who are as passionate about the things we love as I am. It may not always pay well (or indeed at all in many cases), but it's what I love to do. So if you can help me gain any exposure using your undoubtedly fabulous amounts of influence that you hold on the web—that's a really nice shirt, by the way—then I'd of course be eternally grateful and will buy you a bag of chocolate raisins or something.

In the meantime, a good friend (and Captain #oneaday), Mr Chris Schilling, has convinced me I should be pitching stuff around the place. So if you're a writer or involved in the publishing industry yourself and have any contacts you'd be willing and able to introduce me to, I'd very much appreciate that, too.

Shameless, I know. But whadyagunnado?

#oneaday, Day 184: Dark World

[The following is part dream I had, part daydream, part complete fiction and part external influences. You may make of it what you will. Up to and including a fetching hat.]

The fog was out of season, and even thicker than it would have been at the right time of year for it. And it was cold. Very cold. Colder than he remembered it being for a long time. He wasn't sure how long it had been cold and foggy, but it had certainly been for the whole day. And that seemed to mean that everyone was staying inside, since there was not a soul on the street.

He reached the shop and walked in. All was silent inside. The lights flickered slightly, and the buzzing of the fluorescent tubes suddenly seemed very loud. There was no-one here either; no sign of the usual student rabble laughing, joking and buying beer. No sign of the shop staff behind the counter. Nothing. Yet apart from this, the neatly-stacked shelves looked just as they always did. But there was something wrong, something sinister about the whole thing.

He walked over to the coffee machine, pulled out a cup and placed it under the nozzle before jamming his thumb onto the "large latté" button. The machine whirred, ground and made that curious sucking noise as the milk and coffee poured into the cup. It seemed very loud amidst the silence in the rest of the shop. Then it was quiet, and the cup was full. He pulled out one of the flimsy plastic lids from the dispensers and set it atop the cup.

He fumbled in his pocket for some loose change and left it on the counter. Just because there was no-one here was no reason to take advantage. He wasn't that sort of person.

Something was wrong. The lights were flickering more, and the buzzing was getting louder. Suddenly, they went off entirely, and the shop was plunged into darkness. Loud, metallic scraping sounds filled his ears and he didn't know what was happening. It shouldn't be dark; it was still light outside, despite the fog. He tripped and fell in the darkness, somehow managing to hold on to his coffee cup. The ground began to shake, and he fell again trying to get back on his feet. This time, he dropped the cup. The tremors became stronger and stronger; it felt like the ground was somehow shifting beneath him, changing, becoming… metallic?

A small light flicked on above the counter.

The floor was cold, and where there once were simple tiles was now covered in metallic grates, darkness beneath them.

He scrambled to his feet, not wanting to stay here any longer than necessary. Outside, the fog was gone, but it was dark now. There was little light by which to see, so he pulled out his phone and used the bright light from the screen to see his way. The street seemed to be covered with the same curious gratings, the soles of his shoes clanging on them as he walked.

In the distance, in the darkness, he could see his building. He needed to get there, to be home, to be safe, to be inside. He didn't like the feeling that this strange new environment was giving him. He quicked his pace to a light jog and headed towards the building, up the stairs to the front door. He punched in the door code and opened the door.

Inside, like outside, all was darkness. The small pool of light from his phone was just enough to see by, but it didn't make him feel any better. He opened the door leading into the corridor that held his apartment and stepped into the blackness. He walked forward down the corridor, stopping and turning where he thought his door should be, but there was nothing there, and the corridor continued into the darkness. He couldn't see the end of it.

He turned to face the corridor, stretching into the distance, took a deep breath, swallowed, and continued to walk down it. As he continued down the seemingly endless passageway, the only sound were his footsteps echoing on the metallic floor.

He wasn't sure how long he walked for, but he was starting to get out of breath after a while. That's when he heard the sounds. A mechanical sound of some sort, though he couldn't tell what. He walked towards it and it slowly, gradually, got louder.

A voice whispered in his ear and he gave a start, almost falling over with the shock. He didn't hear what the voice said, but it sounded familiar. Then the other ear, again, something said, not meant to be heard. The machinery growing louder and louder, the whispering voices growing more urgent. And now it felt like the corridor was sloping downwards. Just a little at first, but the further he went and the closer the sound became, the more it sloped and sloped until he thought he was going to slide down it and then—

The corridor came to an abrupt end along with the sounds, and he almost walked into his neighbour's door in the darkness. He turned to face his own apartment, drew out his key from his pocket and hesitantly slid it into the lock. Pushing open the door slowly, cautiously, he shone the light from his phone into the black hallway, a sense of dread gripping him from inside, tightening every organ in his body, making him feel coiled like a spring.

The light bounced off a metallic object that was sitting on the side in the hallway. He walked over to it to see what it was.

A cook's knife. Clean, shining in the light and sharp as a razor. He picked it up, not certain what he'd use it for. And he walked slowly towards the bedroom, figuring that if the world was going to do a passable impression of night-time, he might as well try and get some sleep.

The door creaked open as he pushed it, but suddenly he was wrenched through it, the wind knocked out of him as he fell to the ground, still gripping the knife in his hand, his phone skittering across the floor, face up, its light shining around the small room.

Then the sound. That terrible sound. Like a scream, but not of pain or terror. It sounded like rage. It was formidable and terrible, and it was somewhere in this room.

He looked up at the pool of light on the ceiling. That's when he saw it. Its skin glistening as the light reflected off it, it screamed again as it knew it had been spotted.

He gasped, and his breathing quickened. This was—

The thing let out a horrifying screech again and something glass shattered. A window? A mirror? He couldn't tell, because he couldn't see. But he knew what had to be done. Brandishing the knife in a shaking hand, he walked towards where he had seen it hanging and looked up again. A tendril, like a thick piece of rope, hung from the ceiling. He raised the knife over his head and brought it down in a smooth arc, slashing through the tendril and slicing it clean in two. The part which had been stuck to the ceiling fell to the ground with a wet slapping noise, and there was another terrible scream.

His head hurt. His vision, what little he could see, felt hazy. This was difficult. It wasn't as easy as he thought. But he had to—

The thing roared and lunged at him, but he staggered to one side at just the right moment, placing him right beneath another hanging tendril. Gritting his teeth and raising the knife, he cut through this one too. This time, images flashed across his eyes. Memories? He wasn't sure, because they were gone as soon as he could focus on them. And still it was there, howling in pain now, writhing, yet still trapped. It lunged again and pushed him to the floor, knocking the wind out of him and the knife clattering across the floor. He dove towards where he thought it fell, gasping to recover his breath, and fumbled around until he felt its handle. Unsteadily, he picked himself up and got to his feet. His head was hurting now, like a migraine but worse. Instead of flashing lights across his vision, there were images, but they were still too elusive to grasp hold of. He recognised them, loved them and feared them at the same time, and he knew that there was only one way to—

With a yell, he leapt at the thing, knife raised aloft and slashed through the fourth and final tendril. With an awful screech, it fell to the ground, helpless against what was to come.

He stood above it, looking down at this pitiful thing that could engender such fear, hatred and anger. There was only one thing left, and that would be it. That would be the end. That would be—

He knelt before it, glowering at it, eyes narrowed, teeth grinding. He looked at the knife in his hand, now stained with blood and ichor, and then back to the thing again. This would be the last—

He plunged the knife deep into it and the horrific noise that ensued made the ground shake. But he pulled out the knife and plunged it in again, the tremors becoming more and more forceful, the screech becoming more and more deafening. He could hear walls cracking, collapsing, falling around him. He hoped it would be enough time to—

With the final thrust of the knife, there was a blinding white light, a sense of sudden, incredible, release like every trace of tension leaving his body; and there was a sound, a sound like a rising wind, louder and louder and stronger and filling his ears with noise and sound and it was too much and—

Then sudden, awful, total silence. Nothingness. The white light enveloped everything. Made it impossible to see. But it was—

She stood by the door to the apartment, not sure whether or not to go in. She stared at that number on the door, the number which for so long had meant "home" but was now just another meaningless digit. She looked at the lock, and at the key in her hand.

The key slid smoothly into the lock and she pushed open the door. Inside, all was quiet. The lights were off, the curtains were open and there were no signs of life. She walked ahead into the bedroom. Bare. Nothing but a bed. No sheets, no pillows, nothing. Back into the corridor; nothing here. The closets: empty. The study: nothing to see.

Panicking now, her heart racing, she ran to the living room. Nothing here besides the table, the sofa and the chairs. The things that had always been here, but nothing that meant—

Then she saw it. A folded piece of paper on the table, sitting by itself, alone.

She took it, unfolded it, read it.

Then she stuffed it into her pocket, turned and fled.

#oneaday, Day 177: Sandwich

The familiar melody of the alarm on his phone sounded, waking him from his slumber suddenly. He had been having a dream of some description; it had felt enormously real at the time, but now, in the soft light of morning creeping through the crack in the curtains that she always used to hate, it was already dissipating. A cloud of memory, rising into the sky and disappearing.

He leaned over and grabbed his phone, squinting at the time through blurry vision. It felt too early. But it was a perfectly normal time to get up; quite late for some, even. It didn't feel important to get up, though. He wanted to stay lying there, gazing at nothingness, contemplating all that had come to pass and all there was to come. But at the same time, he knew that would achieve nothing. He remembered simpler times, when lying in bed meant something different; a time when it meant closeness, comfort, intimacy. Now, what did it mean?

His phone chimed as a well-timed message from a friend broke his reverie and stirred his mind into action. He was grateful to her for that; she always knew the right time to say something, even if it was just "hello". He quickly tapped out a message back to her and lay back down, closing his eyes for a moment, phone clutched in his hand.

It vibrated in his hand; a reply, and an admonishment that he should really get up rather than lying there feeling sorry for himself. Smiling weakly to himself, he did so, and staggered out of the bedroom into the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen.

The fridge was almost empty; it had been ever since that day. He'd only stocked up on the essentials as and when he needed them. There was little point doing anything elaborate for one. There was a pack of bacon, already open and wrapped in tin foil. He picked it up and walked over to the grill, flipping it on and laying the foil out on a tray. He carefully removed two rashers of bacon from the pack and washed its sliminess from his hands, then slid the tray under the rapidly-heating grill.

More memories popped into his head; unwelcome guests. Once, there would have been four rashers on that tray, and once the kettle would have been boiling ready to make a cup of tea, perfectly timed to be ready as the bacon finished. The radio would have been on, blaring out some sort of interminably awful pop music, and the room would have felt full of life. Now it felt like a shadow of its former self, like a graveyard. Spirits inhabited the room, but they'd never be coming back.

The smell of the gradually-grilling bacon wafted to his nostrils as he got out a plate and two slices of bread. He'd butter the bread for her and leave his plain. And when it was done, he'd carry them all back to the bedroom and climb back into bed, ready to eat the food, listen to something together and, after that, enjoy a moment or two of quiet intimacy.

If he did that now, though, there would just be that same awful silence. There was no reason to go back into that room now he was up; the shadows would just claim him if he did, and the day would be gone.

He pulled the tray out from under the grill and flipped the bacon quickly with his fingertips, cursing to himself at how hot it was. Then he slid it back under, that smell filling the whole room now. It was a smell that most people find comforting, whatever state they're in; happy, sad, hungover, sober—there's always room for a bacon sandwich. He wasn't sure how he felt about it right now, as tied to these memories as it was. But he wasn't about to let things he could do nothing about spoil his enjoyment of the best thing about the morning.

It was time. He pulled the tray out again and quickly transferred the bacon to the bread, cursing again at how hot it was. The rapidly-diminishing bottle of HP sauce was already upturned ready to spill its contents onto the sandwich, just as it should be.

And he closed the sandwich, walked into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the switched-off TV. And thus began another day alone.

#oneaday, Day 163: You are...

Queen's Park (on a bench), 9:10pm

You're sitting on a sturdy, lichen-covered wooden bench that looks like it's been here for a good few years. The wood is faded and scratched, both naturally and through human intervention. The initials of teenage sweethearts are carved into the surface of the wood, last remnants of a long-forgotten memory, a past romance.

You're at the east edge of the park. Further east is a tall hedge, behind which stands a tall, orange-and-glass-fronted apartment building.

To the west, a large stone column rises up to the sky amidst brightly-coloured flower beds. Atop the column is an intricate-looking sculpture, featuring roses, arches and what appears to be a Christian cross.

To the south, behind the swish-swish-swish of passing cars, you can just hear the sonorous tone of a ship's horn signalling its departure from the docks.

To the north, the cars swish past in the opposite direction, this patch of road encircling the haven of green calmness in which you find yourself, the sounds of the passing vehicles your only reminder that you're in the middle of a busy city.

On the bench is a bottle of milkshake.

There is a discarded coffee cup here. Ants are crawling around the coffee cup.

?>GET MILKSHAKE

Taken.

?>DRINK MILKSHAKE

It's not open.

?>OPEN MILKSHAKE

You unscrew the cap of the bottle. The scent of chocolate mint, trapped inside the plastic for so long, wafts out and caresses your nose with its sweet yet pungent aroma.

?>DRINK MILKSHAKE

The thick, gloopy milkshake slides down your throat smoothly. The scent of mint wafts through your sinuses.

?>LOOK AT COFFEE CUP

There are ants all over it, crawling in and out. It's empty, though. What could they see in it?

You feel a little itchy.

?>GET UP

You stand up, and realise the ants have taken a liking to you.

You feel pretty itchy.

?>BRUSH OFF ANTS

You do your best to brush off the ants you can see. Your skin still feels like it's crawling, but you think it's just your imagination now.

?>LOOK AT COLUMN

It looks like some sort of memorial, though to what you couldn't say.

?>CLIMB COLUMN

There's nothing to grip onto. You'd just slide back down. Unless you were Batman and had a Batarang or a grappling hook or something.

?>INVENTORY

You don't have a Batarang or a grappling hook. Nice try.

?>SIT

You sit on the bench.

?>THINK

You stare into space and let your mind wander. Thoughts of all the things you want to happen flow through your brain. The people, the places, the events. Things said, things unsaid. Hopes, dreams, regrets. It all rushes through your head like a miasma. It is both pleasurable and terrifying at the same time.

A single tear falls from the corner of your left eye and plops onto the ground silently, its impact drowned by the sounds of the city.

The feelings pass. You're not sure if you feel any better.

?>GET UP

You stand up.

?>NORTH

You find a gap in the hedge which surrounds the little park, and step back out into the noise of the city at night. It's like a different world. The bright lights, the blur of the passing cars, everyone going about their business, somewhere important to be, someone important to see.

Except you. What do you have? Where should you go? The answer remains out of your reach… for now, at least.

*** THE END?***

You can RESTART, RESTORE or QUIT.

?>_

#oneaday, Day 154: Person Specification

I applied for eleven jobs today. Most of them were in similar fields and required similar skills, but irritatingly, most of them were different enough from one another to demand a different cover letter focusing on different aspects of the "person specification". By the end of the whole miserable experience I felt like I'd said absolutely everything about myself in every possible way it is possible to say it. Or at least every possible way it's possible to say it in a way appropriate for a job application. There's something of an expectation for more "formal" language when applying for jobs, and it's easy to fall into the trap of babbling on about being "passionate" and "dedicated" without actually really meaning either of those things. I believe I avoided that particular problem, but it's still a pain to have to "hold back" at times.

So tonight's #oneaday, then, is my unedited personal statement that isn't for any employers. It's for me, and no-one else. Except the last bit. Which is for anyone who wants to hire an awesome person.

I'm Pete. I'm a computer geek, writer and musician, and I also like video games. I stay up late in the evening to work on things that other people wouldn't bother with because I'm that sort of person. I like working on new projects, particularly creative ones, as the last 154 days of this blog will clearly demonstrate. While working on something that demands consistency rather than quality doesn't always produce the best results, I think that my dedication to the project as a whole, even when through suffering what I firmly believe is the absolute worst time of my life ever, has been a stand-out example of how great I really am.

I love to write. I can spell, I can punctuate and I can write in lots of different styles. The style I use on my blog here is a conversational one. I sometimes break the rules a bit in the name of humour or characterisation. But I know how to use English properly, too. The other sites I've written for in the past each demand very different styles due to their different audiences. Over the years, I've written for teenage console gamers (the Official Nintendo Magazine), twentysomething PC gamers (PC Zone), parents with child gamers (WhatTheyPlay), older gamers with a fondness for older games (Good Old Games) and current games enthusiasts who like to stay abreast of what the industry is up to (Kombo). And numerous others besides. I've found it pretty easy to adapt my style to each of these sites, and believe that's another example of me being pretty great, really.

I can play the piano, too. I may not be a proper bonafide virtuoso like some people I know, but I can play things well, with expression and emotion. I can channel the things I'm feeling into what I'm playing, so I can really get the emotions of the music across, with a personal twist. I'm a great sight-reader, too, and can pick up a lot of piano pieces very quickly without having to practice a lot. Okay, if they're difficult, they might not sound great right away, but they will at least be recognisable.

I can type at 85 words per minute. This means I can churn out writing incredibly quickly, and accurately too. This skill was very helpful during E3 week, when we had to get stories up on Kombo in a matter of minutes in many cases. I managed to hammer out some good quality articles just a few minutes after they happened. This, too, is pretty awesome.

I'm also a great friend. I'm patient, calm and understanding in most cases, but I'll defend the people I love and the things I care about to the death. I'm a great listener and will always empathise with someone else's plight, even if I don't really like them, or even if they've wronged me in the past. I'll never deliberately cause someone hurt or upset because doing so makes me feel bad too. I believe that this is one of my best qualities, and I'd hope that my friends agree.

Generally speaking, then, I'm a pretty good person who has a lot to offer the world. So, basically, if you're reading this and you need someone awesome on your team, whatever you might be doing (so long as it's not something pointless and boring) you should definitely hire me and pay me a generous salary and benefits package. And give me a company car.

Because, frankly, I think I deserve all that stuff after everything that I've had to put up with. I know my problems pale in comparison to some people – everyone has an example of someone who's worse off – but speaking purely selfishly, I think, no, I know that I deserve some things to go well. So why don't you help me out a bit?

#oneaday, Day 150: Milestone

[PETE takes the stage. He walks up to the podium, not looking at the audience, not least because he isn't really expecting anyone to be out there.]

PETE: (squinting at the bright lights in his face) Good evening everyone. Thank you for coming. It's a real pleasure to see you all here. Even if the bright lights on the stage mean that I can't actually see any of you. Regardless, it's a pleasure to know you're out there.

[PETE pulls out an old-style white plastic Apple Remote and clicks it at the screen. Nothing happens. He clicks it again.]

PETE: Oh, right. (pulls out iPhone and starts Keynote Remote app) There we go.

[A slide with the big number "150" appears on the screen.]

PETE: One hundred and fifty days ago, I joined a very exclusive club. A small collective of bloggers who made a very simple pledge: to wake up each day and, at some point before they got into bed and fell asleep at the end of the night, to write something on their blogs every day. This "something" didn't have to be good. It didn't have to make sense. It didn't have to be "for" anyone. The purpose of the exercise was twofold.

[PETE taps his iPhone. The next slide appears with a crude stick-figure drawing of him sitting at a writers' desk, scribbling in a book.]

PETE: One: to prove we could do it. To prove that it was possible to express your creative side at least once every single day, even if the final product was complete garbage.

[PETE taps his iPhone again. A crude drawing of him with a thought-bubble above his head appears.]

PETE: And two, to awaken those otherwise-latent skills that we all possess. Those skills of creativity, and imagination. Those skills to spin a magical tale with words, whether it's about actual magical things like unicorns and robots and monsters even though robots aren't really "magical" as such, or about the mundanities of everyday life.

[PETE taps his iPhone, this time with a flourish. Another crude drawing appears, this time showing several faces displaying different emotions.]

PETE: (starting to pace across the stage away from the lectern like a university lecturer) Sometimes these posts are funny. Sometimes they are silly. Sometimes they are nonsensical. Sometimes they are serious. Sometimes they are angry. And sometimes they are very sad. (stops and faces the audience, spreading hands wide, a bit like Jesus but less religious) All of them are valid expressions of something. All of them reflect the essence of that day. Even if they don't mention anything about what happened.

[PETE taps his iPhone. An image of a calendar appears on the screen.]

PETE: (pacing back towards the lectern) 150 days might not be a huge proportion of your life in the grand scheme of things. But a significant number of things can happen. In the one hundred and fifty days since I started posting on here every day, many things have happened. When I began on the 19th of January 2010, I wasn't to know it, but I was at a crossroads in my life.

[PETE reaches the lectern and leans on it in a Phoenix Wright style.]

PETE: I wasn't to know that some one hundred and five days after I began that my whole world would be brought crashing down. I can't pretend that I wasn't expecting it to happen, but I wasn't expecting it to happen in quite the way it did. Nor was I prepared for the amount of pain it would cause, and still does.

[PETE slams his hands on the desk, clearly channelling everyone's favourite Ace Attorney.]

PETE: But I wasn't about to give up. I felt like shit. I was angry. I wanted to destroy things. (slams fist on desk and hunches over it like Edgeworth when he gets pissy) I wanted people to hurt. I wanted people to hurt as much as I do, and more so, so they'd understand. (pauses, stands, calmer) I still do feel these things, sometimes more than ever. But I was not going to give up, and am not going to give up.

[PETE taps his iPhone, and a crudely-drawn stick figure image of several different people appears on the screen.]

PETE: New people came into my life at just the right time. They helped me understand things, to see some good in myself at a time when all was darkness. They gave me courage, gave me strength, spurred me on to try new things. Other friends proved themselves to be true friends instead of just acquaintances. The disastrous collapse of one relationship led to a new-found closeness in many others.

[PETE taps his iPhone again, and a photograph of PAX East appears.]

PETE: Right as I reached the point of no return at this crossroads – it had one-way streets in all directions – I discovered something. That it's OK to be me. As I set off down the road I'm still on – which is winding, twisting, turning and regularly plummets into a crevasse – I was a new person. Or rather a person I'd always been. But more aware of it.

[PETE points out into the audience dramatically.]

PETE: One thing you can always be sure of in these last one hundred and fifty days is that it's been all me, for better or worse.

[PETE slams his fist on the desk again.]

PETE: And one of the things that one of the new people in my life taught me, or should I say reminded me, was that not everyone goes together. Not everyone likes everyone else. If we did, sure, it'd be easier. But that's not the way the world works, either on a tiny person-to-person scale, or on a huge nation-to-nation, culture-to-culture scale. And acceptance of that fact is what makes living that little bit easier.

[PETE taps his iPhone. A picture of a chav appears on the screen.]

PETE: I don't like this guy. He's a twat. He thinks I'm a twat, too, and thinks it's amusing to insult me in the street even though I'd never seen or spoken to him before in my life.

[PETE taps his iPhone again. The image shatters.]

PETE: But it doesn't matter. He is long gone. (pauses) Not dead. I didn't kill him. Though I quite wanted to at the time. No. I have never seen him again since. And if he can't deal with who I am, then he can go fuck himself.

[PETE emerges from behind the lectern again.]

PETE: Given that the eventual goal for everyone involved in this little experiment is to write something every day for a year, the number one hundred and fifty is actually not all that important. Halfway through day one hundred and eighty-two? That's important. That's the halfway mark. But one hundred and fifty? It's a symbol. A milestone. Perhaps a new beginning, perhaps not. No-one can say. All I can say is: thanks for being there every day.

[PETE pauses for a moment.]

PETE: Also, you can blame Alex Connolly for telling me to make a speech. Good night everybody.

#oneaday, Day 146: Overly Ambitious Interactive Post

This post is interactive. And long. As such, I am using a More tag for the first time ever. To take part in all the fun, read the full post. It's about Persona 4's music, and how I think it can be made relevant to pretty much any situation you might find yourself in in everyday life. I commented on this on Twitter the other day. I thought it might be fun to prove it. Turns out it is fun. And rather time-consuming to prepare. But here it is anyway.

Continue reading "#oneaday, Day 146: Overly Ambitious Interactive Post" →

#oneaday, Day 133: Lazy Days

Everyone has lazy days. Days when nothing – nothing – gets done. And sometimes there's not even a reason for getting nothing done. Just pure laziness. Or possibly your body telling your mind that it's quite comfortable where it is, thank you very much, and would it mind awfully if it just sat here and atrophied for a few hours KTHXBAI.

It starts innocently enough. You sit down on the sofa. Perhaps you wanted a quick breather. Perhaps you've just had a phone call that went on for so long that that pacing-around-the-room thing that everyone does with mobile phones got a bit tiresome. Perhaps you were about to watch some TV. The circumstances of how you got to the sofa are about to become completely irrelevant.

At some point during your blissful reverie, something of earth-shattering importance will occur to you. Perhaps there's a letter that you need to post today, or you're running out of toilet paper and the shop is closing early for refurbishment today, or maybe you're out of milk, or perhaps you actually have something useful to get on with. Whatever it is, your mind can't stop thinking about it. A feeling of lurking panic starts to set in. What if you really need to take a dump and there isn't enough toilet paper? There's no-one else in the house so you can't ask anyone else to go and fetch you some. Could you sink as low as using a towel or a newspaper? Or would you want to wash your shitty arse in the shower, like some sort of incontinent old person, only without a nurse to help you with the hideous process? The feeling of panic builds and you almost feel obliged to get up.

But no! Why should you get up? You've been working your arse off all week for little to no gratitude from the people that you work for. So you've earned this little sit down. You shouldn't feel obliged to do anything. So you don't. You say to yourself – possibly out loud – no. You are going to sit here until you're nice and relaxed, or at least until Top Gear has finished. Then and only then you might think about getting up to post that letter.

"But the post goes at 4pm, and it's 3.50 now," says your mind. "If you don't post that letter today, the council are going to charge you eight-hundred and fifty-four pounds for the privilege of another letter asking you where your eight-hundred and fifty-four pounds owed in money that they paid you by mistake actually is." You close your eyes and block out the whingeing and nagging that your own mind is setting about you with. This is your time. Besides, the postman will come again tomorrow, and you can always change the date on the letter to look like you posted it earlier and it actually got lost in the post and then feign ignorance when the council start hammering on your door and bringing the bailiffs round.

You decide to give up trying to be productive and you lean back on the sofa in a more relaxed posture. Perhaps your mouth falls open in an expression of gormless contentment. You stare into space for a little while as the light starts to fade outside and you wonder if you probably should get up and cook something, but you're not sure you can be bothered. You'd phone for pizza, but you don't have any cash, and ordering one with a debit card is always such a hassle because they always phone back and say it hasn't gone through and you think your card's been declined because you've got no money but it's actually them just typing the number in wrong and oh for heaven's sake being by yourself sucks and wouldn't it be much better if you had someone to talk to or cook dinner for? That might get you up off the damn sofa.

There are only two possible outcomes to this scenario once it gets to this point:

The first possibility is that you achieve victory over the soporific powers of the sofa, stand up and get something done. You post your letter, putting it right into the postman's hand just as he is emptying the postbox into his big bag. Then you go and buy toilet paper and milk and order a pizza. Your evening goes swimmingly well, and you collapse into bed satisfied that you have spent your day as productively as you possibly could, with a much-needed break in the middle for a little quiet time and reflection.

And the other possibility is, of course, death.

#oneaday, Day 131: Garden of Dreams

He sat beneath the tree, his trusty little sketchbook open on his knees, the slightly-battered box of pencils by his side. Chewing the end of his pencil absently, he flipped back through the pages, remembering the thoughts which had come to him each time he had put pencil to paper. There was the expression of his anger, the page black with scribblings and scrawlings, words of pain obscured by a frantic, swirling miasma of darkness. And there was the calming scene, the one where he had taken his time and had lapsed almost into a trance, staring at the greenery around him, every leaf its own miniscule effort that no-one would ever see. And there were others, each possessing a memory, some of which had gone through his mind immediately after one another. Calm, to anger, to meditative, to philosophical. Some days there was just one picture. Others there were four.

But today there was a blank page, and he wasn't sure what to draw. He had put the point of the pencil against the page several times, but wasn't sure what he should do. Should he be honest and express himself fully? No-one need ever know; it was his sketchbook after all, and people only ever saw the things he chose to share. But with honesty came responsibility; dealing with the truth; the possibility of shattered dreams.

He shrugged. His dreams had already been shattered several times already, and he was still here. He put his pencil to the paper and began to draw. He wasn't a great artist, which was another reason he didn't share many of his sketches. But the things he drew held personal meaning to him. Every picture a memory, an emotion, words left unsaid.

He closed his eyes and pictured his subject. He wasn't sure he could do it justice, but he wanted to try. He decided to keep his eyes closed for the duration of the drawing, and just let his pencil move naturally. It glided across the paper with a gentle scratching sound – the only accompaniment to the soft breeze which blew across the garden and caressed the skin of his face – and traced around the contours of that which occupied his mind so completely right now.

It had been a curious feeling. Hoping against hope, so used to crushed desires and wretched despair, and then the sudden ray of light. His hope had been fulfilled, at least to some extent. He didn't know what that tiny fulfilled wish would come to, or indeed if anything would come of it. But for now, the fact that for once in his life, a tiny, seemingly-insignificant little wish had been granted – that was enough for him. He needed nothing more, and he knew that while his trials were far from over, he was walking the path he had chosen. Whether it was the correct path or not remained to be seen. But he was walking it, wherever it might lead.

He began to pencil in the details where he thought they should be, eyes still closed, working using only his mind's eye. He knew that the resultant picture would be nonsensical, but in allowing his mind to have free reign on what he produced, he felt free.

He stopped. That was enough. He had done all he could.

He opened his eyes. The tangled mess of scrawl on the paper bore little resemblance to that of which he was thinking. But it was enough. He knew what it meant, and what it was, was honest.