#oneaday Day 695: Where Are They?

Longtime viewers of this blog are probably wondering where my cast of stickmen characters has got to (besides the top of the page and the sidebar, obviously). Newer visitors are probably wondering why on Earth there is a parade of stickmen at the top of the page and in the sidebar.

You'll be pleased (or disappointed) to know that I will be resurrecting the stickmen images for posts starting in the New Year. I haven't yet decided if I'll do a comic every day or only on certain days, or if I'll simply use individual images. I've tried both over the course of the last while, and both have their pros and cons.

I'm not going to make any excuses as to why I'm not doing them at the moment — they may not look like very much, but those images and comic strips take a surprising amount of time to put together, and since getting a lot busier I just didn't have the energy to keep up with doing them and a blog post every day, to be frank. To put it in a simpler, arguably more honest way, I couldn't be arsed.

Now, however, I'm twiddling my thumbs in anticipation of potential new work which may be coming my way from several sources from the New Year onwards. As such, it's got me thinking about flexing my creative muscles a bit more. I've already mentioned that half-finished novel sitting in Google Docs waiting for me to 1) figure out where it's going and 2) finish it. And indeed I've been doing sporadic bits of work on that — though haven't yet got into the "habit" of working on it regularly. Alongside this, I've been experimenting with making YouTube videos of bullet hell shooters — fun, though I anticipate my audience being somewhat limited! And, since I invested a fair amount of my own time, effort and soul into those silly little characters you see at the top of the page, I figured it's time to bring them back.

Creating characters is an odd experience. When you create a character, whether it's a comic book stick figure, a character in a novel, a roleplaying character in a Dungeons and Dragons campaign or any other persona, you can't help thinking of them as your own "children" in a way. You become attached to them — though not necessarily to the degree that you want them to always succeed, particularly in the case of novel characters prone to attracting disastrous situations — and you feel like you "know" them.

Such is the case with the stick figures. There's obviously me, though my abstract representation resembles me in the most superficial manner possible my emphasising what I consider to be my most prominent characteristic — my beard. And from there the others sort of took on a life of their own.

Alex didn't originally have a name and existed purely because I wanted to put a redhead in there. She's often there to provide a splash of colour to an otherwise monochrome scene. Her name came from me asking on Twitter what I should call her, and a (male) friend named Alex politely requesting she be named after him. Alex is relatively normal, though the character trait that she only reads Grazia, not books, was set relatively early in the characters' lifespan as "speaking parts".

Lucy, first seen in this post, originally had black hair, but her overexcitable nature was present and correct. She didn't show up with her blonde hair until considerably later. (I think. I admit I didn't look that hard. But after a cursory glance, that appeared to be the first time Blonde Lucy showed up.) From this we could arguably deduce that one of those is not her natural hair colour. That or I simply decided she'd look better as a blonde, particularly as her dizziness as a character conforms to the "blonde stereotype". (Note: I don't actually believe the blonde stereotype. But Lucy does, and is happy to conform to it.)

Phillipe (don't you dare call him Philippe or he'll hurt you) was an odd one. His distinctive, fixed facial expression came about from how my buddy Edd and I used to draw stickman characters shouting, screaming or generally being noisy back when we were at secondary school. The idea to have him permanently stuck like that coupled with a predilection for getting his knob out at every opportunity was alarmingly quick to occur to me. He's generally used to say things that are a bit closer to the bone (no pun intended) than the other characters might. His name is the result of another Twitter poll, and privately amusing because his personality is pretty much the exact opposite of the person he's named after.

Those four are the main cast who have been present in pretty much every crude drawing on this blog in one form or another. Other recurring characters such as the Money-Bot (originally introduced as a pun on the term "monetization") and Des (whose existence is explained in great detail here) have come and gone and, like the "core four", have taken on something of a life of their own.

So yes, they will be back. As I slowly piece my brain back into some semblance of order — not particularly helped by recent setbacks relating to employment — these facets of my personality (because that's what they are, let's face it) will be making a resurgence. Because for all the pain in the arse it is to draw them every day, having them there is oddly comforting; creating them strangely cathartic.

#oneaday Day 693: Endings

I finished L.A. Noire tonight. MILD SPOILER: It's somewhat bittersweet. I liked it, because it was entirely in keeping with the genre in question.

Endings are a tricky business, though, whatever medium you're working in. The temptation to have a happy ending where everything resolves itself nicely is always strong, because everyone likes things to be "resolved" and for characters they've spent a hefty amount of time with to have some degree of "closure". Leaving things hanging either leaves an author open to accusations of planning a sequel, or leaving the audience unsatisfied.

I wrestled with this particular conundrum throughout the course of the month-long piece of fiction I wrote over the course of November. In fact, for the final post, I rewrote the ending several times. I eventually plumped for a "happy" ending because I felt it was in keeping with the personal journey my protagonist had been on — to smack him down after everything he'd been through would be a bit harsh.

Well, yes, it would — but equally, a harsh ending isn't necessarily a bad one. In fact, a bittersweet ending where not everyone leaves feeling satisfied can actually be very effective and memorable. I'm not going to spoil L.A. Noire's ending here in case there are people reading who haven't played it yet, but instead I'm going to talk about the first game I remember to have a strikingly "bad" ending — and I'm not talking "bad" in the sense of "poor".

Rare's Conker's Bad Fur Day was a peculiar game. Starting out as one of the cutesy platformers that typified a lot of the N64's catalogue, it eventually morphed into something completely unexpected: a "mature" title. Now, by maintaining the game's original cartoony visuals, there was an element of immaturity about it, too, particularly when combined with the not-very-well bleeped out swearing, the grotesquely excessive violence and the crude situations (a bee cheating on his wife by humping a large-breasted sunflower (off-screen, but very audible) being a particularly memorable example). But there was an undercurrent of maturity about the whole thing, too — the game treated the player as an adult who enjoyed puerile humour but was capable of understanding pathos and an impressively wide range of references to movies and popular culture.

Most notably, though, it had a brilliant ending that not only spoofed Alien fantastically, it also managed to provide a genuine "What the fu–" moment in a game that prided itself on its ridiculousness throughout. By providing a sobering, heartbreaking ending after the hours of cartoonish insanity which had preceded it, the game was giving the player a very marked wake-up call. It was marking the end of your time in this brightly coloured world filled with chocolate, poo monsters and cogs which told you to fuck off. It was time to wise up and start being a grown-up again. It also mirrored Conker's own journey throughout the course of the game — the basic premise of his whole adventure was him attempting to get home and recover from the mother of all hangovers. The most sobering experience he could have was the loss of the one he loved.

This isn't to say that good endings aren't satisfying — who doesn't like to see the Death Star blowing up? But a well-made "bad" ending can be just as — if not more so — effective at tugging at the heartstrings and provoking an emotional response. To date, my favourite game endings include the aforementioned Conker along with Silent Hill 2, surely one of the most depressing interactive experiences you could ever sit through — but all the better for it. Heavy Rain, for all its plot holes and flaws, also had a great "bad" ending. Several, in fact.

So what makes an effective ending? For me, it's a sense of "closure", that this is most definitely and unequivocally "the end" — whether that's because everyone is dead, because the planet is saved or simply because our lead characters are closing one chapter in their lives and starting a new one. Get me invested in your characters and I'll care what happens to them — so make sure whatever shenanigans they're involved in reaches some sort of satisfying conclusion — even if you're planning a sequel.

#oneaday Day 691: Satisfactory is Unacceptable

It's been a while since I had a teaching-related rant, but this article helpfully reminded me why I'm in no hurry to go back, despite being currently out of a job.

Any profession where it's considered unacceptable to be graded "satisfactory" is not a profession I want to work in. And I'd argue it's a profession that's in need of a good shakeup.

Where do these rankings come from? OfSTED, or the Office for Standards in Education if you're unfamiliar and/or foreign. Every so often, a school gets a bunch of inspectors descend upon the place to nose around everything it's up to. As part of this process, inspectors drop in to a number of lessons for 15-20 minutes and then assign an arbitrary grade to the lesson, branding it anywhere between "Inadequate" (4) and "Outstanding" (1). These grades are also applied to other areas in the school, such as behaviour, "value for money" (i.e. how well the school is budgeting and spending what money it gets from the local authority) and numerous other factors.

Fine. I get the need to inspect places and ensure they're doing their job. What I don't get is the inconsistency in OfSTED's approach. 15-20 minutes observation of one lesson is not enough to understand how well a teacher teaches. That teacher might have the worst class in the world, and may have scored a major victory on that day simply by having them sat down and listening for once. But if the children aren't deemed to be "learning anything", then BAM! That's an "inadequate" mark right there.

Or it might not be — it may well be a "satisfactory" grade, depending on what else happens.

Now, the word "satisfactory" carries certain assumptions with it. Namely, it implies that the person declaring something to be "satisfactory" is somehow satisfied with the thing in question. While something that is "satisfactory" is not the best thing in the world, it's certainly acceptable and does what it is supposed to.

Not in teaching. "Satisfactory" is somehow seen as a bad thing, despite the standards for branding lessons as "good" or "outstanding" being 1) completely arbitrary and largely down to the opinion of the inspector rather than specific, measurable criteria and 2) extremely difficult to attain, even for the most talented teachers. And if you're in a difficult school teaching a difficult class, God help you.

New head of OfSTED Sir Michael Wilshaw is aiming to do away with the "satisfactory" branding and replacing it with "grade 3". Not only that, he's proposing that automatic pay rises for teachers whose work is considered "satisfactory" should cease, instead being reserved for those graded "good" or better.

This would be fine if the grading of a teacher was based on more than a short, not necessarily representative observation of part of a lesson. Actually, would it? If you're doing your job, wouldn't you expect a pay rise every so often? It's been that way in teaching for some time now, with yearly pay rises for your first few years on the job before you have to go through a procedure known as "Threshold" to get on to the upper pay scale. The demands for meeting Threshold are pretty stringent, so some teachers won't get through anyway — surely that's enough control on pay rises?

(Note: I haven't been teaching for a while, so pay systems may have changed since then. The above is how I understood it when I was employed by the system.)

Perhaps most obnoxious, however, is Sir Michael's quote where he noted that "if anyone says to you that ‘staff morale is at an all-time low’ you will know you are doing something right."

Sorry, Sir Michael, but this is where you lost any credibility with me whatsoever. You should not be actively trying to sap morale — an OfSTED inspection is already an incredibly stressful experience. I know — I've been through two, including one whose result caused the school to go in to Special Measures (essentially meaning that it gets re-inspected on a much more regular basis than normal, and is at serious risk of closure). They weren't pleasant experiences, so to imply that your staff should be encouraging a lack of morale among struggling teachers is pretty shameful.

Teaching is the most stressful job I've ever had. It drove me to a nervous breakdown, such was the stress of everything I had to think about at once coupled with torrents of abuse from hormonal, uncooperative teenagers. Sometimes you can use all the "strategies" in the book and nothing works with a difficult class or a particularly uncooperative child. Sometimes the behaviour of a pupil does disrupt the flow of a lesson. Should that be blamed on the teacher if the teacher in question does everything they're allowed to do to prevent the situation from escalating further? If the teacher in question is having difficulty dealing with particular pupils, should that teacher be supported or vilified?

I think you know the answer to that one.

So in short, then, I'm not sorry I left teaching. And if this is the way that the regulatory body for teaching is going, then I want absolutely no part of it whatsoever. Teaching should be about inspiring children to do great things; to teach them about the world; to encourage them to try new things, and to expand their knowledge of the things they know. It shouldn't be about meeting arbitrary criteria and being judged by people with no sense of context. And it certainly shouldn't be about being deliberately demoralised by the people supposedly regulating the profession.

Good luck to anyone entering the educational system at the moment. You're going to need it, from the sound of things.

#oneaday Day 688: Bananaphone

[Edit: Inadvertently only saved this as a draft yesterday instead of publishing. My apologies!]

The Internet is full of weird and wonderful things, as doubtless you well know. Most of these things are designed purely to waste time or make you laugh — or, in most cases, both.

Such is the case with the wonderful Procatinator, which has brought all sense of productivity on the Internet to a standstill over the last few days.

What is it? Well, as you might have gathered from the title, it's a procrastination tool that features cats. Specifically, amusing cat GIF images which are presented on a loop, coupled with a strangely appropriate (and clearly carefully-selected) piece of music.

The interesting thing about it is that obviously someone has spent a fair amount of time on this. The website itself is pretty slick, and it couldn't have been easy to collate a huge library of cat GIFs and link them to pieces of music.

Here are some highlights:

Cat number 33 features the Beastie Boys. It's alarming quite how well this works.

Cat number 34 features the Bananaphone song, which I defy you to evacuate from your head once you've heard it once. Particularly when you relate it to the image herein.

Cat number 14 is notable purely for the entertaining image of a cat using a sewing machine.

Cat number 6 is… just, well, see for yourself.

I'm impressed at the dedication of whoever was behind Procatinator, because they've taken the time to archive a huge collection of cat GIFs and then go to the trouble of putting them on a website which inspires pure joy in everyone who sees it.

I wonder if they put it on their CV?

#oneaday Day 684: The Great... You Know

I am depressed. That much is probably self-evident to those of you who have been following me for a while. Writing about it is often a cathartic experience, though talking about it in person is somewhat more difficult. That's why if you have ever met me face to face, you might not think anything was wrong. But there is, has been for a long time and probably will continue to be for a considerable period to come.

I shan't get into the specifics of this particular bout, as some of them are personal to me and I have no desire to share them or make them public — the whole "losing my job" thing is a contributing factor, but there are other things, too. What I did want to talk about was the effect of a visit from "Des", my own personal black cloud of despair, personified as, well, a big black cloud in the comics I did on this blog a while back (and will be returning to in the New Year).

Depression is different for everyone, and everyone copes with it differently. Some cope with it better than others. Others turn to self-destructive coping mechanisms which cause a spiral of upset both for themselves and — often unwittingly — the people around them. I'm not quite sure where I fall. My behaviour when I get depressed isn't conducive to feeling particularly better, but I don't abuse my body in any way — the closest I come to indulging in any kind of vice is going out and getting a coffee and a cake because I feel like I "deserve" one. That's probably not particularly helpful in and of itself, but it's a different kind of coping mechanism to drink, drugs or self-harm.

"Coping mechanism" is a bit of a misnomer, because very often, it doesn't involve much in the way of actual "coping". For me, when depression hits, it hits hard. I feel like a darkness has descended on me and all I want to do is lie down, close my eyes and let it engulf me. And it does. And once I'm in there, it's very difficult to get out again. Even if I open my eyes to eliminate the physical side of the "darkness", once it's wormed its way into my mind, it's very difficult to summon up the motivation to do anything — even move, at times. It takes an enormous strength of will to break out of that cycle — it sounds ridiculous, I know, but ten minutes before writing this post I was lying on my sofa simply staring into the middle distance, the occasional thought of "I should move" or "I should do something rather than just lying here" being quickly swatted away by a general feeling of complete and total apathy towards everything. The feeling of wanting to cry came and went several times, as did the sense of frustration at the fact that there wasn't one concrete "cause" of the way I was feeling to do something about, or lash out at. Eventually I succeeded in my Will check and managed to lift myself up and muster the strength to sit down and write this.

I'm not sure if writing this is actually helping matters or hindering them. I'm not sure if sharing this sort of thing is a good idea. But getting these difficult thoughts out of my head is my main "coping mechanism", and the way in which I can do that most ably is through writing. Talking is good, too, but that carries with it its own particular set of unique anxieties, too, whereas while I'm writing, it's just me and the blank page in front of me, the words falling into place and explaining the feelings I'm experiencing.

I have never been to the doctor about depression. Actually, that's not quite true. Towards the end of my first stint teaching in UK classrooms (music, secondary) I eventually reached "breaking point" one day. Behaviour of the class was just so appalling that I had to walk out of the room and immediately burst into tears. I was swiftly escorted into the nearby Arts office in the drama department and plied with soothing words. They didn't help. I needed to get out. I left that school that day and didn't come back, getting signed off by my doctor at the time for "work-related stress", which is exactly what it was. Had I not taken that step to say "whoa there, this is too much to handle", I'm not sure I'd be writing this now.

Since then, I haven't returned to the doctors — for anything, in fact, let alone depression. The problem is, I don't know if it would help, were I to show up and say "I think I'm depressed". I don't particularly want to go on medication as that carries with it its whole own set of considerations, and the prospect of counselling makes me concerned about money — particularly as I'm now out of a job. And beyond that, the suggestions are always the same — eat well, get exercise. I know all that, and most of the time I am doing all that.

Depression is an uphill struggle, and every time you reach what looks like the summit you get a period of respite. But before long you're climbing again, scrabbling frantically for a foothold. The goal is always the same: to lift yourself into the clear blue skies above the cloud layer, free from all the darkness below. Some people manage it. Others aren't so lucky.

As for me, I'm a fighter. I'll keep going. I'll get through this shitty period, just like I've got through every previous shitty period in my life. And doubtless there will be more in the future. I just wish I was one of those people who can laugh off adversity and see every annoyance as a new challenge to overcome, rather than a spike trap smacking you repeatedly in the face, sort of like this:

Unfortunately, I very much fall into the latter camp.

#oneaday Day 683: Debrief

So, for the last 30 days I've been doing (almost) nothing but creative writing on here. What have we learned?

Firstly, I remembered that creative writing is fun. Not that I'd particularly forgotten that fact, but I've always enjoyed it, ever since a young age. It's actually knuckling down and doing it that can be the stumbling block for many, though — which is, I guess, what projects like NaNoWriMo and what I was doing here are all about. Once you discipline yourself to do something, then you can do it, no problem — over the course of the last 30 days I've churned out over 30,000 words of creativity. Whether or not they're any good is another matter, of course — but they're there, and once they're there, they can become a starting point to something else, even if that "something else" turns out to be something completely different, simply spurred on by what you've achieved previously.

Secondly, improvisatory storytelling is fun, although not necessarily the most practical way to write something coherent. As I said at the start of the whole exercise, I hadn't planned anything out, created any characters, settings or overarching plot — I was making things up as I went along. This was probably evident from any number of plot holes that I'm sure are still in there, and points where I retroactively made something relevant, perhaps not in the way I'd originally intended. Why? Because when I originally wrote something, I'd had one thing in mind, only to come up with a Brilliant New Idea a couple of days later that made the original something either irrelevant or very difficult to fit in to things.

Thirdly, tenses are a bugger. I made a conscious decision once I introduced Evie's narrative to distinguish the two narrators through their use of tense, but it was so easy to naturally shift to the wrong one throughout the course of one chapter. I'm pretty sure I spotted it every time it happened, but if there are a few examples of incorrect tenses, then I apologise.

Fourthly, I already knew this, but stream of consciousness is a fun way to explore characters. With stream of consciousness writing, you can create an interesting, compelling character and narrative without any other characters being present. The majority of Adam's story was just him, for example, and Evie didn't speak much until later. The characters' internal monologues can provide interesting ways to explore the way they think and feel without having to have conversations with others to make things explicit.

I picked up on the whole "stream of consciousness" thing back at school when we read Jean Rhys' Jane Eyre prequel Wide Sargasso Sea, a book which explores exactly what happened to Mrs Rochester before she became the scary woman in the attic. I can't remember a huge amount about the book itself, but many things I've written since that time have taken the first person stream of consciousness approach, as it's a style in which I enjoy writing. Other influential books from my past include the Adrian Mole series — diary-style writing is often pretty similar to stream of consciousness, after all, though there has to be something of a suspension of disbelief at times as few real diaries would include complete word-for-word transcriptions of conversations that had happened — and (don't laugh) John Grisham's The Rainmaker, which was the first book I ever read that wasn't written in past tense.

On the whole, I'd say the experiment was a success. Tucked away in my Google Docs account right now is 14,455 words of another story I'm writing — and this one I have mostly planned out, or at least have some "key events" and characters in mind. One day I might actually get around to finishing it — and since I find myself with a bit of free time on my hands at the moment, I guess there's no time like the present. As such, assuming no-one suddenly phones/emails me on Monday and hires me, I will start doing a bit of (non-blog) writing each day in lieu of having an actual job. Who knows? Something awesome might come of it. At the very least, a creative project which has been on my drawing board for about a bajillion years might finally come to fruition, which will be satisfying. And, frankly, given some of the dross out there which does make it to publication, I'm pretty sure I can do better. I mean, I know I'm not the perfect writer — no-one is, and to assume so is both arrogant and very, very stupid — but I like to think I'm pretty good, at the very least. And also, you only get better through practice, right?

The one thing I can say about the last year is that I've got a ton of experience writing. I mean, I know I did the year before too, what with contributing to sites like Kombo and GamesAreEvil as well as writing this nonsense every day, but this year it's been my actual full-time job, and for the vast majority of that time I've had the privilege of working with some talented editors who know their craft and give good feedback. Too many outlets these days settle for getting things published as quickly as possible rather than taking their time over ensuring everything is as good as it can be. This year, I've picked up a bunch of little tips to ensure good-quality output. Even if I've had to spend the whole year professionally spelling words like "theorise" and "colour" incorrectly. (Love you, USA.)

So, where to from here? We'll see. It's a weekend coming up (it is, right? Losing one's job causes one to immediately lose all sense of what day it is, in my experience.) so that will be spent attempting to relax and unwind after, frankly, what has been a particularly crappy week. Following that, on Monday, as I say, I'll be setting aside some time to do some non-blog writing every day in lieu of actual work, and seeing how that develops. And from there, who knows?

On the job front, there are several irons in the fire at the moment, so hopefully something will come of (at least) one of them. Now I have a bunch of experience under my belt, hopefully I won't find myself spending a year out of work again. Because that sucked a big pile of donkey dick. An actual pile of it. And I have no desire to return to that situation. So I won't.

Hopefully, anyway.

Enough rambling from me. Have a pleasant weekend, all.

#oneaday Day 682: Wasteland Diaries, Final Part

[Read from the start. If, you know, you want to. Excuse any typos or errors along the way — this was written along the lines of NaNoWriMo: get it done, (maybe) fix it later. It was also mostly written at ungodly hours in the middle of the night. AND NOW THE CONCLUSION.]

I have come to a decision, and I'm ready to stick to it and live with the consequences, whatever they might be. It's a scary moment, but also a liberating one. By freeing myself from uncertainty and committing to a course of action, I feel that I can positively move forward and take on the future head-on.

Earlier in the morning, Clarkson had called me and said that Adam wanted to see me. I'd had an instinctive feeling when I woke up that today would be an important day, and that feeling's only been growing ever since then.

I've made an effort. I've done my hair, put on a little makeup for the first time in I can't remember how long, and I've found something nice to wear rather than PJs or a horrible, faded old T-shirt. If it's a big day, I should look the part, and to do so I've found a dress I always liked. I've lost a bit of weight ever since all this started, so it hangs a little loosely in some parts, but it stays up, at least, and is probably the most respectable thing I own.

I set off down the street in the direction of the hospital, wondering how the day will unfold. While I've committed to my own course of action, I'm well aware I'm only one of two people in this scenario, and it's entirely possible that things might not go the way I expect. In the end, nothing is certain.

I stop proceeding down that chain of thought because it leads to hesitation, uncertainty and nervousness, none of which I can afford right now. This chapter of my life ends today, and I'm not going to let self-doubt stand in the way of all that. I will do my part to strive towards the future I want, and then I'll just have to see what happens.

It starts drizzling with rain as I walk down the street and, inevitably, I've forgotten an umbrella. Fortunately, the rain doesn't built to the levels it has in the past few days, but it still soaks my hair, putting it at severe risk of doing that fuzzy thing it always does in damp conditions. I may as well have not bothered sorting it out.

I quicken my pace and before long have arrived at the hospital. I follow the familiar path up to Adam's room, and find Clarkson waiting outside for me.

"Hello, Evie," he says, a serious expression on his face. "Go on in, he's awake."

I push open the door and walk into the dimly-lit room. Adam is lying in the bed, propped up into an almost-natural sitting position. He looks tired, still.

"Hi," he says, his voice cracked and weak. "Glad you're here."

"Me too," I say, sitting down in the chair next to him and taking his hand. "I–"

"Wait," he croaks, interrupting me. "Please, let me talk first."

"Okay," I say.

"Evie," he says. "I've come to a realisation after the very strange experiences I've had."

He pauses, swallows and licks his lips before continuing.

"After you… told me you weren't ready to be a mother, I jumped to a conclusion," he says. "I jumped to the conclusion that it was all about me. That you didn't want me, that you didn't see a future with us both in it."

"That's not what I thought at all," I say quietly. "But I understand why you thought that, and why you did what you did. I'm sorry I did what I did in the way I did. I'm sorry — I'm sorry I killed our baby."

He smiles and shakes his head.

"When I ran from you, I felt like the world had been destroyed," he says. "I felt like you were the one who had destroyed it. Everything ceased to have meaning, and I felt that there was no place for me in a world like that. Everything, everyone was dead to me."

He pauses and coughs a little. I move to help him, but he just shakes his head, dismissing me. I sit back down again.

"I know now that I was wrong," he growls, his voice weakening. "I know now that it wasn't you who was being selfish, it was me."

There's a silence for a moment. I can't deny it, even with the guilt I feel over causing all this.

"It wasn't your fault," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "You didn't cause this. I did. My own stubbornness, my own stupidity."

I see his eyes filling with tears. I let him speak.

"You weren't the one who ended my world," he says, "I was the one who ended yours. I've put you through all this. I've made you suffer. And for what? It's not fair. I can't keep doing that to you. I can't ruin your life any more. I can't hold you down. I can't keep you back. You're not my property. You're not mine to command."

He changed. He's like a different person. No — he's like the person I first fell in love with, not the hollow wreck of a man who'd been plummeting towards rock bottom even before all this happened. It's good to see him back again. And a feeling of relief sweeps through my mind.

"No," I say, smiling. "I'm not. But I've learned something, too. What we are is a team. We work together. We decide things together. Neither of us has to be alone. Neither of us has to make the difficult decisions by ourselves. What's done is done, and I hope you can forgive me, but I can assure you it will never happen again."

"I know," he says, quietly. "You were the one who led me back to reality, Evie. By following you, that's why I'm here. You were the whole reason for my journey. You saved me, whether or not you intended to."

"What journey?" I say. "What do you mean?"

He smiles and closes his eyes. I feel his fingers wrap around mine.

"This is the end," he says. "And the beginning, all at once."

#oneaday Day 681.5: RIP GamePro

[Apologies for the interruption to the ongoing story — it will end tomorrow. This needed to be said today, though.]

Today, an era came to an end, as the announcement came that GamePro in its current form would be no more as of December 5, 2011. Both the website and the new quarterly magazine have been shuttered, and all of us on staff suddenly find ourselves without a job. The GamePro brand itself will be folded into PC World, where it will most likely die a quiet death, unnoticed.

This is, of course, suckitude of the highest magnitude, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. It is tough times in the super-competitive publishing industry, particularly in the overcrowded video games market. I shan't pretend to understand the business reasons behind the closure of GamePro when we were enjoying viewing figures the likes of which the site had never seen — but it seems to be something of a sad truth in today's games journalism industry that nothing lasts forever. If you want job security, it ain't the sector you should get yourself into.

What has been touching is the amount of support people have shown for GamePro on Twitter and various other social networks today. The magazine and site was a lot more widely-known than I thought — at times I'd wondered if UK journos and industry types were even aware of it — and everyone, it seems, was sorry to see the back of what had, after all, been a fixture in gamer culture for many, many years, particularly in the U.S.

GamePro, of course, has personal meaning to me, too. My brother spent ten months giving both the magazine and its web presence a much-needed shakeup (see his blog post today for more) and made it something that was interesting and relevant to the modern gamer. And once he left and I had the opportunity to jump in on news reporting duties, I know my contributions played a part in the site's growing success — growth that has been sadly cut short by today's news.

While I'd never met many of the GamePro team face to face, it was a close-knit bunch of people who got on well together, from what I could make out, anyway! I felt like a valuable member of the team despite being halfway across the world, and I always felt like my hard work was appreciated — which is why I continued to work so hard and contribute as much quality content as I could to the site. I made a distinct effort to not cover the same stories that all the big news blogs did — that's counter-productive. Rather, I took inspiration from sources such as GameSetWatch (which, coincidentally, also died today), Kill/Screen and numerous others to dig up interesting nuggets of information on fascinating indie titles, peculiar happenings in gamer culture and opportunities for discussion and debate. I was happy with the approach; I feel it gave GamePro a unique take on the news which wasn't just a case of rewriting press releases and rewording stories from other sites. And on the occasions where I did write stories based on press releases, I made a conscious effort to actually write a story rather than just reword the press release. I'd read up on the background of the companies involved, find out precedents for interesting events and throw in some interesting trivia if I had some to hand.

And now it's all over. I'm sorry to see GamePro go, but I'm hopeful that the staff will be able to find themselves suitably awesome positions to move on to. As for me? I couldn't say. Working for an American site has been a great deal of fun but it's had the side-effect that I'm known more in the States than I am in my own country. While I'd hope my experience and output would speak for itself regardless of the geographical location of the site on which it was published, I do wonder which side of the pond any future writing gigs might come from.

With that, then, ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses and toast the late GamePro. You'll be missed.

#oneaday Day 681: Wasteland Diaries, Part 29

She was there, and talking, and I heard her, and then she was gone and I felt sleepy. I drifted off into slumber, but this wasn't like it had been before. This was restful and relaxing. When I woke up, I felt invigorated, though my body still felt stiff, and unable to move, and I was still strapped to an array of beeping, whirring machines.

An older guy with a kindly face came in to see me. I recognised his voice, though I wasn't sure from where. He did some tests. I felt him fumbling around on my body, but it didn't hurt. I wasn't sure exactly what he was doing as I couldn't lift my head up to see.

"Don't worry," he said to me. "You're probably feeling a little disorientated right now. And that's perfectly normal. So is that feeling of numbness and stiffness in all your limbs. You haven't moved for a good long time."

I tried to reply, but no sound came out.

"You keep resting," he said. "You'll be fine from here."

I wanted to believe him. This room that I was in was claustrophobic, and being stuck on my back wired up to gadgets and gizmos wasn't helping me. I felt anxious, and suddenly keen to be outside.

I wasn't even sure where "here" was. The memories of my desperate flight up the stairs away from the beast were still with me, though details were fading. Had that really happened?

I frowned. Feeling in my face was starting to come back, so I wiggled my eyebrows comically as I pondered the meaning of what had transpired. I must have looked ridiculous, but fortunately the man had left by this point.

I was confused. What was real, and what was fake? She had been a prominent part of what I'd just been through, but then she was there when I woke up too, and it didn't seem to add up.

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind. I felt as if parts of my body were slowly coming back to life. The sensation was distracting enough to divert my thoughts away from the confusion of my situation. I twitched my toes and my fingertips, though moving whole limbs still felt like an impossible task. I moved my nose in a sneer, and back down again, and wiggled my eyebrows again for good measure. I opened my mouth and tried to make a sound, but my throat was so dry it simply came out as a zombie-like gargling. I wanted to laugh at how absurd I must look right now, but it too much effort.

I heard the door go again and opened my eyes. I tried to move my neck, but it didn't go anywhere. Before long, the older guy's face was before me again. I think he was sitting or kneeling next to the bed on which I lay.

"Adam," he said. "Welcome back. I'm sure you're very confused, and you have many questions, and equally are finding it very difficult to answer them right now. So let me try and explain what has been happening to you.

"You have been in a coma for some time now. You took one hell of an overdose, but fortunately your ladyfriend was able to call for an ambulance and get you here in time to save you. She wasn't with you when it happened, as you'd had a falling-out, but you'd sent her a text message — a technological suicide note, as it were. She did the right thing and saved your life by calling us straight away.

"Since that time, you've been unconscious. We've been monitoring you closely, and it's clear that your brain was very active during that time — dreaming, in a sense. Not all coma patients dream — it depends on how much damage the brain has suffered, if any. But we could tell that your brain was still alive and well, if not what was going on."

A dream? That would explain the vagueness of the memories I have of what I've been through, and why they're fading so quickly.

"Evie came to see you almost every day," he continued. "She never gave up on you. She'd spend time with you, talk to you, read to you. She gave up her life for you. It's not often you see that amount of commitment to another person."

"Guilty," I eventually managed to murmur in a choked voice. "But… My fault."

"No-one's to blame," he replied. "Or if either of you are, there's no sense in assigning blame at this point. You've reached the end of one thing and the beginning of another. This is a turning point. Whatever happened before doesn't have to matter now. You can start afresh — if you want to, of course."

Although details of my long journey were slowly disappearing into the darkest recesses of my memory as we spoke, I still recalled the conversation I'd had with Evie over that table, and how I'd responded to her admission.

"ALPHA AND OMEGA WILL UNITE," that strange text message had said. It had stuck in my mind because of how unusual and out of place it was, but now I understood.

The beginning and end will unite. It meant so many things. What I had thought would be the beginning of a new life with Evie and the baby turned out to be the end of everything. The end of the world was the beginning of my journey. The end of my journey was made up of the events which had caused it to begin in the first place. And now that chapter of my life was ending, causing a new one to begin.

I was ready to face that future. But was Evie?

As I felt my strength returning and my body awakening after its long slumber, I knew that the next day would be the true day of reckoning.

#oneaday Day 680: Wasteland Diaries, Part 28

I look down at him, gazing into his eyes for the first time since the whole nightmare started. They're tired and bloodshot, but I recognise them like I last saw them yesterday. They look calm, at peace — or perhaps it's just the tiredness. He's squinting at me, as if even the little light in the room hurts to look at.

"I'll give you a moment," says Clarkson, vacating the room. I hear the door lightly thump shut behind him, and we're alone.

I'm lost for words. I don't know what to say. Those eyes are looking at me in that way they always did, piercing my soul, as if they knew my every innermost thought. Of course, they didn't, which is what led us into this whole situation in the first place, but–

I blink and push the negative thoughts from my head.

"Adam," I say at last after what seems like an eternity of the only sound in the room being the regular bleep, bleep, bleep of the equipment he's wired up to. My voice cracks a little. "Adam," I say again.

He keeps looking at me, but he says nothing, and doesn't move. The only sign of life in him right now is in those eyes, and even then the spark within them is weak.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Look, you don't have to say anything. I know that I'm the one who put you here. I know that I'm the one who caused this nightmare to happen with my selfishness and foolishness. And I want you to know that I'm sorry."

His eyes keep looking at me, but now I see them fill with tears. He doesn't make a sound, but a sparkling droplet emerges from the corner of one eye and rolls down his cheek before plopping onto the sheet.

"I know there's things you want to say to me, Adam," I continue. "And I will hear all of them, listen to all of them. I owe you that much."

I stop, and find myself sobbing, though I'm not sure why.

"I don't even know if you want me here," I say, tears blurring my vision. I blink them away. "After what I did I'd understand if you'd be disappointed that the first person you saw when you woke up was me. But I– I never gave up on you, Adam. I know you gave up on yourself — and on me. I know you felt like your world ended when I said those words to you. But I–"

I can't finish the sentence, and only partly because I'm not sure exactly what it is I want to say. The tears are flowing freely, and trying to say any more only comes out as choked sobs. I take his hand in my own and lift it up. There's no resistance in his arm, and his fingers don't grip my hand in the way they once did. I squeeze his hand all the more tightly to make up for it.

I hear the door open behind me, and Clarkson comes back in quietly. He places a hand gently on my shoulder. It's a comforting feeling, and it reminds me of my father.

"Okay, Evie," he says. I'm only vaguely aware of his voice. "I think it's time that we let him rest for a bit."

I nod, trying to compose myself and failing.

"He's been through a lot," continues Clarkson. "And I'm not sure any of us will understand quite how much. Perhaps he won't, even. But he's on track to make a full recovery. I can't say how long that will take, but it will happen. Then your life can begin again anew." He hesitates a moment. "Assuming… you both want it to, of course."

Do I? I can't answer that right now, but the amount of times I've stood by this bedside imagining what this very moment would be like surely speaks volumes. Or does it? What if I was just coming here to deal with my own feeling of guilt? It was my sin that put him here, my sin that destroyed his world, his future.

Am I willing to give him what he wants? I still don't have an answer to Annie's question. I'm confused right now, not thinking straight, waves of emotion washing over me, making my knees tremble and my pulse race. I'm barely even aware of where I am or what I'm doing, and am surprised to find myself outside the room sat on one of those uncomfortable chairs, Clarkson kneeling before me.

"Evie," he says. "I know this has been tough, and it might not be quite what you'd expected or hoped for. But I thought you would want to be there as soon as it happened."

"Yes," I say in a voice little more than a whisper. "Yes, I would. I do. I will. I– oh, whatever, I… Thank you."

"Now," he continues. "You're clearly exhausted, and so is he. Despite being unconscious for so long, it's pretty obvious that he needs some proper, uninterrupted, normal sleep before he takes on this brave new world he finds himself in."

I feel Clarkson's eyes on me and I'm suddenly aware that I'm barefoot, clad only in my robe and pyjamas.

"How about I call you a cab?" he says. "You're in no state to be walking home like that."

"No money," I say weakly. My blood suddenly runs cold, but I calm down slightly as I pat my pocket and realise that I fortunately did have the good sense to at least pick up my keys when I raced out earlier.

"Ah," says Clarkson. He stands and fumbles in his pocket before drawing out a leather wallet and lifting a crumpled £10 note from within. "My treat," he says.

I'm overcome with gratitude. I want to cry again, but I really don't have the energy. I take the £10 note and just look at it dumbly.

"Look, Evie," he says. "What happens between you two from here is your business and your business alone. But I want you to know that I have faith that you'll both do what's right. I've seen the way you look at him every time you've been in here, even when there's nothing new to report. And it's inspirational. Few people have the strength of character to keep going like you have. That's worth a lot. And I'm sure he knows that too."

I'm glad someone has faith in me, because although I know he's back, suddenly I feel very alone. It's all on me to draw this sorry business to a close.