BEN is seated on the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery smoking a cigarette. He is exhausted, having been walking the city all day and is still trying to ignore his body’s insistence that it really shouldn’t be so bright at the moment for what should be just gone midnight. A HOODIE suddenly approaches him…

HOODIE: Youlikeipopraptall?

BEN: What’s that?

HOODIE: You like hiphop or rap at all?

BEN: Not really, no.

HOODIE: ‘kay.

BEN: Sorry, it’s not really my thing.

HOODIE: ‘kay. You want to buy my CD? (extends hand to offer several CD-Rs scrawled upon in illegible red and green marker pen)

BEN: Well, I would, but it’s not really my thing, thanks.

HOODIE walks off in disgust. BEN stubs out cigarette and continues upon his merry exhausted way to buy something cheap to eat from the Pacific Shopping Centre.

… As I anticipated you write very well and the atmosphere you convey was sometimes all too dark for this reader. However, that merely shows that you know what you are doing. Nevertheless, I have no direct experience of handling fiction in this area and don’t have enough confidence in my ability to find a publisher for you to offer to read the complete work.

I’m sorry I can’t offer to help you.

And from one of the busiest, most respected agents in the UK as well. She replied within a week of receiving my manuscript. Not the sort of reply a first time novelist is used to. It’s usually just a postcard that says ‘NO’.

I cannot begin to describe how utterly content I am with my life at the moment. And I write that sentence fully aware of my conceit and hubris in doing so.

You see, I recently deleted a post that began in precisely the same way, but went on to say the exact opposite. I was really low when I wrote it. Depression’s like something between herpes and an unwelcome relative - you’re stuck with it for life, and you never know when it’s going to turn up unannounced with its insufferable luggage or how long it’s going to hang around making your life hell. There’s no reasoning with it. There’s no magic cure or words to make it just get the message and go away. You just have to sit it out until it gets bored and leaves you in peace.

I will make no further mention of this ex-post, other than to say thank you to a good friend who gave me a harsh but sincere (and thus fair) verbal smack for posting it, and to apologise to An Unreliable Witness who took the time to comment only to find his words so ruthlessly denied substance like my so many unwritten diary entries, or countless Tory protestations of being a socially conscious liberal party.

I won’t wax lyrical about my blissfully exhausting weekend contentment anymore than to say a HUGE thank you to Jane Bodie, Claire and Nina at The Royal Court for putting together the most insightful, stimulating and encouraging course (and indeed group) I have ever been a part of. Suddenly ideas seem to be pouring out of me through the thin film of sweat upon my brow as I lounge here typing, mid script, exhausted on this hot June evening less than a week from my 28th birthday and spilling Marlboro Light all over my long suffering MacBook’s keyboard. No thanks meanwhile to London Underground for giving me a train delayed by five, then ten, then twenty, then a final thirty five minutes this morning, making me half an hour late and costing me between £5 and £10 worth of tuition time. Doesn’t sound like much does it? But I don’t see why I should waste £10 for the privilege of London Underground making me late yet again. God bless my mum however who raced to Gunnersbury tube station at a moment’s notice to pick me up and drive like a lunatic to Sloane Square to get me to my course on time. If anyone else gets similarly stood up by LUL I’ll give you her number. Her taxi service is fair and reliable, though you will have to suffer Magic FM for however long your emergency journey may take.

Working with words and ideas gives me a buzz that I can’t describe. And I’d forgotten that. I’d really forgotten why I wanted to be… why I am a writer. Getting into a novel, a short story, a poem or a script I’m working on is a high you can’t appreciate unless you’ve been there too. It’s better than sex and the closest my cynical soul can get to being in love. It’s the total antithesis to depression. It’s as if as soon as that unwanted relative finally leaves, that pretty young thing you thought would never call unexpectedly whisks you away for a romantic weekend. Suddenly you get what life’s all about. Suddenly colours you hadn’t noticed not only flush brighter than ever before but take on colours of their own, smells remind you of everything and everyone you’ve ever loved and every breath you take of it all says to you in a huge endless hug “You know what? You’re fucking great you are. I love being with you.” And you just can’t get enough of it.

And as if two days of intensive scriptwriting workshops weren’t enough to remind me of everything I’d somehow forgotten, I staggered home utterly intoxicated with the world only to hyperventilate all over again. I’m once again in print. Ms Peach, the original yummy mummy, has done an incredible job compiling submissions for You’re Not The Only One - a collection of entries from bloggers around the world that’s to be praised not only for the sheer stupendous scale of the thing, but for a sizable chunk of all proceeds going to a much needed cause.

Buy a copy.

Do it now.

It’ll possibly be a while before I post again. Not only have I urgently got to do something about all these concepts suddenly yawning and blinking awake in my head like lazy students remembering their degree but, as I mentioned, I’m turning an holistic 28 on Saturday. As a result I’ve treated myself to something. Just a little thing. Y’know, for the dawn an’ all that.

There’s suddenly so much to do and I cannot wait to throw myself into it.

Take care y’all.