Superhumanity - By Me! - Out Now

So. It's been precisely three forevers since I posted anything on here, but I feel now is the time to show there's life in the old blog yet! I've been calling this the Writer's Blog since it started, but now this exists:

Superhumanity by Andrew Gladman, available now on Kindle Store.

This is a book. An ebook, to  be precise. And I'm the one responsible for it. After writing about superheroes since... well, since I was about six years old, if you count the comics I used to draw as a child, I have now published the real deal. A collection of seven tales that journey through the heart of a world populated by superheroes.

I started working on Superhumanity before I even knew I was writing it. The first story of the collection I wrote was How to Save the Day and Screw up Everything Else, which became the second story in the book. It was written for a Creative Writing workshop and assignment in my second year of university. The story came about purely because I was running out of time to submit a piece for the workshop and the one idea that had been knocking about in my head was a stream of consciousness from a superhero in the heat of battle. So that was what I wrote. A teenage superhero with her mind wandering as she fights off a gang of armed thugs, inspired partly by the work of Brian Michael Bendis on Ultimate Spider-Man. It went down well in the workshop and I quite enjoyed taking a brief glimpse through prose into the mind of a superhero. That was the spark for doing more.

So, now resolved to put together a small anthology of superhero tales, stories that would look into the humanity of the superhuman, I started on six more. The Light in the Shadows, the second story I wrote (and the last one to receive a title) came from wanting to tailor a superhero story to prose. One piece of feedback I had received from my Creative Writing tutor on How to Save the Day was to make the prose work in a way that comics and movies could not. If you're going to tell a story in prose, particularly the sort of story that would usually be more at home in another medium, there must be a reason for telling it this way. So, when it came to The Light in the Shadows, I wrote a story about a superhero who could vanish into the shadows. It's been an image in superhero mythology since Batman began, but I wanted a superhero who, rather than relying on ninja-like skills and theatricality, possessed the power to literally become part of the shadows. As he steps, or leaps, or falls out of the light and into the dark, he would leave our dimension and enter another, more abstract, shadow dimension, where our laws of reality do not apply. I removed the element of the visual that is crucial to comics and cinema. The shadow dimension exists in the story as a reality in which there is no physicality, only consciousness. There is motion without movement, everything and nothing. It is a world constructed through oppositions that is more concept than reality and as a result can (hopefully) only be done true justice in prose, while the most a visual medium could do would be to provide voices over a pitch black image.

As I went on, I continued trying to take superheroes out of their comfort zone and in new directions, into the abstract and internal world of prose. I was able to get into the mind of the superhero and explain their very human experience as they face their fiercest battles, or battle with the idea of a world that doesn't want them, or learn exactly what their place is in the world. What I hope I have done is to get to the heart of the superhero experience and make the reader consider what keeps a superhuman human and what makes a human superhuman.

At the very least, what I can say I definitely have done is to become an actually published author by making up stories about superheroes. And that alone is enough to make me happy!

'SUPERHUMANITY: SUPERHERO SHORT STORIES' IS AVAILABLE NOW ON THE AMAZON KINDLE STORE. CLICK HERE TO GO TO BOOK PAGE.

The Rise of the Superhero Movie

So, recently myself and some friends made a superhero movie - a dark, gritty reboot of Bananaman (yes, really) called Man of Peel, which can be found here.
Even more recently I wrote an article for my uni's student newspaper on the rise in popularity of the superhero film, but someone else beat me to it, so my article didn't make it in. As I'm a crazy online maverick (and because I'm certain my article is better than whatever did make it in!) I thought I'd post it here instead. So here it is.

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Rise of the Superhero

 Whether they’re supermen, dark knights, or teams of colourful Avengers, nothing is drawing in audiences like superheroes right now. Ever since 2008 brought us Iron Man and The Dark Knight, the genre has exploded and you would be hard-pressed to find a single comic book character who has either not been committed to film or who is not making their way there soon. So what is it that audiences find so irresistible about a caped crusader?

 Perhaps part of the appeal is that a new breed of superhero film is emerging and bringing with it a brand new method of storytelling. Or, brand new to cinema at least. For years comic books have been filled with standalone characters living within the same universe and happily crossing-over with one another whenever they pleased. Now, for the first time, Marvel Studios has brought this logic to the big screen with the Avengers, while Warner Brothers are starting to follow suit with 2016’s Batman vs Superman. Audiences are not seeing film series emerging through sequel after sequel, but rather cinematic universes, made up of standalone movies, sequels, spin-offs and crossovers. It feels like the characters and worlds that exist in superhero movies are free of boundaries and have become a part of something much bigger than a single movie.

 The thing is, of course, superheroes are part of something much bigger than a single movie. Or even a series of movies, or an entire cinematic universe for that matter. They’re an integral part of our culture. Superhero movies are perhaps so popular because we feel a connection with these characters that it would be impossible to feel with a character whose existence is limited to the duration of one film. It has been said that Superman’s iconic ‘S’ emblem is the second-most recognised symbol in the world, after the Christian cross. In 1965, a poll of college students conducted by Esquire magazine named Spider-Man one of the most influential revolutionary figures of his time. These characters are fixed in our cultural consciousness to such an extent that you don’t have to read comic books or frequent cinemas to recognise them. This familiarity is almost certainly what draws people to these characters and makes it so easy for audiences to connect with their stories.

 And there really is a very human connection we feel with these superhumans; a connection that is especially strong in the modern day and age. We live in the age of the individual. Thanks to social media, it is an age controlled by individuals. As a result, people are more aware than ever of the flaws in society. Everyone wants to be able to forge their own identity that is somehow separate from the societal machine. At the same time we are more willing – and more capable – than ever to take action against the flaws and injustices we see in the world. The figure of the superhero reflects and informs this mindset more than any other fictional construct. Superheroes tell us we have the capacity to transcend society and still be there to help it. Superheroes are a testament to the power of the individual but also remind us that it’s down to us to use that power to bring about the change we want to see in the world. In short, superheroes resonate so strongly with modern audiences because they teach a lesson that perhaps we all feel society needs to hear – that everyone possesses the power to do great things, but with such great power must come great responsibility.

Something Happened

So, I'm back in Norwich, beginning my second year at university. I had been meaning to write another 'University Chronicles' post about how great it is to be back (because it is) and how amazing it is to be living in a house with some other students (because it really is) but, unfortunately, this is not that post. Because today something happened. In hindsight, it doesn't even seem like that big or important of a thing, but at the time it really shook me up. So now I am writing about the thing, because I need to capture it in words somewhere. I'm a writer and I like to think part of that means living for the experiences that make me think about the world we live in and who we are. I live for the moments where I can see a story. This was definitely one of those (though I really don't want to romanticise or glamorise it).

Okay, so, this is the something that happened.

At lunchtime today (which, for me with my terrible student diet, was some time after four o'clock) I was out in town and so I grabbed a burger and a box of chips and went to sit on a bench in a small square in town, opposite one of Norwich's many churches and by one of Norwich's many bars. Close by, at the squat little wall that runs around the outside of the church, were a couple of scruffy-looking guys, possibly homeless, who I didn't really pay much attention to at first. But I was sat there eating for a while and started 'people-watching' out of habit or boredom or that overwhelming sense of paranoia that leads you to believe everyone is watching you and in some way plotting against you. But most likely, it was out of habit and the habit in question was my 'writer's habit' of looking for a story in the world around me.

It struck me that one of the homeless men (they may not have been homeless, but that was the impression I got) was lying on the ground and he seemed to be asleep. I slowly realised that his friend - a smoker of about fifty, wearing a faded old hoodie with his hood up - was trying to wake him up and talking to a couple of older women on mobility scooters who were sat a little way away. I heard the hoodie guy say the other man wasn't waking up (at which point I did look back at the man on the floor, just to check he was still breathing) and the women he was talking to said someone in the bar had called an ambulance. At this point, I would like to point out how utterly apathetic the man in the hoodie appeared. He didn't show anywhere near as much concern as you might expect from someone who was dealing with an unconscious man. It was like he didn't really care.

I knew what I was looking at. The man on the floor must have overdosed on something. The way he was twitching did not look healthy and for some reason I didn't get the impression it was alcohol that had done this. I wondered if this was a common occurrence. I wondered whether, if they were indeed homeless, it simply wasn't that big a deal in their minds because they used the drugs that did this to block out reality. I suppose really I just wondered why nobody seemed to be making a big deal of the man lying unconscious on the ground out in public.

I kept wanting to help as well. When I left later on, I hated myself for not helping. But the truth is, I didn't know what to do. I have some vague recollection of the recovery position - by which I mean, I know there is a position you should put unconscious people in, but I have no idea what it is - but other than that, I had no idea how to help. An ambulance had apparently been called already. I couldn't do anything to make it arrive faster, however much I wanted to call 999 and yell at them about how there was an emergency here and nobody seemed to care and tell them they should already be here. So I watched.

A waitress from the bar kept looking out at what was happening and speaking into a walkie talkie and I wondered if they were simply worried about what this might mean for their business. Maybe that was just me being pessimistic because of what I'd seen from everyone else, but again, there seemed to be very little concern on anyone's face. I didn't understand how life was still going on as normal here, like there wasn't a man lying unconscious right there in front of everyone's faces. Had they even actually called an ambulance? Why was it taking so long to get here? Did this not qualify as something important in anyone's mind?

After a while, two other 'friends' of the homeless men turned up. And that is 'friends' in inverted commas for a very good reason, because I know from experience, when I have been the one lying on the floor (it was a dislocated kneecap, not a drug overdose - don't worry) my friends showed a good deal more compassion, sense and responsibility than these two cretins did. They turned up smiling and joking about the man on the floor being 'where we left him' and, while humour can sometimes help relax these situations, this was not that. They could not care less about the person lying unconscious in front of them.

The only glimmer of hope I felt came when these two started having what looked like a fairly serious conversation with the man in the hoodie. For a moment I really thought somebody was taking the situation seriously, because so far it had seemed as though the man on the ground - the man in desperate need of some sort of help - had nobody looking out for him. This was where I stopped being a nosy narrator and became a part of the story.

One of the newcomers called me over. I was nervous at first. They didn't seem like the nicest sorts (their attitude so far had left a lot to be desired) but I thought they were probably calling me over to help out with the unconscious man in some way. So I did what I always do when I feel nervous about taking up the opportunity to help someone - I repeated the geeky but utterly important mantra of 'with great power there must also come great responsibility' to myself (meaning if I have the power to do something good for someone, it's not a choice, but my responsibility to do so) and I walked over there. The man who had called me over asked if I had valid ID. I assumed this was something to do with getting into the bar from which the ambulance had been called, so I told him I did. What happened next was what hit me like a sledgehammer.

He asked, if he and his friend gave me the money, if I would go to a shop around the corner and buy a certain product (the name of which I can neither remember, nor would I want to repeat) that he called a 'legal high'. I told him I didn't want to do that. Usually I struggle to say no to strangers asking for some small favour, but in this case there was absolutely no way I was going to oblige them. I couldn't believe what they were asking me to do in these circumstances. We're in the middle of a public place, in the afternoon, with a man twitching uneasily in some horrible drug-induced sleep on the ground and these men are not asking for my help with the man I had assumed was their friend, but are instead asking me to buy them what is effectively a drug. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same product that had knocked out the man on the ground. How on Earth could they stand there, having seen the condition he was in, and not only utterly refuse to show him any concern, but ask me to buy them something that could leave them in the same state? What the Hell was wrong with these people?

Because that is totally wrong, isn't it? As nobody seemed to care about any of this, I did start to question whether the problem was with my way of looking at things. Is it so wrong to think we should try to help one another out? If a man is lying unconscious from some sort of overdose in the street, should that not be something of a priority? If you see a man in that state, would a sane person not perhaps think about avoiding drugs or anything that acts as one? How could you look at that and not care?

It hurt me. I was actually shaking and I didn't know what to do. I left. I walked away and people were looking at me and maybe they were judging me for doing bugger all, maybe they were just interested by what was going on or maybe I am totally paranoid and nobody was looking at me at all. I don't care. Fuck them. I got out of there, completely lost my appetite, and went to get a glass of ice water and a hot cup of tea, knowing I needed something to calm me down. I had to hold the mug of tea with both hands. They were shaking too much for me to keep it steady with one.

I was upset, I was shaken, I was angry and I was disappointed with myself. I wanted to help. I wanted to make a difference and I didn't, because I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know how to respond to the man's request for a 'legal high' (other than refusing). Shouldn't I have told him to come to his senses and do something to help the guy who was ODing? Or would that have done nothing other than getting him angry at me (though I seriously doubt he could have been any angrier than I was at him)? Should I have spoken to other people or done something to make sure this moron didn't get someone else to go and buy drugs for him? Because as soon as I refused, he started asking someone else and I realised I had done nothing to make any sort of difference whatsoever. Should I have tried to help the man on the floor? Should I now be learning first aid so I can help in future? Should I have called 999 and checked where the ambulance was? I told myself there was nothing I could have done to help or make any sort of difference, but I still wish I had.

Later I went and found a homeless man I had passed before in the street, selling the Big Issue, and bought one from him just because I needed to know I had done something good for someone. That sounds terrible now, but a good deed is a good deed, right? Even if it is motivated by guilt. I went back by the spot where this had all happened too. None of the men were there anymore, so I assume the ambulance had arrived and it had been dealt with.

I suppose the thing that really bothers me is that I did pretty much what anyone else would have done, but I don't know if that makes it okay. Shouldn't we all try to be more proactive in helping others? Shouldn't we act instead of sitting back, feeling like we don't know what to do? Isn't it about time we all accepted that we have a responsibility to help others instead of only ever thinking about keeping ourselves happy and safe? Isn't it time we all started to care?

So that's what happened to me today. That's what made me think. And now I need to go and get rid of a box of cold chips.

The University Chronicles - Chapter Two: Getting Back To Work

Busy. Busy is good. I like busy. When I'm busy, it means my mind's focussed on something happening right here and now, ergo I'm not thinking about how much I miss home/sixth form/the awesome summer holiday that has now well and truly finished. Being busy means that now, when I'm walking back from a seminar or a lecture, I'm thinking about that thing I have to read, or that essay I have to write, or the things I'm writing for fun, or that agonising pain in my leg that WILL NOT STOP from Quidditch (oh yeah, I play Quidditch now... Quidditch is cool). And I like thinking about those things (well, maybe not the Quidditch pain so much) because before I had all this stuff to keep my mind busy, those walks back to the flat were the worst part of any day. Why? Because I was alone and with nothing pressing on my mind, so my mind naturally wandered back to "I miss home" and "Okay, this has been sort of fun, now when does everything go back to how it was this time last year?"

I mean, I am enjoying uni. Like I said, playing Quidditch is brilliant, and I do get on with the people here, the course is great and I'm actually quite enjoying the whole independence thing. But it's so easy to feel cut off from everything. I can't just pop downstairs and speak to my family, or go out on my bike to some familiar place, or meet up with my friends at the weekend. And don't start with all this 'making new friends' nonsense - I have people I get on with here, but my real friends, the ones I will remain friends with for the rest of my life, are the ones I already had from my school days. It's weird - yes, these uni people are friends of a sort, but I still feel like I have to put on the 'sociable Andy' persona for them. With my friends from back home, I'm just myself. Though I can't stand this book, the best way I can think of putting this is to take (roughly) the words of Wuthering Heights - whatever our souls are made of, theirs and mine are the same (and these uni people's are as different as a moonbeam from lightning, if you want me to continue paraphrasing that soppy eighteenth century soap opera). The point is, in that big old group of friends, we're practically a hive mind! Everyone has their different 'areas of expertise' and such, sure, but generally you would have a very difficult time finding the differences between our mindsets. Whereas with this uni lot, I can talk to them and have a laugh, but there is no deep telepathic connection held together by years' worth of in-jokes and mad adventures!

But enough of that. I'm not focussing on that. I'm being busy. I have finally, somehow, found the energy to start writing again! And I'm doing something different this time. I'm trying an experimental new writing style, which is proving both fun and a little bit daunting. And once I'm done with this thing I'm writing now, I have many, many other things to be getting on with. As far as I'm concerned, now is 'go time'! I'm a writer and it's time I got writing and started doing something with said writing. Someone asked me yesterday what I wanted to do if I couldn't become a writer. To which I fumbled my way through some boring answer about getting a proper job, as if that's something I have any intention of doing. Of course, what I should have said was "Well, I AM a writer. It's not just a career choice, it's my entire being. It shapes the very way in which I see the world, in which I understand everything; my whole mind exists on the foundation of writing and fiction and the greater truths that can only be conveyed through the art of imagining stories that transcend the boundaries of reality." But he was Russian and didn't know English that well, so I didn't. Though this is another example of just how close I am with my friends and how much I need them for inspiration/motivation in my writing. This guy from my flat falls into the very large and misguided group of people who will ask me "What if you can't get a job as a writer?". My friends, on the other hand, fall into the smaller but clearly much more well-informed group of people who would say things like "When you're a famous writer working with the BBC, you will need to contact us so that we can work together on a comedy series!". And it doesn't bother me in the slightest that the group of people who don't say "If it doesn't work out..." is a much smaller group - I read a brilliant tweet about such things the other day, which said "Hitler had millions of followers, Jesus had twelve". Not that I'm comparing myself to Jesus, but I am godlike and I did get some very weird/useless gifts when I was born... Just saying! (Myrrh? What were they thinking?)

So, that's that. Writing. Writing is a thing that I am doing once more! And I intend to do as much as possible today and tomorrow, before giving myself a break from all this uni madness when I head home this weekend and get to actually spend time with my family, in my home, with my room and my bed! And in a town that doesn't view the wheel as a recent technological breakthrough...

The University Chronicles Begin!

It was going to take something pretty big to get me blogging again. Leaving home for the first time and moving into uni? Yeah, that should do. I know the point of this blog was once to blog about writing, but from now on I need somewhere I can write about university and how mad this all is, so that's what's happening here from now on! Besides, I'm here to study English Literature with Creative Writing, so the writing stuff will still be here! And I'm still working on a million writing projects, so maybe I will get back to writing about writing as well.
Anyway. It's now Day Two. I was going to write this post yesterday, but everything so far has been pretty hectic and yesterday was filled with setting up everything in my room and meeting new people. There were a few very strange moments, where this all suddenly became very real. The first one I remember was actually back home in Milton Keynes, when we were on the road and we finally left the smaller roads behind for the big main roads. (Not quite motorways, but you know the ones I mean - the roads you're only going to end up on if you're going out of town. You can tell I don't drive.) There was a moment where I realised we were leaving behind the narrower and cosier roads, surrounded by familiar buildings, and heading out into the world. And I wouldn't be coming back that night. To make the moment even more poignant, as soon as we did get onto the open road, 'The Final Countdown' started to play on my MP3 player (yeah, not iPod - suck it, Apple!). You  couldn't plan this stuff better!
I suppose then, the other moment I realised "Oh my gosh, this is actually really happening to me" was when my family left. That was peculiar. I stood outside my new accommodation block and watched them drive away, quite literally, into the sunset. It was strange. It was so strange to see them leaving and not be going with them. To know I was now in this strange new land and I was on my own. Emotionally, that was my lowest point. I went back to my room, tried to pull myself together, went on Facebook and did what I always do when I need strength - I spoke to my friends. And that helped. That genuinely, properly helped, because my friends are the most amazing friends anyone could ever wish for. So I'm missing them a hell of a lot, but I am keeping in contact and I am grateful to have them nearby - even if that's only nearby in internet form!
After talking with them, the time finally came to bite the bullet - I had to meet new people. That was daunting. As I had said to some of my friends before coming to university, I didn't remember how to make friends anymore! I had been in the same amazing friendship group for so long, I only ever met new people through them. I hadn't had to introduce myself to total strangers since before I can remember. So, I took the necessary action in times of crisis - I went to make a cup of tea. And my cunning plan worked - other people were sat around in the kitchen, so I started talking to them. Then more people joined us and soon we were all planning to go down to the icebreaker freshers' event that was on that night. A ridiculously long time later, after we had wasted enough time waiting for other people, we got there and found tickets had sold out. Ah. So we headed to bar, where we had a few (very strong) drinks and played some table football. It was a good night and, as I kept saying, I was just so glad to have actually met people I could get on with. I do miss my friends. In fact, throughout the night, there were moments when I thought "This is going to be what everyday life is like for me now - how am I meant to keep doing this without any of my friends here?". But I managed to stop myself dwelling on that and, as I said, had a genuinely good time.
This morning, then, was a strange one. Waking up in a place that's not my home. In fact, going to sleep in that bed last night felt strange enough! This morning I have been trying to come to terms with the fact I am still here, I am staying here, and this is going to be the norm from now on. Oh, and trying to drag myself out of bed before nine o'clock without throwing up was fun too! Though I'm a bit annoyed the cleaners didn't actually come at nine, as I was told they would. I could have had a lie-in!
Well, once more unto the breach, I suppose. I'd better have something to eat, maybe drink some tea, and then I have to head off to registration.
Goodbye for now, all! Speak soon.

Harry Potter and the Studio Tour

Thursday 28th June 2012. Two days after my 17th birthday (as I'm sure you all knew!) and I'm off on a school trip for Media students such as myself. Where is this trip to? None other than the Warner Bros. Harry Potter studio tour. Only one word was in my head for the whole day: Squee! Yes, as an amateur film-maker it is fascinating to see these magnificent sets, with the incredible attention to detail, and imagine cameras and film crews and actors and directors producing eight amazing films in the very space you are standing in. But also, overwhelmingly, it is just an amazing experience as a geeky Harry Potter fan to see the sets, objects and costumes from a world I have completely fallen in love with (not to mention tasting a drink from that world - if you ever have the chance to try butterbeer, then do! It's delicious!). It's that same obsessive Harry Potter fan part of me that I am having to physically stop screaming out in delight when we're told that, as a school trip, we will receive a lesson/talk on costume design and characterisation where we would get to see costumes that weren't on the tour! Costumes the general public didn't get to see! I saw Harry's costume from the very first film (not his robes, which were on display in the Great Hall - the shirt, t-shirt and trousers he wore on the train), Cedric Diggory's robes (which, for some reason, the girls were very eager to touch... and wear...) and Voldemort's robes! All of this, along with the rest of the frankly stunning tour, had the Harry Potter fan side of me bursting with joy! Which leads me on nicely to the other part of me that was left completely in awe - the writer. Yes, the film-maker in me was amazed and transfixed by the breathtaking work that had gone into making the Harry Potter films, and the Potterhead in me was just overjoyed to be walking through the world of one of my favourite works of fiction, but both of those things fed into the sense of wonder and hope that I felt as a writer. When I say hope, I should point out, I don't mean some ridiculous hope of anything I write being quite as big or wide-reaching as the Harry Potter series - success stories like that are... well, on that scale, probably completely unique! But the fact that one story, told in seven books (and, yes, eight films, as I feel I should point out after going on a tour of the film studios), could be so powerful, be transformed so incredibly into a big-screen masterpiece that did so well, could touch and dominate all forms of media and reach such a vast fanbase (there were visitors to the studio from California on the day I went!) is enough to fill anyone who loves writing with hope for fiction and story-telling. The fact that one simple yet genius idea, from the mind of the truly inspirational and amazing JK Rowling, could inspire and enchant so many and truly change lives is fantastic. The fact that so many people can fall so utterly in love with a world of magic and wonder is a true testament to the power of the pen (or, indeed, of the quill). Harry Potter stands on high as a monument, proudly proclaiming to the world the power of fiction - the power of a story made up by one person. For me, at least, it does so better than any other work of fiction. With no other story am I quite as entranced by the world an author has created. With no other story do I feel quite as invited or welcomed into the magical realm of the writer's imagination. The beautiful blend of innocence and darkness, magic and realism, evil and love has enthralled so many so strongly. And it is for that reason that, as I walked around the studios, I saw so many people of all ages smiling and cheerful and seeming so utterly, wonderfully child-like. Children, after all, are the ones with the right idea - big imaginations and living life for fun. Grown-ups are the boring ones, who seem to have forgotten those essential values somewhere along the way. The Harry Potter series is one of those things that restores that brilliant child-like mindset within us, which has the ability to improve people and make all parts of the world a better place. Fiction is that powerful and that important. It's not just a case of making up stories to provide a bit of fun or a form of escapism - it has an impact on us. Fiction can shape us, help us, change our perspectives and improve our lives. Stories aren't just stories - they're realities of their own, shaping ours and presiding over it. In fact, the power stories can have makes these realities of fiction far greater than our own reality and in many ways far more important. I feel that the greatest purpose of our reality is to inspire fiction. It is this incredible power and status that fiction possesses that makes those of us who still love and value the realms of imagination want to use the Cruciatus curse on any muggle who ever dares to utter those dreaded four words: "It's only a story." Only a story? Blasphemy! And with this, I shall return to one last tale of my visit to the world of Harry Potter. It was just after the first half of the tour, where I had been taking as many pictures as possible of the many sets, props and other bits on display (something I ALWAYS do on this sort of day out). We had just been to the outside area of the studios, where I had the pleasure of trying butterbeer and where Privet Drive and the Knight Bus could be found, amongst many other items. All of these I also got a fair few snaps of. Then came the second half of the tour and within a few minutes... the beep of death. The moment we all fear. The camera died. The battery had decided that was quite enough working for the day and went kaput on me. Diagon Alley - a few pictures on my phone, but nothing else. The wonderful pieces of concept art and paper models of Hogwarts - no pics! I had stopped being bothered by this rather quickly and just enjoyed being submerged in a world of magic. I was, after all, walking down Diagon Alley, looking into Ollivander's and Weasley's Wizard Wizard Wheezes! It was after looking at the small paper models of various building and the Durmstrang ship that one of my Media teachers emerged from around a corner up ahead, grinning broadly. "If you think that's a model," he said, "wait until you see this!" I was intrigued to say the least. I walked slowly, a little anxiously, around the corner and was confronted by an enormous, beautifully detailed, unbelievably intricate model of Hogwarts. It was breathtaking - the "miniature" (in inverted commas because there was really nothing miniature about it!) used for exterior shots of Hogwarts in the films. I had honestly never been so much in awe in my life, which may sound odd to you if you're thinking "It's just a model castle...", but I can tell you - not knowing it was going to be there, and then taking in the sheer size and detail and beauty of it... Wow! And my camera was dead. And when my camera dies, it dies. I took it out of pocket in some pointless hope, hating myself for not bringing the spare battery, flipped open the shutter and... two bars. Staring right back at me were two glorious bars of battery power! I managed to take a good few pictures of this incredible model of the greatest school I've both never attended and yet been going to since I was a very young child. And I don't care what anyone says about the camera battery being able to recharge itself slightly, or any sort of scientific or logical explanation - as far as I'm concerned, that camera was revived in a moment of magic. And that is the only explanation I'll ever want or need. Until the day I die, I shall allow myself to believe that as I stood, facing the most magical place on Earth, a place that has inspired me so much and in so many ways, I experienced one small work of magic.

Comedies and Tragedies

Hello, I'm funny! Ha ha ha! Well, okay, to just assume I'm funny like that is probably very arrogant. But then I know a lot of people might say I'm an arrogant person - I know in some corners of the internet, I've gained something of a reputation for hating all signs modesty. But, when talking to people, I do take the anti-modesty view to extremes that I don't really believe in. I use the whole super-arrogant thing as a way of making jokes of many things and life in general! So I'm being arrogant to be funny, which makes me arrogant. Okay, got it. Sort of.

So, how is acting like a big-headed buffoon funny? Well, strictly speaking, it's not. But it makes it easier to have a laugh. I mean, you'll find you enjoy yourself more if you take up an "I am so awesome" attitude rather than sitting around, being depressed and moody. Everyone can get depressed or doubtful about things, especially us teenagers. Especially us slightly mad, pretty intelligent, super imaginative teenagers. Especially especially us slightly mad, pretty intelligent, super imaginative, single teenagers.

But, going back to wherever it was this mad rambling rant started, by taking a generally joking/funny viewpoint on these things, it makes it all a lot easier. That's why the 'Forever Alone' meme was created on the internet (I imagine). It will keep you in much higher spirits to make jokes like that about being single rather than getting depressed, worried or stressed about it - and let's be honest, we've all done that at some point. Or some points.

Yes, there is the worry that you can joke too much about these things and may just end up with the reputation as the comedy guy. Which isn't that bad, really, honestly, I would be perfectly happy to have people think I was funny - but you don't want people just to see you as the joker who never really takes anything seriously. And this is where I shall cleverly link this whole rambling post back to the subject this blog is supposed to be about!

So! Writing! Remember that? The thing I seem to spend most of my life doing? If you read this blog often (then thank you, so much!) you will probably be wondering what everything I have been saying has to do with writing. And if you're not, I certainly am, so that's what I'm going to talk about!

It struck me the other day that I've never really written anything particularly funny, other than the odd joke thrown into a more serious piece of writing. I've never touched upon the comedy genre that much, save for one short script I wrote for a BBC competition (didn't win, oh well, always next time). I've thought about it before. I've talked with my friends about doing sketch shows after our Doctor Who fan series and the million other things we were meant to be doing. And like those million other things, the sketch shows sort of got forgotten. But when it comes to planning filming projects, I always think of them in terms of the finished film, I never really view them as writing projects, even though script-writing is one of my favourite parts of the process. So, I have never really considered doing any comical writing. And even then, when this thought struck me, the idea of writing something funny seemed all right, but still didn't make me think "Yes! I must do that!"

I thought about this for a little bit. I usually seize any opportunity to have a laugh or make a joke, even if it's a really pathetic one. Especially if it's a really pathetic one! But the idea of writing something funny just didn't appeal as much as I thought it would. And then, I realised why. Writing, for me, is a very emotionally-inspired process. Hang on... did I just say 'process'? That sounds horribly technical and like something out of the real, grown-up world - let's call it an emotionally-inspired art form. Arty-farty as that may sound, that is honestly how I see writing.

Like I said before, I make jokes about a lot of things because it's easier and nicer to have a laugh rather than get depressed and upset. I'm not saying every time I make a pathetic attempt to be funny or tell a joke, I'm suppressing some dark, depressing secret - if so that would make me a very dark, depressing, secretive person (the sort that would appear in my writing)! But, if we let our real feelings get the better of us all the time - especially us slightly mad, pretty intelligent, super imaginative, single teenagers - it would turn us into wrecks. Writing is the one time I allow myself to do that. I give in to all the depressing things that go on in my head, but also the bright, amazing joyful things that go on in my head. Not to mention the exciting, the scary, the insane and the impossible things. Writing is how I use all those big emotions that go on inside every one of us.

I'm not saying we should keep those emotions secret, just to save them for writing (or whatever your 'emotionally-inspired art form' of choice may be). Sure, we should talk to friends or family about them at times. But there's far too much stuff going on in my head for me to ever really talk about it all with friends, and I would imagine the scenario is the same for anyone who qualifies as a human being! Besides, I struggle to make sense of a lot of it myself, so I don't know what chance anyone else would have!

Writing helps me get these feelings out, helps me understand them, helps me make use of them, rather than bottling them up and letting them drive me insane. I can save the joking around for when I'm with friends or family. And any times when I am honest with them about how I really feel, they can simply consider as teasers for my writing. If they really want to know the truth, they'll have to read the stuff I make up.