Well, that’s that.
I’ve submitted the application. No more fiddling with sentences, or twisting descriptions or editing margins or inserting the kind of inflammatory shit which will either get me onto the Master’s Course, or get me locked up.
I hope it’s the former.
I really hope it’s the former.
Not just because I’m too pretty for prison [if your feet are getting wet, it’s the dripping sarcasm, rather than assumptions about your sexual preferences], but a myriad reasons; I need to move the hell out of my family home – it’s beautiful here but I’m long past needing my own space and my own life, I need to afford my car insurance (steep as it is) on my own, I want to buy nice things and go nice places and be able to say “yes” to opportunities rather than “nngh, no, no I can’t, unless you lose that zero.”
I’ve played that part too much in my life, constantly watching the proverbial coppers while others throw paper in the air and whisk off to far-off lands doing far-off things in far-off places and god-damn-it I want to do everything I haven’t done before without worrying. I think that’s the dream, the millennial dream; this generation who are weighed down by soaring house-prices and inflation and all those economic things which mean our lives will be so much more bound by our careers than our parent’s generations. It used to be you worked to live, but now it seems impossible not to live to work. In fairness, I used to see my father off to work in the City – joining the ranks of dead-eyed suits as they drag themselves to the train station each morning and sleepwalk away from it each evening. I have the utmost respect for those men and women and the people they provide for, but that is not life. That’s not living. That’s making ends meet and maybe some will say, ‘sort your life out, get real, that’s real life,’ but is it so wrong of me to seek to live free? My working hours are inconsistent, the days are inevitably long and can start from unholy hours of the morning but at least if I decide to, I can take time off and disappear into the ether with friends or family or whatever. My time off is mine.
Anyway. Where was I?
Work to live, not the other way around.
That’s what I hope to achieve with this Master’s. According to Study.com, your average screenwriter earns a median of $60,000 (about £45,116 if, like me, you deal in real money) sourced from the U.S Bureau of Labour Statistics. As someone who’s never earned more than a soft £14,000 in a year (around abouts) that kind of figure blows me away. Think of all the things I could do, all the mistakes to make with that money.
There’s a grand future out there, I’ve just got to grab it with both hands.