Who Moved My Cheese? I Did!

The kindness in a plate of cheese moves me to tears. 

Well, not to tears exactly, but more tears than I have already been crying. 

Tears that began several weeks ago and, like a punctured well, burst forth accompanied by feelings of desperation, fear and what I can only describe as lost-ness.

    

And here I am, sitting in a little Spanish bar, tears pouring again, and the waiter who has been encouraging me to eat, has placed three pale, slightly sweating triangles of cheese in front of me. 

He has failed to entice me with the peanuts and the olives and I have politely rejected his encouragement to have something to accompany my wine; but these three perfect slices, accompanied by ten tiny finger biscuits, produces another geyser. 

I speak no Spanish; he speaks no English; but the language of tears is universal. He gets it. And I know that he gets it. Sympatico. I say Grazias for his sympatico. It is a word I think may be just about right. He puts his hand to his chest, smiles, and knows that he has done something good.

    

There are many things that are behind my tears, which some people simply put down to being menopausal. But to be honest, I’ve pretty much sailed through the M stigma, physically, and am resisting taking any sort of hormonal treatment when I still have more energy than anyone I know in their twenties.

    

But there are other big things going on. Last week, my brother got married for the first time at the age of 50. I am very happy for him and I love my new sister-in-law, but I would be a liar if I did not confess to a slight feeling of loss. My baby brother, to whom I have always been close, has moved on to a new role as a husband. He is also starting a new teaching job in September: one that he richly deserves and which I know will bring him more happiness than he has recently experienced. 

All change.

  

Then there is my dire financial situation. And I am not even going to begin boring everyone about that.

    

Suffice it to say, that suddenly, I feel on the scrapheap. Having no partner, never having been married and with no children, I feel very alone. The papers and magazines I write for now turn to younger, cheaper people to fill their pages; the cult of celebrity has ensured that anyone who can comment upon spotting Cameron Diaz eating a sandwich makes headline news. People’s painful relationship and marital break-ups are paraded as sport, in which readers are encouraged to respond as a lynch mob, chomping at the bit to burn whom they have been led to believe is the “guilty” party, at the stake. It’s not just that I am no longer asked to write anything; I really don’t want to write about this stuff.

    

I don’t want to be part of a culture that sits in judgment of people who, heaven forbid, deign to fall out of love; one that castigates people for being too fat, too thin, too beautiful, too ugly; I don’t want to subscribe to a world in which people are routinely slaughtered for the crime of simply being human.

    

I have a heavy heart. I am healthy, I have the best family and friends, without whose support I would not be here today; but when I set out in my twenties, I wanted to take the road less travelled by – and, the truth is, I didn’t. Or, at least, I did for a while.

   

 I left teaching to pursue a career as a writer and, subsequently, I published poetry, short stories and, in 1990, my first novel, Definitions of a Horse. Then I became side-tracked. I became a journalist because, quite simply, it paid better. But it came at a cost. I remain immensely proud of my work as a TV critic, writing about a medium for which I continue to have immense passion; but criticising the work of others, when all you really want to do is create, must inevitably, little by little, destroy your soul.

   

I wanted to be an actor. I was a member of the first National Youth Theatre of Wales in 1976. I am a trained singer and dancer. There is nothing I love more than standing up in front of a crowd with a microphone in my hand. So why did I choose to stand in the wings, passing judgment on the efforts of others?

    

For a start, I was told I was too short to be an actor. In Wales, during the Sixties and early Seventies, there was only one path that girls in the small part of South Wales where I grew up were encouraged to take: teaching. No matter how much I tried to pursue my true love, I was always dissuaded and, finally, went into teaching. I left after two years and moved to London to become a full time writer. My first job was TV Critic on the London Evening Standard, and I will always be grateful to the late John Leese who gave me an opportunity and took a risk when no one else would.

    

I have no doubt that there is absolutely a place for critics – if I did not value it, I would not have done it for so long. But it eats away at you: the knowledge that you are on the attack; that nobody you criticise sets out to do a bad job; that all any actor, writer or performer wants to do is make a difference. When you believe they get it wrong, as a critic you have to say so and, when people take note and respect your opinion, it’s a feeling that sugars the bitter pill of your job.

    

But then there comes a point when you realise that every moment looking for holes in the work of others is another moment lost to the work you really want to do. You’re past 50. There’s a new generation your employers want and, no matter how good you are, they want new names, new faces. Unlike America, where experience and knowledge are valued and respected, in the world of the UK media, our culture is one of out with the old, in with the new – and certainly as far as women are concerned.

   

Change is good. It’s life. The secret is probably looking at what you have on your side and adapting it to each new set of circumstances you face. 

As I sit looking at my three rather helpless triangles in the Spanish bar, I decide to eat. 

I moved my cheese. 

As only I can.

Remembering Blake Snyder

It is three years today since my friend Blake Snyder died. I still think about him every day and especially about the encouragement he would undoubtedly give me during what have become very dark times. That part of my life, when I first arrived in LA, bursting with optimism and a sense of new adventure, now seems an age away; but today, at this moment, it feels real again. I'm reprinting what I wrote at the time, not least to remind myself that life is capable of throwing up special moments, special people, who can change the course of everything. 

AUGUST 4TH 2009

Readers of this blog will be familiar with the name of the screenwriter Blake Snyder.

It was through his encouragement that I first came to LA, having sent him the title and logline for my budding screenplay, Celebrity Stalker, in response to which I received the most incredible, encouraging e-mail.

I subsequently travelled to the city to do Blake’s Beats course, and it was the start of a friendship that would see me end up living 6000 miles across the Atlantic and pursuing my dream of being what I called a “real writer”.

Blake died suddenly this morning. I found out on Facebook, where I daily looked at his profile to see how many more inspiring stories there were from the people across the world whom he had helped in their screenwriting struggles.

His passion and enthusiasm for what he did never faltered, and everyone who came into contact with him became the beneficiary of that.

From my first contact with Blake in May 2008, he taught me many things, not only in relation to screenwriting. He was also a wonderful human being: full of compassion and love for his fellow men. The person I refer to in the blog Shopping For Niceness was him: a man who did not think that we were the best judges of other people’s foibles, and who saw the good in everyone he met.

When we had lunch two weeks ago, I remarked that although we had known each other face to face for just five months, it seemed that a lot had happened: I was living in LA, for starters. It was a move that he had positively encouraged, and he listened and supported me through what have been some very bleak moments.

I just cannot believe that he is gone, and my sympathies go out to his family, colleagues, and everyone whose lives were blessed to have been touched by this giving, wonderful man.

Facebook and his website are already full of entries expressing shock and disbelief at his sudden parting. But what comes through in all of them is his goodness, kindness, and ability to embrace people who reached out, both professionally and personally. He had that rarest of things: the gift of spirit.

My dearest Blake: my heart is breaking. In a screenplay, you would call it the All Is Lost moment that precedes Dark Night of the Soul. But as I sit here with your book before me – as you know, it never leaves my side – I look to the finale and the final image that follows. The final image, you say, is “the opposite of the opening image. It is proof that change has occurred and that it’s real.”

The image of my life now, compared to before you came into it, is very much the opposite of what it was, and I have you to thank for that.

I will celebrate your life by doing the work of which you constantly told me I was capable, and it will always be with immense gratitude and love that I remember you.

God bless, and, as you say in Save the Cat, when you describe dropping that script in the mail: “It is what it is.”

Your death is what it is.

Quite how we will all move on without you being among us is too early to say; but we will – and you will be with us in so many ways.

I told you over our last lunch that for me, everlasting life was about the things we left behind – the laughter, the ideas, the wisdom, the insight, the love – and that it was this, rather than any notion of God, that gave me great joy.

There's no joy today, and the Dark Night of the Soul looks never-ending.

But you will live on, my sweet, darling friend. Eternally.

Put Your Money Where Your Mouse Is

“If you like it, then you shoulda put a grand on it.” 

That’s the thinking behind my new project. 

For £1000 upfront, I will work for any individual or business for a month and, at the end of that period, if you don’t feel you have had your money’s worth, I will offer a full refund – or you can employ me.

    

Why am I doing this? 

I am tired of seeing sloppily written press releases and marketing information. 

Tired of seeing companies fork out thousands of pounds for something that a smart journalist could sort out in a lot less time and for a lot less money. 

Tired of seeing grammatical errors, poor punctuation and little adherence to writing quality almost everywhere I look.

    

We are living in the Golden Age of Mediocrity. 

Standards have fallen and continue to fall, on a daily basis, in pursuit of promoting celebrity – no matter how shallow – at all costs.

   

So, I can write copy, proof read, come up with great slogans, promote your product or business in the social networking marketplace . . . No job too big or too small, as they say. 

Content is all. 

How do you make yourself stand out in an overcrowded marketplace? That is the question.

    

And I believe I can help. 

So put your money where your mouse is and contact me at jacistephen@gmail.com. 

And Retweet etc. to all your followers,  please.

  

On Yer Bike! What the Tour de France Teaches Us

The Champs Elysees is suddenly a boulevard without pavement, as thousands gather to welcome the riders of the Tour de France as they enter Paris on the last day of their gruelling three weeks.

   

I have managed to bag what was, literally, the very last ticket in a grandstand seat, and I am excited beyond belief. Unless he crashes, Bradley Wiggins will be the first British man to win the race, and I will be able to say ‘I was there.’

  

I have been coming to Paris for the end of the Tour de France for ten years, and I love it. I am not, however, what you would call a keen cyclist. The mountain bike I bought five years ago, after a particularly enjoyable end of July day in Paris, hasn’t even seen the hill at the end of my road, much less thought about the Pyranees. I have put three cycle helmets in the bin, each rotten with lack of use and old age. I shout at inconsiderate cyclists from my car as they take up half the road and ignore the Highway Code to which car engines are slavishly subjected.

    

But the Tour de France. Oh, yes. Every year, these extraordinary athletes take my breath away with their stamina and determination, and it is an unbelievably beautiful, moving moment, when they arrive in this great city. The riders’ emotional as well as physical stamina, permeates the air; you feel their sense of achievement at the very core of your being; your heart soars. This is it. They have made it. Relief. Celebration. Joy. Every time, I cry.

    

And now, here I am, for the first time, not five deep on the Champs Elysees, straining for a glimpse of the yellow jersey, but with a ringside seat, and I am already crying.

    

The Tour de France is, for me, not only a magnificent spectacle, but a great sporting metaphor; a narrative that spells out how we would all, ideally, like our lives to pan out - honing a skill to perfection, developing the discipline with which to achieve that, working hard to fulfil your individual potential, while also recognising the importance of being part of a team and supporting your fellow man. It is a sublime example of the importance of competitive sport in character building.

    

Political correctness has all but wiped the importance of competitive sport from our psyche. Every child must now be regarded as good as the next, part of a team at the expense of individual glory. But while our sports men and women achieve great things on the world stage, there is still, in our British DNA, something that celebrates losing more than success. Andy Murray. English football. Rugby tests against southern hemisphere teams. We lack a fundamental belief that is down to the fact that we have lost our competitive spirit.

    

Most of us have memories about standing in a line on the school playing field, as the “in” crowd, during games lessons, chose teams. I was never selected as one of the choosers and, being small and never part of any clique, was always at the bottom of the barrel when it came to selection. The horror of being among the final three, and then, the relief at my name being called out and knowing that I was not the very last dreg lives with me to this day. Every time, I would try to prove myself, by running faster, scoring more goals, jumping more hurdles – yet it made no difference to selection next time around. I just wasn’t one of the gang. Even Mrs Davies, head of Games, pulled me aside one day after I had scored three goals in a hockey game and said: “You are too competitive.” I avoided every single games lesson after that.

  

I am, and always have been, very competitive. What’s the point of being any different? Yet I was brought up with the adage “Don’t hang your hat higher than you can reach”. I never wanted to be that kind of person. Hang it high and, if you can’t reach it, find the means by which you will be able to, has always been my philosophy. Jump. Stand on a box. Ask someone to give you a leg up. Nothing is ever too high, or too out of reach: you just have to find the means of getting there.

   

Friday sees the start of the Olympics in London, when athletes from around the world come together to try to prove themselves better than their competitors. It’s what they do every day of their lives, but, every four years, they have the chance to really rub everyone’s noses in their superior sporting prowess.

    

Never has there been a better moment to celebrate the importance of competition. We win some, we lose some; we laugh and we cry; sometimes we’re good, sometimes we’re bad. As Shakespeare said: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Sport is about the achievement of greatness. It invariably comes at a cost, but pushing yourself to the best of your ability is something to encourage.

  

We are, sadly, living in the golden age of mediocrity, where cheap reality television can make stars of people whose only achievement is their ability to pander to the lowest common denominator.

    

The Tour de France is the very antithesis of that: it not only a great event, it is inspirational, compelling television that takes your breath away as you watch people at the very top of their game, striving with every fibre of their being to be even better. Hanging their hat high, reaching for it, and hanging it higher again. For the Sky team that gave ultimate glory to Bradley Wiggins, there was never any limit.

    

The power of the individual, the importance of teamwork; strength, stamina, determination, hard work. I am sitting on the Champs Elysees as the yellow jersey of Wiggins grows from a spec in the distance to a perfect manifestation of truly great human achievement. 

And I can only weep in awe.      

  

Superstar - I Don't Know How to Love It

I don’t know how to love it

What to do, how it can move me.

It’s been changed, yes really changed.

In these past few days, when I’ve seen the show,

It seems like something low.

I don’t know how to take it,

I don’t see why it unmoves me.

It’s a show. It’s just a show.

And I’ve seen so many shows before

In very many ways.

It’s just one more.

Should I bring it down?

Should I scream and shout?

Should I speak of doubt,

Let my feelings out?

I never thought I’d come to this.

What’s it all about?

Don’t you think it rather funny

My remote’s in this position?

It’s the one that’s always been

So calm, so cool, no viewer’s fool,

Ruining every show

It scares me so.

(I never thought I’d come to this.

What’s it all about?)

Yet, if I said I loved it,

I’d be wrong, I’d be frightened.

I couldn’t cope, just couldn’t cope.

I’d turn my head, I’d bash the screen.

I wouldn’t want to know.

It scares me so.

I want it NO

I want it NO

Leaving Home for Judge Alex

Yes, the constant rain in the UK has finally got to me, and having sat through – and enjoyed – Euro 2012 and Wimbledon, I am making my getaway before the Olympics, which has already bored me to tears (and that’s just the torch-bearing).

There is so much that I still miss about LA – and not just the weather. I miss the daily walk to the gym, sunsets over the Pacific while nursing a frozen Margarita, and I specially miss my 2pm appointment with Judge Alex.

No, that’s not a legal requirement with an ankle bracelet, but Judge Alex’s courtroom TV show that was my weekday lunchtime and a programme for which I grieve on a daily basis, sobbing into my beer at 10 pm British time and reminiscing about where I would be at 2pm in LA.

It hasn’t been all bad since returning to the UK, and much as I moan about aspects of Cardiff in South Wales, I still believe it is a wonderful city. As I bid farewell (again), here are 10 reasons why it is still good not only to be Welsh but to live here:-

1.    The Millennium Stadium. One of the greatest sports stadiums in the world. Its proximity to the city centre makes it a joy for fans arriving by train, and I have never met anyone who hasn’t loved the experience of being there.

2.    The Welsh rugby team. They may have lost all their Tests in Australia, but this vibrant team did us proud in the World Cup in New Zealand – both as players and ambassadors for our country.

3.    The Apple Store in St David’s 2. Easily the best and most knowledgeable staff of any Apple store I have ever visited.

4.    Cardiff Bay. On a sunny day, there is no better place to be in the city.

5.    Premier Cabs. By far the best taxi service. Clean cars, pleasant drivers, and you never feel less than 100% safe in them. They are 99.9% reliable, too.

6.    Café Citta in Church Place and The Cinnamon Tree in King’s Road - my two favourite places to eat. Great food, great service. Would that anywhere else came close.

7.    Pontcanna Fields, where I used to sit under trees with my books as a student, and which still give me pleasure over 30 years on.

8.    Dave’s Monday night quiz in the Butcher’s Arms in Llandaff. The best quiz in town, in which everyone’s a winner. It’s always packed and it’s a great atmosphere – enormous fun, as quizzes are meant to be.

9.    The St David’s Hotel Spa. Streets above every other health club and right next door to the hotel’s Tides, a really cool bar.

10.  Last but not least: my wonderful friends, many of whom I have known for decades. I am blessed in knowing kind, funny people, who are always there for me. 

 . . . and 10 reasons who I’ll be glad to get away again:-

1.    The weather. I don’t ever remember seeing so much rain, and after living in LA for the most part of two and a half years, waking every morning to blue skies, I can now barely drag myself out of bed in the morning.

2.    The appalling service in restaurants and bars. In a five-star hotel, if I say the wine is corked, I don’t expect the bar staff to hold the glass up to the light and say “I can’t see any cork in it”. I don’t expect them to argue with me if I say that champagne is flat. And I specially don’t want to do battle if I say that my food is cold and am told that it was hot when it left the kitchen. Yes, I am sure it was; leaving it on the sidelines for 10 minutes is what kills it.

3.    Staff with eyebrow, mouth or tongue piercings. I don’t want to be served by people rolling a silver ball around in their mouths – especially in five-star establishments. It’s fine for a night out with your mates, but in the service industry it smacks of a lack of respect for your customers.

4.    The really bad music in Brains establishments. The Maltsters in Llandaff would be a joy, were it not for the racket that is fed automatically by the brewery that has less taste than its beer (in my non-beer drinking opinion).

5.    Cardiff Airport which, with the departure of BMI Baby, no longer flies to anywhere I want to go. Losing the Malaga run means trekking over to Bristol, which I hate.

6.    The traffic. I’m not advocating a return to the horse and cart, but the congestion on the outskirts of the city centre means that it now takes roughly five times as long as it did to get anywhere than it did just a couple of years ago.

7.    The filthy pavements. After LA (and in Beverly Hills, you could eat off the sidewalk), the appalling mess on our streets disgusts me. Fast food packets, cigarette ends, overflowing bins – visitors from northern California must think they have arrived in a Third World country.

8.    The doom and gloom of most people, everywhere. Times are tough, I know, but negativity seems to be built into our national consciousness.

9.    Drunkenness – the national pastime. Town on a Friday and Saturday night is an embarrassment, with not only young boys but young girls being bundled into the back of police cars. Any big city on weekends, I suppose, but still a disgrace.

10.  No Judge Alex in Wales. Did I mention that?