Author: Graeme McMillan

It’s a cliche, I know, to complain about getting older and what it means to you physically; it’s one of those things that has become so rote, so unoriginal, as to almost become meaningless — as if a complaint about your mother-in-law had inherent insight or merit, or any kind of commentary about millennials and, well, anything, really. Nonetheless, dear reader, as I sit here and write this, I have to tell you, I am a broken man and it’s something I have decided to ascribe entirely to aging. Maybe some cliches have an element of truth to them, after all.

I am, simply, aching. I did some yard work — not even a lot, just an hour or so — and the price I’m paying for it feels entirely ridiculous and over the top: a day later, I just ache from head to foot, with particular pain attention being paid to my legs and, for some entirely unknown reason, the fingers in my right hand. Specifically, it’s my bones that are aching, as if to be even more cliched; I am literally bone tired. If nothing else, I should take it as a sign that I likely need to do far more exercise than I do… or, perhaps, less yard work.

As I ache, I find myself thinking things like, this didn’t used to hurt so much, did it? or is my body trying to tell me to take it easier? as if there’s one simple reason for the dull maladies I’m feeling all over. The feeling of, well, just being still but still feeling that throb of messaging from all over that you’ve over exerted yourself is something I’m putting down almost entirely to getting older, more than actually doing too much or treating my body too unkindly. It’s easier that way, almost; it’s expected, almost — the cliche is cliche for a reason — and unavoidable. If I ache because of aging, it’s not my fault. That’s easier than admitting that maybe I should take better care of myself.

Somehow, it’s September. I’m torn between being surprised by this — honestly, didn’t we just start August? What happened to that month? — and being oddly grateful about it, because September means the end of summer, and that really couldn’t arrive fast enough for me.

My relationship to summer has been an ever-evolving one, I admit. It was only a couple of years ago that I was convinced that I’d finally gotten over a years-long aversion to the season, born of my dislike of the heat and being sunburned, as well as the events that the season traditionally brought out thanks to my previous relationship (too many garden visits, too much being outside in conditions that I didn’t enjoy). I had, I believed,  come to find, a way to enjoy summer on my own terms, from the long days to the cool glasses of lemonade it afforded me permission to drink. Finally, I could join that vast majority of sun-loving humanity!

And then the last couple of years happened. It’s not a COVID or lockdown thing, for once; it’s that there has been record heat in these here parts — 110 or thereabouts for an extended period of time, twice this year alone — as well as a significant drop in air quality due to wildfires just outside of the city. The combined effect of these two things have made for especially uncomfortable, difficult summers for the last couple of years, especially this year, and reminded me that, oh, that’s right: I hate summer. And I was always right to hate summer, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

It’s been oddly freeing to come to this realization, and not just because it makes me feel as if I had the early pass on having the right opinion all along. I’ve always been a fan of the fall, and suffering through such genuinely difficult summers feels as if it’s confirmation that it’s really not the sunny months that bring the most joy to people. Give me overcast days and chilly nights. Give me the sun setting when you’re eating dinner, and leaves crunching underfoot. Let’s say goodbye to that Beach Boys time of year and find something better to smile about.

There’s a skill to being able to relax that, in the last year or so — thanks to such joys as a global pandemic, a social lockdown, and a collapse of my career as I once recognized it — I suspect that I’ve lost. That’s not to say that I used to be a master of the art, but I was certainly a skilled student, even if I do say so myself; I could find the mental space in which to happily while away the hours without too much effort, especially if it meant I had the ability to wander without purpose or simply read a book for an extended period of time. For all that was going on in my head, I knew enough to be able to leave it behind when possible.

These days, that’s not really something I’ve found myself able to pull off easily. There’s too much to think about and keep track off, whether it’s the numerous freelance gigs for different outlets — and who’s paid me for what and who I need to chase up, as well, sadly — or the latest updates about Gavin’s school and whether for not he’ll be able to attend in person, or if the Delta variant is fucking even more things up, or whatever. I try to drift off into my own head, only to be greeted with massive neon signs reminding me that I owe the ex-wife an email about taking care of the dogs and who’ll be taking care of them and when, or that there’s some bills due and maybe I need to take another look at my bank account just in case.

I’ve written before, I’m sure, about the value of silence when it comes to relaxation for me; the more complications that life likes to throw at me, the more I realize that they’re all versions of an uncomfortable sound interrupting that quiet. If there’s a personal goal I should be looking at for the near to mid future, it might simply be described as finding out how to create emotional noise cancelling headphones.

I had the thought the other day, that I should have gone into music journalism when I had the chance.

To be clear, I’m not sure that I ever actually had the chance in the first place; unless I’m forgetting something, I’m pretty sure that I’ve never actually been paid to write about music or musicians, and I doubt that’s anything that is about to change nowadays. Who in their right mind wants a 46-year old who’s spent too much time in the last month listening to Damon Albarn and old Primal Scream albums to write about music? It’s a young person’s game, and I think that’s the way it should be, at least for neophytes; they’re the one still hungrily discovering new sounds.

Nonetheless, the thought occurred when I thought about the fact that music writing has a cultural validity that writing about comic books just… doesn’t. Music writers get more freelance opportunities, as almost every news outlet runs stories about music and musicians; there’s an established market for books based in music writing — so much so, in fact, that bookstores have actual sections just for that very thing. If you write about music, then there are possibilities available to you that feel far less possible if, like me, you write about comic books and comic culture.

I’m thinking about this wrong, perhaps; I should be embracing the challenge and opportunity of being a pioneer, of breaking the new ground that I have, that I’m still trying to do. There is something exciting about that, it’s true, in being one of the few people who’ve written so extensively about all this stuff at a time when it’s gone (and continues to go) mainstream. I can remember when we all thought this was a bubble that would pop; more than a decade later, it’s clear to everyone that it’s something else, and I’ve been there the whole time, writing about it. That’s not nothing.

And yet, looking at the failed pitches, the doors now closed because of budget cutbacks, my bank balance this year… I find myself wishing that I’d gone into music journalism, or anything less niche, when I had the chance.

There have been a number of times, increasingly so lately, where I’ve been putting less out into the digital world and, instead, paying more attention to what others have been saying. I hate it.

That’s a joke, to an extent; while I remain frustrated that I don’t have the kind of free-ranging journalistic outlet that THR was to me for so long — oh, the stories I would write, would have written, still want to write, if I had that opportunity again…! — the choice to stay so quiet online in other ways has been an intentional one, and something that I think has been pretty good for me overall.

I’ve been posting less and less on social media for any number of reasons, not least of which being an increasing sense of unease about the question of what I’m actually adding to the conversation — so many others are asking (and answering) more articulate, interesting questions, and in almost every instance, all I’d be doing is adding noise rather than signal. There’s no need for that, to say the least, so I keep my virtual lips shut. (Well, for the most part. Every now and then, I give in; I can’t always resist.)

As all of this happens, I get to listen and read, instead of talk and write; I get to be an audience, instead of an author. I get to learn, which feels like the ultimate goal, surely — at least, if you’re not looking to purposefully use the space to promote your own voice. (Which is, I should add, a valid thing to do on social media!) It’s been good, for the most part, when it’s not been frustrating or annoying to see malice or stupidity spread, rewarded for no real reason.

I have to relearn how to put myself out there at some point, and re-engage with that world; I think it’d be a healthy thing to not remain an audience forever. But for now, in the words of Frasier Craine: I’m here. I’m listening.

I’ve had two conversations recently that have, independently of each other, been about the same thing: namely, the idea that 2021 isn’t any easier than last year, but may in fact be harder — but that our inability as a culture to accept that is something that’s ultimately going to leave us in a far worse position than we were last year.

It is, perhaps, a strange idea to echo between people entirely unrelated of each other. But it’s not an entirely alien one, I have to admit; this year has been considerably worse for me than I’d imagined going in, and I wasn’t the most enthusiastic of people at the start of it all. (There was, after all, a pandemic and disaster all around to deal with at the time, never mind the potential for political disaster in the dying days of the Trump presidency.)

Nevertheless, the year has been a curious mix of things going wrong — or, at least, not to plan, which isn’t quite the same thing, even if they can feel similar at the time — with occasional bursts of potential good news that, judging by the evidence to date, is more likely to fade into insignificance or disappear entirely than come to fruition. It’s something that, I know, should feel far more crushing than it actually does. But perhaps that’s the wrong attitude to have?

Then again, I’m not sure what the right attitude would be: feeling worse about things? Surrendering to the bad news and expecting more at any given opportunity? Those both seem like unhealthy options, even though I’m sure that pessimists would think that my optimism is closer to ignorance if not outright denial, and look similarly down their noses at the very notion.

The truth of the matter is, this year is harder than last year, with COVID on an upswing and my career prospects stagnant if not downright dying. It’s been rough, and I’m sure rougher is on the way before things change. But I have to hope that things will get better at some time. What else can I do?

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in the last few months since going from permalance to properly, everything-is-a-pitch-process freelance, it’s that there’s never enough time to do everything you want — or, really, half of the things you want to do.

I had particularly ambitious plans when I started down this road back in February that involved purchasing web domains and alternating between doing work that I owned and would, in theory, get paid for via sources, and doing more traditionally freelance work; the reality, I’ve learned in the last few months, is that the freelance work alone takes up so much more time than I’d expected, because of all the things that aren’t actually doing the work: the pitching back and forth, the invoicing, the keeping track of everything as it’s happening so that I don’t make it to the end of a week, or a month, and realize something’s entirely fallen through the cracks.

(That’s to say nothing about the unexpected complications, like editors leaving outlets and my work being in unpaid limbo, or full-time staff stealing stories I was working on, because they’re full-time and can do that. Both of those have happened recently, too.)

I literally can’t imagine having done all of this and still having followed through on my earlier plans; I honestly can’t imagine how I would have found the time on a practical level, never mind being able to not lose my mind because of everything else that would have been going on.

Even now, there’s a second secret thing in the background of my days — something that I spent a good amount of July making the foreground of my days, hoping to get it all done before that month ended, but again, things happened. As a result, it’s been breathing in the background for the past few weeks, waiting for me to have time to finish it even as that time just isn’t available because of paying work that needs to be done first. It’s weighing on my mind, but I can’t do anything about it right now. Alas.

I’m frustrated, and convinced there’s an easier — less-time consuming — way to do all of this. I’d say more, but who has the time?

There’s a fine line between… good trash and trash trash, I guess would be the best way to describe it…? I’ve been watching a lot — really, too much — reality television lately, including Love Island, Fboy Island, and Below Decks: Mediterranean, and as a result, I feel like I can recognize the rhythms and the tropes of each show even before they appear onscreen at this point. I’ve become an accidental scholar of reality television, and I’ve started to lean into the ways this impacts my viewing of each show.

It’s because of this that I’m convinced that Fboy Island is either an entirely scripted parody of the genre — no spoilers, I’ve not made it to the end of the season, and therefore any potential reveal, yet — or an incompetently edited attempt to lean into the expectations of the audience. There are just too many moments that land too heavily, and too many things that are artificial constructs that no-one seemingly questions at all for things to even ring as truly as, say, Love Island, another show that’s entirely artificial.

And yet, Love Island, now in its seventh season — not to mention the international spin-offs, which include at least Australian and American versions, neither of which truly measure up to the real thing — has a history to its artificiality, which gives it a feel of… verisimilitude, perhaps? Reality? Something that somehow stretches beyond the fakeness and allows for a shorthand and acceptance of things that we as an audience understand because, even just as viewers, we’ve been here before.

(This doesn’t make things like “Casa Amor,” wherein the groups are split across gender lines and sent to different locations where a new group of potential suitors basically try and ruin whatever romantic connections they’ve made to that point, are any less troublesome or, honestly, annoying even now. But at least they’re familiar.)

There’s something to watching these shows and recognizing signs, thinking, oh, now they’re going to do this plot twist, and then remembering: In theory, these are people’s actual lives. It’s a key point of watching Below Decks, to be honest — the one show I’ve mentioned where it’s not meant to be a performative contest, but instead a fly on the wall look at people doing their jobs: Is this what people actually just do in their lives now? Is this how life is for other people?