There’s something you should know, about the working class artist…

we’re still here.

Be it actor, writer, dancer, painter, whatever medium you choose… we’re still here.

There’s been a lot of press recently, about how it feels/seems that to be an actor especially in this town, your only real option… is to be posh.

Sure. Money makes life easier. It always has and it always will. Even more so if you are an artist, because it can give you time. It can buy you the freedom to chase after the dream.

But here’s the thing.

The rest of us… we’re still here! We haven’t gone away.

We’re still banging on your doors, and we’re still making jobs for ourselves. We don’t need the money. We need opportunities.

We need your attention.

So many of us are working two, sometimes three jobs just to support ourselves and still finding the time to write, dance, sing, create! In whatever capacity our big, wonderful, crazy imaginations are comfortable working within. We haven’t given up hope and we haven’t gone away.

I can write this… because I know. I’m one of them.

I’ve worked crazy hours and filled the space in between. And I’m not alone. I’ve gotten in to debt. Gotten out of debt. Gotten back in to debt. Because of the risks I took. And I’m not alone. I’ve moved a lot and been scared about paying the bills. And I’m not alone.

We’ve built wonderful relationships among ourselves. Supporting the work we do. Seeing each other’s shows. Reading each others words. Buying each other dinner when the money is low, and even, as is my case at the moment… allowing us to stay in each other’s homes when the chips are down.

Of course this is our own entire fault! We are accepting of the blame and responsibility. I could have chosen a more stable career. Many days, I wish it was so… but here’s the thing… not all of us want that sort of life. We’re not built for it. It simply makes us unhappy. We’d rather be poor.

We don’t want to be poor. But we’ll take that over settling for something less.

The problem is simply that it’s harder for us to get through the door. To be seen for the audition, to get you to read our work and to find the funding… but we’re not giving up. We haven’t gone away.

And here’s the promise. And it is a promise. It’s in no way a threat. It’s simply that we will always find a way. We’ll write our words, we’ll put on our shows, we’ll dance in the street and we’ll paint on the walls. We will always find away of trying to be ourselves.

We don’t need to have come from money.

All we need… is to be seen. Heard. Come see our work. Audition an outsider for the part. Open up the doors more.

Did you know? That some of the biggest theaters in London only see auditionees from certain drama schools? They’ve shut the door before even taking a peek outside and seeing what the world has to offer.

This is what we are talking about.

Let us in. Meet us. Talk to us… then decide. But give us a chance at least.

And here’s what I say to you, you lovely struggling artist you! Don’t give up. I know it’s difficult. I know you’re tired. I know you’re wondering if you’ve wasted your life and are you really good enough… But here’s the thing. At least we are trying. We haven’t been silenced and we haven’t gone away.

Promise me you never will… because, they may not know it yet, but they need us, all of us.

TEMP!

An old sketch we used to perform as, Becky and Naomi. I hope you enjoy!

My new show!

Feminism, it’s a simple case of equality.

I had a discussion, a little while ago now, with a male friend of mine about feminism, and he asked me… how far can it really go? And will there come a time when it’s been exhausted? And it really got me thinking…

We easily forget, all of us; men and women alike. We forget that in our history women had to fight to be seen as more than just wife’s and daughters. We’ve had to fight against being sold and brought, to be seen as individuals, not just the property of our fathers and husbands. We’ve had to fight for an education, for the right to work, and not just in roles deemed suitable for us, but for the jobs we are good at and love. We are still fighting for equal pay and championing companies to get more women in their boardrooms and in positions of power and authority… all of this, it’s so easily forgotten because here in the UK we’ve already overcome a lot of these obstacles, but in so many other countries, the women aren’t so lucky.

It’s easy to think of ourselves as individuals or as a singular in terms of country, nation, but the truth is… if things are ever going to get better, we need to think collectively, as a world. And this doesn’t just apply to feminism. We need to be nicer to each other, to learn to share and to recognise that people aren’t and should never be seen as problems. Every life matters.

The great thing about feminism is that it’s a fight for equality, and equality is something we should all strive for.

(It really is the most beautiful word.)

So for me, feminism is a reminder to keep those ideologies alive, otherwise they can easily be forgotten.

On the opening night of my play, ‘Matilda, Mike & Dan’ a man approached me, stating that he had to check a few times that it was, indeed, written by a woman. It was meant as a compliment. But I wondered what, thing, about it made him think it couldn’t possibly have been written by a woman, but more so… does it matter? I’m a person. A human being… I just happen to be a female of the species. Likewise I’ve had huge discussions with men who think it’s easier for women to pursue a career in the arts… this baffles me. It’s difficult for anyone to pursue their dream. It takes courage and guts to go after anything we truly want in life. Being a woman doesn’t make it any more easier or likely, and in saying so, it only takes away from the things I have, and may achieve in the future. My father doesn’t support me financially, he’s not in that kind of position, but I’m lucky enough that my family have always supported me in other ways. The greatest gift my parents ever gave me was making it easy for me to at least try. And likewise… I don’t go out looking for a man who can offer me stability in the sense of a home and money, because to me… stability in that sense, isn’t love, it can so easily be lost, and you need each other to over come life, not money. All I’m looking for is a man who can make me laugh.

Plus… why can’t I be the bread-winner of the family? ;)

We recognise there is a difference between us. Male and female. And I like being a woman. I also, daily, fall in and out of love with men. In an age where we are fighting for the rights of so many things, it really all falls in to one category – equality. We want everyone to be seen, heard, kept safe and the right to love whomever our heart desires. The right to an education. Food, water, a fair justice system, and a safe home, are things I shouldn’t even have to mention.

I, like so many other women, have been in situations where we’ve felt uneasy about how a man is behaving towards us. Either touching us inappropriately, it’s never OK to grab my bottom as a way of getting my attention, or shouting out to us in public. Being rude or aggressive when we’ve refused your advances… And like wise, trying to hold our own in an intellectual situation. Please, never underestimate us. And I know if I’m ever lucky enough to have a daughter that she too may experience similar situations and that scares and saddens me. I know I’ll have to work hard to get her to see all the good and wonderful things about herself, so she has the strength to walk away, should she ever find herself in a situation that brings her any kind of pain. But my greatest hope for the future is that it won’t even be an issue, that we’ll all have evolved enough that things are better, not worse.

It’s not a difficult job, teaching your son’s to respect women. It starts by getting them to respect all life. Same goes for your daughters. It’s a simple case of equality.

Likewise it expands to religion, politics, our justice systems, employers, and to us individually to recognise the changes needed and to make them happen.

Some facts I found: The last Magdalen Laundry closed in Ireland in 1998. Only 16 years ago. Not that long ago, and not that far away. At least one in four women in the UK will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. In 2013 women accounted for only 16% of the writers, directors, producers, executive producers, editors and cinematographers of all the top-grossing movies of that year. (http://time.com/8788/9-depressing-facts-from-the-latest-women-in-media-report/) Only 30% of girls in the world are in secondary education. And there are more. So many more, that I could list and are heart breaking to read. Have a google, search for yourself, talk to each other, listen and learn. Make a difference. Even if it’s a small one. And ladies… challenge what you don’t like. Make the changes happen.

So in conclusion. How far can feminism go? – All the way. And will it ever be exhausted? – I hope so, that’s my dream anyway, that one day… we will no longer need her. Her work will be done and she can retire, happy and safe. A job well done.

Holy Spirit.

‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. The words flowed from his mouth on a stream of venom. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. ‘The Father, the Son…’ In his hands a wooden cross was slowly eating away at his skin as he rubbed it gently between his fingers… ‘and The Holy Spirit’. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. Behind him a large stain glass window, through which the beginnings of a new day were seeping in. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. He began to cry. The tears rolling gently down his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his hands. Death, he hoped, was only moments away. The liquid on his hands smeared and stained the wood of the cross. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. There was a prayer in his voice. ‘The Father, The Son…’ In front of him a mirror, in which he could see all the hope of his soul, ‘and The Holy Spirit’.

His reflection stared back at him. He recognised the eye’s, the skin, but the smile… the smile was not his own. The teeth and the lips, too perfect, and the shape of the mouth, like the Cheshire Cat. He was frightened. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. He’d been a good man, all his life, he’d tried to be good. A child was aching from his chest. Help me. His words changed. ‘I’m a good boy’. ‘I’m a good boy’. His tears grew. The bone from his fingers beginning to show, as the wooden cross dug deeper and deeper in to his skin.

‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. He’d slipped once. Only the once. ‘I’m a good boy.’ ‘I’m a good boy’. The walls absorbed his words, there was no echo, no sounds of a world beyond the church. The quiet was closing in on him as the ray’s of light warmed the back of his head, reaching over him, pulling at the mirror. His reflection smiled. The hands, his hands, started to knock on the glass. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. He couldn’t look away. The reflection, his own shadow, edged its way further and further out of the frame. It’s hands pulled at his shoe laces, ran its fingers up his legs and pulled at the belt buckle of his trousers. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. The cross set a light in his hands. Still he clung to it.

The hands moved up his chest, the fingers reaching in side his mouth. Taping at his teeth. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. The lips touched his ear. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy’. ‘I haven’t’ he mumbled. ‘I haven’t’. ‘I’ve been a good boy’. The lips moved to his. Kissing him gently. ‘Not what I heard’. Then he laughed, moving his fingers over his eyes. ‘I heard you’d sold your soul’. His tongue licking at his cheek. ‘I was tricked, I was tricked’. The fingers dug into his eye sockets. ‘The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit’. The hands covered his mouth. ‘Shhhhhhh… there’s a good boy. Shhhhhh’ Silence. Only the breath of the dying.

The light of the day began to warm the empty glass of the mirror, and there in it’s moving pattern’s, the wings of a bird. His eye’s grew wide. He had not been forgotten. He had not been forgotten. The fingers lashed at his sockets, nails ripping at his skin, as a squeal ran through his body, the words piercing his heart. ‘Seeing is believing, SEEING IS BELIEVING!’

Eternal darkness.

As the caretaker open the church doors, there was that familiar taste of smoke on his lips. Vicars been on the pipe again. The church was full of light, unusual for late October. He stood in the aisle and for a moment warmed his bones from the sun as it pierced through the giant stain glass window. Heaven he thought. This is heaven. His feet trending on the ashes. As he went to fetch a broom, clear up the mess on the floor, candle he thought. One day the whole church’ll burn to a crisp. He collected the vicars mirror, left leaning against a pew. Lovely man. As vain as a Barbie doll though, and he shuffled off to the back rooms, unaware of the blind man, huddled in the corner. In the shadows of the wall, waving. Waving to a reflection in the mirror. A reflection that waved back, mockingly, as it juggled with the eyes of a lost soul.

Just a thought…

It is a common truth that most of us, at least once a day, will worry or think about our weight and face. Should we eat that? Why don’t I look like her or him? Why am I so fat and ugly? blah blah blah, but they are thoughts that plague us all. It’s a horrible thing, the feeling of being ugly. I my self am very prone to such thoughts, I once took some scissors to my hair as a teenager in the desperate attempt that anything different would be better than what I had to offer, but something did occur to me just the other day… if I didn’t look the way I do, I wouldn’t think the way I do… I’m not saying I’m a genius! far, far from it! But I have these moments, especially when writing or away with the fairies and I feel, for want of a better word, free. Everything else disappears. So next time you feel ugly, fat, stupid or what ever it is! Stop!, if you didn’t look like you, feel and behave like you, would you think like you! Would you have the thoughts, the imagination, the abilities, the skills, that you have. Probably not. You’d be someone else. It’s such a simple and silly notion, but you know, just a thought…

Home

Home for me, is you. Home is not a place, there are no bricks and mortar. Home for me is the hope of you. A person to lie with, a friend to laugh with and a person to always come back to. Home is not a safe place where the doors are closed and the beds are made. Home is you, where ever you maybe. A knowing look, a hand to hold, a smile to comfort. Home is a person. That person is you. You are my home.