Wednesday 28 November 2012

Transition Time and the Gym


I’m currently at one of those awkward transition periods in my life. Having handed in my notice at work a while ago and coming to the decision to make my departure from the ever-fruitful profession of being paid to be white whilst jumping around shouting at bemused kids, I’m looking forward to coming back to Beijing after a (hopefully) happy Christmas back in England and trying something new. I’ve also agreed recently to only work on a part time basis which frees up the whole week for me to find some writing jobs and work on my hotly-anticipated first major novel, which if all goes to plan will be finished Spring and will be released directly into paperback format if my printer can handle it.

Unfortunately, the result has been an ongoing battle with my inner psyche to fight the temptations of procrastination, thumb twiddling,, nagging my long-suffering girlfriend when she doesn’t put a book back on the shelf at a perfect 180 degree angle, and continuing with my newfound quest to transform Tottenham Hotspur into an all-conquering ruthless football machine on my newly acquired game Pro Evolution Soccer 2013. I’ve been snapping up all the talented German youngsters that have recently emerged on the world football scene in a move that I’m sure would please the Yid army, regardless of the irony.

Regarding the book, 3 months and 50,000 words down the line I must say my procrastination is justified. It gets harder as it goes on, particularly if you haven’t planned it. Not remembering your character names, what the settings are or why they are having Yellow Submarine-inspired hallucinations about previous lovers can prove to be a challenging task. I must say I have great respect for authors who manage to plan out exactly what they want to do and just get it on with it, perhaps making minor alterations along the way. As my writing tends to be affected by my mood or what I experienced on the day, I’m scared to re-read what is surely a messy collage of varying emotions and plot changes that would give George R R Martin a run for his money. I have toyed with the possibility of writing a novel about writing a novel and getting rich and famous that way, though I’m sure it’s been done.

On the new job front, I’ve been told several times by friends and colleagues that I should be getting my name out there by joining writer’s groups and attending networking events. I’ll get round to doing that soon, though the idea of showing up in beige khakis and pink shirt looking like Alan Partridge and attempting to hand out as many name cards as possible amid a large backdrop of rah rah rahing and penis measuring doesn’t sound too up my street, though the possibility of my name card being the lucky one that instead of being instantly tossed aside ends up as some journalist’s bookmark is perhaps reason enough to go. All in due time.

Anyway, I’m a firm believer that, and this belief wasn’t taken at all from Haruki Murakami’s biographical work What I Think About When I Talk About Running, that exercise clears the head. Having recently moved into a new flat, I took it upon myself to finally get off my arse and do some proper exercise by joining the local gym. I’d do it outside, though Beijing’s  1 in 10 likelihood of having a smog-free day makes that a potentially hazardous escapade. Having just returned from a gym session whereby one guy spent half an hour attempting to flip himself up from a lying position a-la WWE, only landing flat on his back and looking around embarrassed to see if anyone was laughing at him (I was), I feel completely refreshed and thus am writing this post. It seems that expressions of male vanity, muscles and micro-penises serve as brilliant creative inspiration for me. I’d like to thank Mr. Murakami and would love to have him over for tea if he can get past all those passionate anti-Japan bandwagon protestors with Nikon cameras and Honda cars. I’m sure if he gave out free copies of Doreamon and One Piece manga he’d appease them adequately. So here it is, for those that are interested, my current life in China. Not so much the teacher anymore but more the wannabe writer who can’t wait for Christmas to come and then get back and have a proper slog at it.

On another note, I’d like to satisfy the appetites of those who are maybe wondering why I’m still here, given that fact that this post is lightly peppered with mini pops at China. I can safely say that after four years I’m comfortable with my surroundings and enjoy a little moan every now and again. Of course I do, I’m human. No, scratch that. Of course I do, I’m British. In truth though, all these things that can so easily frustrate people are, on a good day, purely trivial to me, and if China has taught me one things it’s certainly not to take myself and the actions of other silly people too seriously. I’ve found that a fair few expats in China are depressingly bitter and negative people who end up staying here because the beer is cheap, and some types of girls come easy, though will never stop complaining nonetheless. It’s a sad path where 10 years down the line you end up 20 stone and sitting on a beach in a Hawaiian shirt in Cambodia wondering where it all went wrong. Maybe that’s what happened to Gary Glitter. I’m hoping to get something more out my experience here.
I’ll happily tell you that China in all its lasagne-layered complications, contradictions and fascinations keep me constantly stimulated, inspired and on my toes (literally, I dance with death on a daily basis whilst crossing the road outside my flat). In simple terms, those are some of the reasons why I’m still here, and maybe one day I’ll write a more detailed piece on what keeps me in China. But anyway, I don’t have the right to question anyone on why they’re where they are in life or nor should anyone else, and I certainly wouldn’t go up to someone in Haywards Heath and ask them “why are living in a place like this?” As I’ll probably get a smack in the face (if I haven’t already for being ginger or reading books). Oh and if any of my friends from other countries are reading are wondering what Haywards Heath is, stop wondering now. Actually, start wondering again and go on this brilliant website – www.thisishaywardsheath.com. But only if you’re curious about the place I grew up in and have better things to do than create the Fourth Reich in a north London football team. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing down my observations during my gym trips and anything else that amuses or interests me.