Ode to a writer

"All I do, is sit down at the typewriter, and start hittin' the keys. Getting them in the right order, that's the trick. That's the trick." -- Garth Marenghi.

Isn't it funny how sometimes, the person you wanted to be when you grew up is actually what you end up being?

When I was little, I went through several future occupations; librarian (so I could read books all day), writer (so I could read and write books all day), fashion designer (my Beverly Hills 90210 dress was the toast of the season), marine biologist (so I could read books with dolphins), filmmaker (so I could read books with Leonardo DiCaprio), and now I'm back to writer.

After three years of pretending to myself that I like performing risk assessments, struggling with trying to make a budget, ringing actors and trying in vain to keep crew members from killing each other, I realised something: being a producer sucks balls. To quote Mr Dylan, 'it ain't me, babe.'

And so, I want to pay tribute to one of my idols. F. Scott Fitzgerald? Well, yes, but that's not who I mean. Oscar Wilde? Lovely, but no. Hunter S Thompson? Well, of course, but no. I'm referring to a man who has essentially defined for me the art of genre analysis (it could be Daniel Chandler, but again, wrong. You suck at this.).

Of course I mean Simon Pegg. And let me count the ways:

He wanted to write a sketch about a man named Peter Parker who thought he was Spider-man.

Each and every project he makes with Edgar Wright shows such as detailed knowledge of genre and proves time and time again that they are aware of exactly what a set of conventions are; a game played between the producer and the consumer of a text.

This article about zombies: http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/nov/04/television-simon-pegg-dead-set

He introduced us to Tyres O' Flaherty, and gave him pearls of wisdom like the following:

"Last Night was an A1, tip-top, clubbing, jam fair. It was a sandwich of fun, on ecstasy bread, wrapped up in a big bag of disco fudge. It doesn't get much better than that. I just wish that I could control these fucking mood swings!"

He managed to make David Schwimmer's dumbed-down version of British comedy fun.

The scar on his forehead, left forever unexplained...sigh.