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Don't Give Up.

Name me a famous artist that gave up and decided not to continue with their art. That encountered a roadblock in their life and decided that this was the end. That there was no point going on because they were getting told by people time and again that they weren't any good.

Give up? That's because they are none.

All artists face criticism, as that is the nature of art itself. Art's value and worth is in the eye of the beholder, and sometimes those eyes will glare and sneer at it. Those eyes will judge the work as inferior or crap, as something that's worth dismissing as nothing more then trash found on the side of the street.

But that doesn't mean you have to give up.

No one has the right to tell you you can't be creative. Anyone who does is wrong. Pure and simple. No one can pry the brush from your hands, the words from your page, the recording out of your camera. No one can tell you that you can't make art because they don't want to see it. Because you don't make art for them, not really.

All artists, first and foremost, make art for themselves.

You make art because you have something to say about the world, about the things found within it. You have an opinion on it and damn it you're going to express it any way you care too. A painting, a poem, an online video review. It doesn't matter what it is, the point is that you made it. That it's yours. And no one can take it away from you.

But that doesn't automatically mean that it gets displayed in a museum.

A child's drawing isn't going to be placed next to the Mona Lisa. An amateur's first draft isn't going to be printed in the New Yorker. An online video-hosting site isn't going to take any old video review in a market drowning with shows like it. They're only going to be taking the best, the cream of the crop, the piece de la resistance.

So make good art.

Draw a masterpiece, write an epic, make a review show that rivals that of the best. Don't take one failure as the end of the world. Don't have someone tell you that you can't do something. Sure perhaps you can't write, or draw, or make good videos. Guess what: No one is born a master artist. Oh sure there's innate talent, but talent alone isn't good enough. There are millions of talented people doomed to obscurity because they don't choose to use those talents, but rather hide them for fear.

Don't be one of those people.

Don't be content with your work, improve. Get better. Always be critical, asking yourself 'How can I make this better? What can be improved on?' Don't take what you have for granted, improve on it. Make it bigger, bolder, better. Don't get stuck in a rut, rise above it. Don't get held back by those that say you suck. Focus instead on how you can be better. Don't focus solely on your successes or your failures. Instead take both in equal measure and learn how you can get better from them.

Don't give up. The world needs more artists. We will always need artists.

And even if everyone is telling you no, even if everyone is telling you to shut up, even if everyone is telling you that you'll never amount to anything and you're foolish for even trying.

Don't give up.

Prove them wrong.

To Meet or Not To Meet

It says a lot about a man that doesn't look up from his work. It says even more about the man who doesn't do it when a stranger suddenly teleports into the room.

“Autographs are a fiver, signed portraits are a tenner,” said the man, eyes barely leaving his writings.

“It's you, isn't it?” said the stranger eagerly. The man sighed and laid down his quill. It was one of those people.

“You're William Shakespeare!”

“So I've been told,” said Shakespeare, still not turning to face his guest.

“I'm Tom, and I must say I'm your biggest fan. I mean Titus Andronicus-”

“Was written to please the masses and make me a quick buck,” cut off Shakespeare.

“Well Macbeth-”

“Political propaganda to keep my neck out of the noose.”

“Oh and Hamlet. That whole To Be Or Not To-”

“Conceived when I was debating about whether to pubically urinate or not.”

“Oh,” said Tom, a bit disheartened. Then the obvious finally managed to hit him in the face. “Here, how come you're not surprised to see me.”

“When one has the status as the greatest writer of all time one gets use to visitors from the future inquiring about one's person.”

“You know I'm from the future?”

“I'm hardly a fool. It became clear the umpteenth time one of your cohorts inadvertently told me when I was in my youth.”

“Oh-” began Tom, but Shakespeare was in his forte.

“And ever since then I've been besieged by idiots who have wanted to know the true meanings behind my plays. Or worse, offer their own interpretation, as misguided and humorous as they could be. It quickly became to become a bore to have yet another stranger congratulate me on something I'd yet to write.”

“Well surely the audience must like you?” ventured Tom.

“The common man on the street barely knows who I am. The audience is constantly packed with the likes of you lot, come to see my work when it was 'authentic'.” He practically spat the word. “If it isn't bad enough that you lot continue to fawn over me, you also do me the unkindness of claiming that I didn't write any of it myself. Or worse claim the work of lesser playwrights should be in my name instead! There is more than one playwright around here you know. Or don't, as so often the case.”

“Yes I suppose-” tried Tom, but Shakespeare would have none of it.

“In fact at one point I tried to destroy my work so at least I could get some respite from being questioned about that. But no, soon there came a flurry of people asking me what happened to Love Labours Won and whether it existed in the first place. They'd even written their own versions of it.”

“Well why don't you stop writing?” countered Tom.

“You didn't think that occurred to me you foolish man. The moment I vowed never to put quill to parchment I was besieged with people wanting to know why I'd stop. It eventually became simpler just to start writing again so I didn't have to repeat myself.”

“Oh,” repeated Tom, thoroughly disheartened by this encounter. However he remembered one last thing he wanted to bring up. “What about your sonnets?”

“Believe me when I find the man who will publish my diary after my death I will screw him quite firmly to the sticking place. Now begone with you. This Winter's Tale isn't going to write itself, although some buffoon already told me how it was going to end. So begone!”

With that Shakespeare turned back to his work, ignoring Tom entirely. Before Tom left he remembered one piece of wisdom his teacher had told him before he left:

Never meet your heroes, for you will always be let down.

Who is the March Hare?

The nature of the March Hare had often been the subject of wonder to the wonderful inhabitants of Wonderland. Born on what could approximately be called the 29th of February, there was something about the March Hare that made him mad. True one might think that that was a given, given where it was taking place. But even the other beings of Wonderland regarded him as being a bit odd. A bit unusual. Something completely and utterly confusing and perplexing.

The March Hare was sane.

At any given point he was in full control of all his mental facilities. Whilst there were times the other inhabitants could stop and think in a straight line, the train would often go down a very short track before derailing spectacularly. Whilst there were times where the other inhabitants could see the oddity of their surroundings, these times were as fleeting as the average tea time. Whilst there were times when the inhabitants could realise they were mad, the decided that this was the norm.

Not the March Hare.

He knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it. He understood the connection between cause and effect and how sometimes some things were only correlatedly linked. He understood how logic worked and was the full master of it. His razor sharp brain would have been much welcomed at the likes of Oxford. He was, in short, quite a brilliant logical genius.

Unfortunately the March Hare was in Wonderland.

And thus his madness came from not being too crazy, but being too sane. He didn't disconnect from the world, he was ingrained in it. He didn't give into the madness, but defiantly resisted it. Even with the breakdown of cause and effect in an eternal trap of tea time he stood his mental ground, remembering the sequence of events the best he could.

He refused to go mad amongst mad people.

He'd only ever found one solace. In a strange girl called Alice who seemed to be the only one that could think sensibly. His dear friend Hatter (whose meeting and friendship is a story for another tea time) was as mad as ever, but the March Hare saw solace in this one creature. He saw a fellow being who also knew how to think logically, even if the reasoning itself was flawed. A few logic tests were proof of that. But something was better than nothing, since nothing was nothing at all.

But she was free to leave, whilst the March Hare had to stay.

Stay in this confusing, complicated world where logic was merely a word in a dictionary that no one bothered to read. A world where a simple hare was forced to sit through an eternal tea party in the hopes of curing his friend's sanity, or at least relieving the crushing boredom. A world the Hare knew he could never escape, not without the Hatter, who could likewise never leave.

The March Hare is Wonderland's greatest victim, and forever there he will stay.

In Response To My Absence Re: Time Travel

Dear James

I suppose I have to be honest: This isn't a script for my Podcast Play. There are no characters, no setting, little to no dialogue. No thorough description of action or surroundings. It has the barest minimum for a fictional narrative (if it wasn't a true story) and is written in such a rush that I don't have time to proof-read.

No, this is an explanation of why I couldn't write you the perfect Podcast Play in time. It is a perfectly simple explanation that seems complicated if not well-explained, which is becoming difficult since I'm forgetting it as I write this. I suppose I should start at the beginning.

The story, for want of a better word, begins on Monday January 23^rd 2013, the deadline you gave me for submitting my script.

I was taking a stroll in the park, checking my phone for any messages from Manic Expression and desperately trying to think up an idea for a script, when the strangest email was sent to me. It was sent from one of my many dummy accounts, a one that only I knew existed. Attached to it was a very strange message:

Dear Ratin8tor (it read)

It is of vital importance that you leave the class right now and go home. Waiting for you will be something that you have been wanting to give yourself for a very, very long time. If you do not believe the sincerity of this claim, then perhaps you'll believe the sender.

Beneath was a hand-written note revealing various secrets about myself that I do not wish to share, proving that this person not only knew me, but was able to copy the unreadable scrawl that is my handwriting perfectly.

Naturally this worried me deeply, so I rushed home to see what vile disaster lay in my future. What I found came not only out of left field, but a different ball park, nay a different game based on balls entirely.

For sitting in my room, as plain as the words on this piece of paper, was a time machine.

The hand-written note attached to it explained how my future self had sent it to me, using various code words that would be rendered pointless if I told you them. Nevertheless it proved, with no uncertainty, that this was really a time machine sent by my future self. It even noted how I would travel one minute into the future to test this claim, to stop me being totally sceptical.

One minute later I was reading the second note that had been placed on my desk while I was travelling into the future. It explained in detail how I was to build this time machine, how long it was going to take; and how it must be built at my parents bach so I don't accidentally bump into myself. The time machine in my room must be left here for obvious reasons. It also said that it would become clear what I was meant to do next once the machine was built.

Following my advice I went to my parents bach, where I spent the next several months building the time machine. The instructions were perfect, written in a way that anyone could understand. In theory you're wondering that if I never left my parents bach, how could I still be helping out Manic Expression? Well there is still much to explain.

At the end of those months it was complete. I knew what to do next. I travelled back to Monday the 23^rd of January, arriving at home moments after my past self had departed for his walk in the park. Once in my room I composed the email and wrote up the note to make my past self come back to my house. After that I wrote the first note and attached it to the time machine, before slipping into my sister's room so not to be spotted. I wrote the second note while my past self discovered the time machine, waiting until the exact moment he jumped one minute into the future. During that minute I placed the second note on the desk, before retreating back into hiding.

I twiddled my thumbs as my past self read the note and left the house to drive to my parent's bach. I was thus now left alone in my house with my time machine. There was only one logical thing to do.

I wrote the Podcast Play that was due in on February. Unfortunately I can't remember what it was about. All I knew is that once I wrote it, I happily sent it to you in order to get it made.

But you see, I am a genius. A brilliant idea occurred to me as I handed it in. As quick as a wink I was at Monday the 25^th of February, almost a month after I'd first given you the script, to see how brilliant the final product turned out to be.

The result was... less then pleasing. What with me being a rather egotistical young man to have such a lukewarm script was beneath me. But thanks to my time machine I could go back and do it all again.

I quickly hopped back towards Monday the 23^rd of January and stopped my past self from writing the Podcast Play that'd only earn him a C+ by my standards. I only had a few hours before my parents got home (I didn't fancy explaining to them why there were two of me), so I didn't have time to waste. While my past self mulled about I got ready to write an A+ story.

Or I would have, if not a later version of myself suddenly burst into the room after materialising in the kitchen. He (or I) explained to me (or himself) that the story I was about to write was only a B- grade script, but fortunately he (I) could use the comments the play got to fix the errors found in my (his) script and get a better overall product.

Yet no sooner had he sat down in front of the computer a version of me from an even later date turned up to explain that the script was only a B-grade story; and needed several improvements to be better. Improvements he himself had picked up after his past self had handed in the script he was about to write.

To cut a (very) long story short, the twentieth version of me sat down to write the script. He (or I) had nineteen failed attempts from which to learn from. At some point we (or I) had slipped into a script so horrendous it made the Room look like Shakespeare; and it'd taken several trips to steer it back onto the right track. But this was it. The twentieth attempt to get the perfect Podcast Play script.

But he (or I, grammar gets confusing when you're talking about multiple versions of yourself existing within the same moment of time several times over), voiced the thought that had been growing in our (or my) head for a while now. A horrible, horrible thought that we'd (or I'd) tried to ignore, but I (or he) couldn't do it. It had to be said.

“Hang on,” said he (or I). “How does this work? If the first time to write this failed; and I used the comments left by others to write a script better then the original and hand that into James instead. Where do the original comments come from then? They are critiquing a Podcast Play whose script was never handed in because the comments about it are for a script that doesn't technically exist, because I'd re-written it before I'd hand it in-”

You could feel as if the universe was breathing in and crossing it's fingers, hoping that he'd (or I'd) shut up before I really put my foot into it...

“Following that,” said he (or I), “where did the plans for the time machine come from? We followed the plans given to us by our future self, who'd had been given to him by his future self, but this ends up in a backwards causation loop where the plans never existed in the first place. Thus if there were no plans how could there be a time mac-”

I awoke on Monday the 23^rd of January 2013 with one of the worst headaches I've ever had in my life. It felt like someone had attempted brain surgery with lobster claws and the remains of a badly chewed up car battery. It took all my strength just to sit up and read the clock.

It said that I only had a few hours to get online and email my script to you, a script that hadn't even started to be written. As such all I had time to do was write a very rubbish Podcast Play that should never be made, along with this email saying why I didn't have time to do it. So consider this an explanation as to why my Podcast Play script is not my usual A+ material.

As it turns out, human beings are incredibly self-centred. We assume that when we create a time paradox, the entire universe ends. When in actuality the universe instead bitch-slaps you and takes away your time-travel privileges; and gives you one massive hangover to boot.

It is all I can do to write down as much as I can remember. Already I've forgotten what the time machine looks like or how it works, something I should have mentioned at the beginning in hindsight. Not only that, I can barely remember the exact details of what happened. It's like trying to remember a dream in the middle of the day.

So no, this isn't a script. This is an explanation for why my script isn't up to scratch and is full of holes. It's because I went time-travelling instead.

Yours sincerely

Ratin8tor

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