Serial, True Detective & Me

Three days ago I discovered the podcast Undisclosed. Hosted by three lawyers Rabia Chaudry, Colin Miller & Susan Simpson, this series is a deeper dive into the 1999 Baltimore murder case of Hae Min Lee and the conviction of Adnan Syed for her murder and a more in-depth look at the legal issues in play originally served up to us in 2014 as Serial, a 12-part series brought to us by Sarah Koenig and the team @ This American Life.

UNDISCLOSEDI wanted more. I wanted Serial Series 2 but had no idea when it might land in my podkicker episodes feed. I was staring into the great white unknown, man, and was left feeling uneasy. I’d caught the bug. My ear holes were hungry for serialised drama. I’d recently devoured The Message and swallowed what there is of Limetown whole.

The Undisclosed team are catching-me-up. I’m neck deep in the nitty-gritty. In two days I’ve gorged on ten eps, with fifteen to twenty more stored in the pantry. I get too easily torn between believing we’ll never know who and why Hae Min was killed to thinking that each new discovery the pod-hosts bring us will be the crucial game changer.

And then, last night. It was 11.35pm. I was just about to turn off the bedroom light and invite sleep into my life when I refreshed my podkicker one last time. As the app refreshed, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, fluffed my pillows. Then…

BOOM!

I shit my pants.

There it was: ‘Serial. Episode 01 – DUSTWUN’.

SERIALI stared in awe. I was reminded what Christmas morning was like as an eight year old – overwhelming excitement at receiving something I really wanted and would really appreciate. There would be newness in my life. A new door was about to be opened to me. A mystery would be presented and dissected. Questions raised, answers sought and yet still doubt and uncertainty would linger. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, Sarah and team for finally coming back into my life,’ I almost whispered. I downloaded right away.

And as the ep poured its 40.62 megabytes of data into my feed’s open mouth, I got a twinge in my chest. A moment of pause. Hesitation. ‘Shit,’ I thought, in response to my reaction. ‘Is this doubt creeping in, already?’

Yes. Yes it was. Doubt bleeding out worry. Worry the colour of apprehension. Not red. Not blue. Yellowy-white. Aw, man. It will be great, won’t it?

I was in this state for a few minutes after, in between turning off the light and drifting into sleep. So today, I need to address it.

Like the first series of True Detective, I’d put Serial #1 in a snow globe. As close as anything could, these series came as close to fully realising what they had set out to do. And coming from a place of utter authenticity with a focus, not on garnering mega-success and creating a franchise, but delivering the full truth and experience of the story they were telling.

TRUE DETECTIVEThe second series of True Detective has been out for months now. All 8 episodes are parked in my IQ DVR. They remain recorded as yet unviewed. I’ve stayed away from any reviews of the series but not the chatter which seeps into podcast conversations and other general sources of pop-culture tete-a-tetes. I want so much for this show to build on what Nic Pizzolatto, Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey delivered to us in the first iteration. My expectations are (were?) sky high. The first series was so bang on. Characters with balls. Storylines that cut sharp. The mise-en-scene of Louisana. Its expanses. Its poverty. Its parochialism and strong faith.

It all clicked. It was intelligent, didn’t pander and spent much of its time elbow deep in the shit of humanity. And now, after overhearing much negative and dismissive talk of the second iteration, I’m nervous and afraid. I don’t want this ideal that I hold tightly in my head to be affected. ‘Why?’ I ask the universe, without having watched a solitary second of the new series. ‘Why did it have to be True Detective? Why couldn’t they just call it something else?’

And on and on and on this self-pitying crap went.

I self-medicated by watching The Sopranos. When that ended I was introduced to Coach Eric Taylor and the Friday Night Lights crew. That worked, for a while. It worked until specifically 11.35pm last night. And now I know it’s something I’m going to have to confront.

I have to let Serial #2 become its own thing. Let it be what it will be. As Marc Maron says in his 2011 book, Attempting Normal, the situation is in my head. Sometimes that’s just how it will be.

So Serial mark-2, will it fill the void, quench the thirst, feed the beast? No, because it’s not meant to. That shit is on me. I can’t put my failings and shortcomings on someone else’s thing.

But I can tune in and give it my time. I can crack open the snow globe, allow newness into my life. Be open to wonder and surprise.

Serial: Episode 01 – DUSTWUN is loaded into my playlist and I’m about to jack-in. To all embarking on the same journey, good luck and enjoy!

A Day in the Life

alarmAlarm vibrates. Sensation before first thought. Cold. Am I coming down with the flu? No. Um, possibly. I need to be strong, fight through. Check phone. New emails. Refresh podcasts. Work emails? No. I’ll be there soon enough. Will I write today? Yes, when I get home. What will I have for dinner? How long will it take to prepare and cook? How much time will that suck out of my evening?

Wash. Get dressed. Pack my bag. Will I bring my book today? Yes. Don’t waste time sleeping on the train. Pack notebook. My battered and scribble-filled notebook. Damn, I forgot to read those research articles I printed out at work yesterday. I’ll get to them another time.

Driving to train station. I wonder about my main character. How will he react when demands are made of him? Where will the drama come from? What is his truth? Can I write it well? A reminder to write something down when I get on the train: Rylin Webster wants to tell his story, his way, on his terms. A scene forms fast in my head. I watch the odometer. I check the clock. Train leaves in five minutes. I’m two minutes away from station car park. Trying to hang onto a thread of thought. The scene gets vivid and intense. I speak a line of dialogue out loud.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

Who says this?

trainPark car. Hustle to platform. Train comes. Find seat. Flip open notebook. Scrawl and scribble. Thoughts come quicker than I can write. Words are illegible. Will I be able to read this later? Will it make sense or will I lose the gist? PA announcement. Thoughts exhausted. The distraction of landscape speeding by at 100kmph.

Read my book. Can’t focus for more than a page or two at a time. Thoughts beget thoughts. Ideas form but have no place. Context is elusive. Open notebook. Scribble. Empty my brain. Close notebook. Take a few deep breaths. Read some more but don’t absorb what I’m reading.

WTFTrain reaches its destination. Earphone in. Podcasts at the ready. Maybe NBA’s The Starters. Maybe Marc Maron’s WTF. Maybe TOFOP. Twenty minute walk. My mind remains active. Plot lines weave in and out of the audio flowing into my head. Traffic noise on Broadway coming from Harris St drowns out everything.

At work. Put all thoughts of writing and being a writer to one side. Really? Good luck with thtrafficat. Do my job. Earn my keep. Read occasional online articles of interest. Send quotes, links and ideas to myself via email throughout the day. Making a cup of tea, wonder about Rylin Webster’s marriage. Why did his supermodel wife fall in love with him in the first place? Make small talk with a colleague about the upcoming weekend. Day’s end is getting closer.

inceptionWalk back to train station. New thoughts emerge. Links connect. Links miss their mark. Kill the podcast feed. Need music instead. The National? The Shins? No. This story feeds off the energy from movie soundtracks. Hans Zimmer. Interstellar? I know, Inception. Traffic noise. The roar of a motorcycle. The pang of hunger and the yawn of mental, if not physical, tiredness.

Make train ten minutes early. Open notebook. Scribble quickly, furiously, illegibly. Smile to myself that the adverbs I’m using in my notes will not make my manuscript. Why do I care what Stephen King thinks? Bret Easton Ellis, a writer I love, embraces adverbs. Look at Glamorama?Glamorama

As the train pulls out of the station, close notebook. Take out earphones. No music. No novel. No writing. Sydney’s inner-west suburbs slip by. Macdonaldtown. Newtown. Stanmore. Petersham. Lewisham. My eyes start to get heavy. I sit up, get out my book. Red or Dead by David Peace. Read a page. Battle tiredness. Read half-a-page more before my head drops. Strathfield, Epping, Hornsby don’t register.  I wake up with my finger between pages like a bookmark. Read another page. Then jack into another podcast. Pete Holmes laughs then gets deep, questions our understanding of the universe, then asks his guest whether success can come too soon?You-Made-It-Weird

Its six’o’clock. Hunger has full sway over me. That means I won’t be writing until at least seven, maybe eight. I already know what scene I want to write, need to write, if I’m to drive the story forward.

Walk in the front door. Hello to my wife, bear-tackle my son. Get changed and play dinosaurs for half-an-hour. Hunger lingers, distracts me. The desire to write lingers, distracts me. Cook dinner alone. Use the process of flouring a chicken breast, dipping it in egg and covering it in breadcrumbs, to untether my mind from now, from the day that’s been, from myself.

Too full afterdeadmau5-Superliminal-300x300 dinner, I shower and shave. Wash the day away. Start preparing for the day to come. Clothes laid out. Shoes polished. Top up Opal Card. Check work emails. Flick a few away. Exclaim in frustration over a client who is beyond demanding. Turn off phone’s WiFi. Mac on. iTunes is a ‘Go!’ Deadmau5 – Superliminal. Google Docs open. Here it comes. The manuscript loads up. I scroll down to the last page and read the notes I left from the previous day.Timmy-Mallet-with-Malletts-Mallet

I’m writing. Dialogue flows. Too much dialogue. Go back. Insert thoughts, description. Maintain tone. Not enough tension. Too much conflict? Where’s this scene going? Oh, wow. Yes, that works. I could never have planned that. There’s a knock on the door. My son comes in, jumps on my bed. ‘Let’s play Mallet’s Mallett?’

‘Ten minutes, Buddy.’

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Lots of dialogue to finish. Lots of red squiggly lines under misspelt words. Rylin Webster is angry but doesn’t know it. He’s pushing everyone around him away. He thinks this is normal. A lightbulb moment. A new scene. Not the next scene. File it away. The door opens. My wife brings a glass of wine. ‘House of Cards is starting.’

The manuscript automatically savhouse-of-cardses. I shut down the computer. Frank Underwood, my wife and a glass of wine awaits.

Later, sleep beckons. I hold on through a nothing episode of Game of Thrones. I wonder about tomorrow? What will happen? What will I achieve? How long will it be until I get to write again? In bed, before sleep fully takes over, I imagine Rylin Webster on the basketball court. He’s hurting his defender. He’s hurting his team. He’s hurting himself. An idea teases, never fully settles and then, nothing.