I had a week of whatever the opposite of writer’s block is last week and had ideas and inspiration coming out my ears, and then this week – poof! Gone. I think (I know) what happened was I got an influx of new free subscribers, so naturally I started to think about ‘converting’ them – impressing them with whatever I wrote so much that they couldn’t stop themselves hitting that ‘upgrade’ button.
AHA. Therein lies the problem. Writing to impress, writing to convert, writing from anywhere but the heart (as twee as that sounds) just doesn’t work. For anyone. People can smell it off you. So instead of writing a piece about a time I was caught in an airport during a terrifying bomb scare, which I was certain would result in some paid subs, I’m going to write about the much more dull topic of, I suppose, growing up? And the passing of time? It doesn’t have a hook, but it has heart.
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I remember being in Barcode.
For the uninitiated (those outside North Dublin in the mid 2000s) Barcode was a nightclub that was clumsily tacked onto the side of a sports club in Clontarf. Once you passed through the excessively hi-tec security hut outside, you actually had to queue up in a corridor overlooking the swimming pool to get in. Once you reached that pool, though, you knew you’d made it. It was a sign that your night had started, that everyone’s ID had been cleared and if you were lucky, even the friend who had too many shots of Sambuca at pre-drinks got in.
I’m sure if I went back now I’d be underwhelmed at both its size and substance, but back then Barcode felt huge and exciting.