Not in a hopeless, can’t-get-out-of-bed way. But in a “every time I try something I’m excited about, it doesn’t quite land and then i feel like I wanna quit so whats the point” way. Tired, not from a lack of sleep, but from like, a there has to be an easier way, way.

It’s annoying. But what else is there? The world demands more content. (social one at least - real one genuinely couldn’t give a monkeys, I reckon she would love to hear more joy though)

I find myself at 42.
I’m in a new sublet for the next two months and, rather than bringing one suitcase, I’ve brought six. I’ve laid out all my homely things. It’s the only way I can trick my nervous system into feeling safe, by surrounding myself with the familiar. I like my bedding, Bernies throw, my mug, my make up and cosmetics. Besides, it’s not harming anyone. I’m the one setting it up and packing it away, anyway.

The desktop is up. I’m back to doing daily livestreams on TikTok.

Join me Monday to Thursday at 9pm UK time.

It feels redundant. Beneath me. What am I doing? I’m 42 years old and complaining on the internet to strangers. And yet, every now and then, in fact every day, someone says something lovely and encouraging, and I exhale. On many days, the only reason I’ve kept going is because of the kind words of strangers on a TikTok livestream.

In fact, it was TikTok that told me to share more about my musical—God Is a Woman—a one-woman show about Mary Magdalene. It’s meant to be a pitch for a fully cast spectacle. Think: a female Book of Mormon or Hamilton before it got funding.

TikTok said, “Share some with us,” so I did. And they wanted to support me financially. So I launched a Patreon. And now I have over 500 supporters. I’m being kept afloat by $1500 because strangers off the internet believe in my show—and they haven’t even seen it.

That is incredible.

Financially, I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth. I have $2,000 left in savings, and I borrowed $2,800 from my friend to cover rent this month. She knows I’ll pay her back. She’s seen the show three times and believes in it like I do.

Sign up to my Patreon community here

The show opens in four weeks. And I feel small. Stupid. No one else is doing this. I see comics selling out tours in the UK, they’re on TV, featured in the papers, paraded around like pioneers. They have teams, and wives, and families.
And all I see? The same old, same old.
Safe. Familiar. Male.

It’s hard not to feel apathetic. In the same breath, the news is: “TV comedy budgets are being cut”and you’re like, come the fuck on. It’s the same old shows, made by the same people. Of course there are cuts, you don’t allow risks, or diversity, or artists to lead.

And when you do? When a female-led show somehow, miraculously, gets through the cracks and gets made against all odds? It wipes the fucking floor.

And yet for every ten male commissions, there’s barely one given to a woman.
And they wonder why the budgets are dwindling.

I’m out here—BAFTA-nominated, critically acclaimed, starting again from scratch, in a foreign country, in this political climate. And this somehow feels easier than trying to break through the classist, misogynistic gatekeepers of the UK television industry.

I had to leave my home just to give myself a fighting chance.

Back home, I’d definitely think TikTok lives were beneath me. I’ve sold out 500-seaters, what the fuck am I doing grovelling for likes?

And then I look at people killing it online and I feel old and stupid. I don’t know how to do that. How are they doing that? I feel silly. I can’t do this. I don’t want to document everything, I want to live authentically and enjoy myself without sharing everything, but you have to share something. How do you do this?

And then I check my bank balance, and I have eight weeks left, and I don’t know where or how I’m going to live in August. So this is the time to swallow my pride. Focus on what I can control.

Stop fucking complaining and eat shit.
Eat more of it. Shut the fuck up and start again. Swallow it. Start again.

So I livestream every day. It’s not perfect. It’s not polished. I don’t have a structure.
But I show up. I do it.
I’m writing three Substack articles a week.
I’m producing one YouTube video.
And over the weekend, I edited 12 reels of content I filmed last week to promote the show.

I am throwing everything at it.
Every day, make and create and post something.

Two weeks ago, I posted: Stop killing children. Feed Gaza.

Since then, my reach has vanished. Sixty-four thousand people follow me on Instagram and I get 24 likes on a funny meme. TikTok is the same. I have 103,000 followers, and only 12 people show up to watch my livestreams.

Artists are supposed to speak truth to power. It’s literally the definition of what we do.
And these platforms, these machines, exploit our content for free.
They chew us up and spit us out, demanding more. Always more.

That’s why I don’t want to feed it empty noise. I will give it quality. I will give it content I love. Not shit for the sake of engagement.

If the gatekeepers are no longer commissioners or agents, but algorithms, how can artists who stay true to their authentic selves, and struggle to “sell out,” ever win?

How do they even stand a chance?

Breakdowns at Brunch.

I’m sat at a lunch table with my friend Nat, who’s invited her friend Gretal to come meet me. She asks about the show and says I should post some content.

“Oh no,” I say. “I don’t want to give away any of the jokes.”

“No, you don’t have to. Think of it like a movie trailer—you don’t give away the story, just a taster of how it feels.”

I immediately started to cry.
Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?

“It’s fine,” she says. “Because you’re too close to it. You’re doing everything on your own.”

I told her I loved her.
And they both offered to help.

We spent last Friday filming content—and I LOVED it.
I spent the whole weekend editing.

We’re editing a video that Nat’s friend said would usually take a team of 10 people to make. I did it alone. Because I am a machine.

But it’s fucking exhausting.

And I love it, but I also again feel stupid, because I am in way over my head. I don’t know what I’m doing. I would really love some help. I enquired how much a day rate would cost for someone, and got told $500. “It’s Hollywood, baby. That’s how much people charge.”

Catch-22:
To make content, you need to film.
To film, you need money.
To pay, you need content that pays you.
It’s a vicious circle.

But for now, I have these videos. I posted the first video today, its my new series called ‘Mary Magdalene Stories’ Based on the idea of if Mary Magdalene had an instagram account. It’s stupid, it’s silly and I love them.

So today I posted the first trailer for the July run and a MM story. And it got 60 likes. Sixty.
I fucking hate Instagram.

But it’s 8 weeks.
This is the deal.
We sign up.
We show up.
We commit to 8.

It’s not forever. It’s 8 weeks. I’ve already done 1. For the next 7, I will commit, I will post, I will be consistent, I will make it good, I will ignore the numbers. I WILL IGNORE THE NUMBERS

Just keep posting, Just keep creating. Especially whilst I’m not gigging as much. Man i miss gigging, but this is enough. Come on.

It’s spaghetti at a wall time.

It’s fight for survival time.

We show up anyway. Because there is no bank of mum or dad or home to go home to. And this is all a choice.

So dear ready, yes, I’m talking to you—Hello!

Show up anyway. Work three times as hard as the rest of them, work ten times, because you have to. Work harder. Work smarter. Do more. Fuck the system.
Let them sleep while you fucking train.

And eventually—eventually—when the tide turns and the bow breaks, you will know that you are ready, you have put in the God damn time and you will know how to soar and navigate that fucking wave with a velocity that no man can touch. That’s the ripple that shifts culture. And if not in this lifetime, then in the next.

Because you did the fucking thing.
You put in the fucking work. And until then, you’ve got your nice bedding, Bernies throw, your favourite mug and all your nice make up and cosmetics. You are safe.

Spaghetti at a wall, boo.
Spaghetti at a wall.

L.A God is a Woman The Musical