Matthew Lidis is a writer.
He lives in Manchester.
He can be found on twitter @matthewlidis
When the sharkfisherman invited me to write this guest blog I felt excited and a little bit apprehensive. Writing a guest blog feels like driving another man’s car or taking his wife out for a drink when he’s in hospital. I want to respect the great man’s space without leaving a turd on the back seat or accidentally shagging his betrothed. So, for the next few minutes you’ll be in my company as I sit across the table from you, desperately trying to not look at your tits.
My name is Matthew Lidis and I’m a writer. I met the sharkfisherman three years ago when we were both studying for an MA in Playwriting at Salford University. I assume by me saying I’m a writer you’ve already made some judgements about what that could possibly mean. What qualifies me to say that? I can type. But so can pretty much everyone. By saying I’m a writer what I’m saying is I can type, just better than most people. An arrogant boast perhaps but a welder is one who can weld better than most people so why not confer that title on myself? I don’t make my living out of writing, yet, so in the eyes of the majority I’m as much a writer as I’m a sculptor, ivory dealer or light-welterweight champion of the world.
The labels we choose and the labels we are given appear to act as some kind of shorthand for who we are, where we have been and where we are going. When introduced to each other most humans will have soon found out how the other makes a living and then the tired old back scratching process of championing each other’s method of income can begin, forbid we actually find something interesting to talk about.
When I’m asked to write a profile of myself online, as we often are I always feel tempted to put ‘human man’ in the blank space in which to define myself as this is pretty much all I can feel can be said for definite about me. Left for others to complete I’m pretty sure that the first definitions to spring to their fingertips would be along the lines of ‘No children’ ‘No car’ ‘Not married’. So shocking it is for a member of our tribe to not be emblazoned with these social medals aged 37.
As a child I was brought up to believe that the ability to think for yourself was the most precious thing there was. That tiny, locked metal box deep within your soul that no amount of conditioning could penetrate. As a teenager my deep suspicion of authority and conformity has me labelled as something of a hippy at school. Yet I did my work and got my grades so I was not tampered with any further by colleagues or teachers. It was most likely a phase that we all go through to be worked out of the body and moved on from like some dying strain of far out 60s chicken pox. I had allies at school and we had a band. Course we had a band. We drank, smoked and took drugs and then we all went to uni to carry that on. But somewhere else and with posher company.
15 years after leaving uni I find myself in a minority of one among my school friends. I’m not married, I don’t own a house or a car I don’t have any children. Why? What could possibly be wrong with me? What is the deviant, bizzare affliction I suffer from? Well, simply, I don’t want any of the stuff you’re supposed to want in order to be labelled as a functioning member of society. None of it appeals. Thanks but no thanks. It’s not through want of trying. I’ve had desk jobs, I’ve lived with girls I even had a car. It made me feel trapped and unwell.
Now as I plough on into middle age free of the shackles of responsibility for anything other than myself, I am free to attend a friends children’s birthday party alone only to endure sly digs about the possibility I may have attended only in order to rape the junior attendees. How funny.
It seems that that main function of society is to replicate itself and throw doubt, fear, confusion and paranoia into the minds of those who choose not to spend their time crossing off the social shopping list so that they may be deemed normal by their peers. I see this as a storm to be weathered, a desert to be crossed so that we who choose to live life on their own terms may shine as beacons to ourselves and others who would rather leave the restaurant than eat when faced with life’s limited menu.
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