I just turned 25 and I finally know what I want to do. I want to write about films.

A wise man once offered his advice on how to be a film critic. His top tip was: Don’t. This suited me just fine. I foolishly took this advice literally and did nothing, delighted that I was following, to the letter, the suggestion of someone I admired and revered. I was going to become a film critic!

That was a year and a half ago and nothing has happened.

Plan B is to actually try and do something. The problem is I’m a perfectionist. Not in a precious, vain way though. It’s all down to my crippling fear of rejection and desperate need for approval. It keeps me up nights I tell you. I will sit in front of a thread about movie explosions for hours thinking of the perfect addition or witty retort. Hours.

The image of Nick reading this and spitting out his coffee at my appalling grammar haunts me. In my demented mind he, Devin, Drew McWeeney and Roger Ebert come to my place of work, torches and pitchforks held aloft, and throw me into a giant Wicker Harry Knowles.  

Extreme, yes. Irrational yes. But so very vivid.

But 25 is an important age and so I must confront my fear in the only way I know how; head first, arms flailing wildly. I suppose that’s where you come in, hypothetical reader. If you will honour me with your attention, I will provide you with words. My greatest hope for this Chud blog is that it’s never used as evidence against me in open court. My greatest fear is that it’s awful.

Thank you for sticking with me this long. I hope you enjoy peering into my brain.