Blog 87 Bonfire Bash

Blog 87 - Bonfire Bash

November 2025

Ah, this is it. The air is just starting to carry that crisp, anticipatory chill. The trees, bless their autumnal hearts, are infusing their leaves with colour in anticipation of putting on their dazzling final performance. And for me? Well, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. I’m talking about the glorious, deafening, and frankly, explosive, build-up to the end of season firework spectacular!
For those of us who inhabit the slightly more chaotic corners of the world, like the thrilling, albeit occasionally mundane, realm of theme park security, the end of season fireworks are more than just pretty lights. They’re a signal. A triumphant fanfare that shouts, “We made it! We survived the hordes, the lost children, and the surprisingly persistent clown infestation of the haunted house!” And for me, personally, they mark the much-welcomed, glitter-bombing farewell to Halloween, a season that, let's be honest, makes even the most seasoned security guard question their life choices.
Now, back in the day, my love for fireworks wasn't just about appreciating the aerial artistry. Oh no. It had graduated to a full-blown personal ambition: to host the most epic, jaw-dropping, neighbour-envying firework party known to humankind. It was my annual Everest, my creative masterpiece. And for a few glorious years, I think I might have actually conquered it.
My planning, a monumental task in itself, would begin not in October, but way back in July. The spreadsheets would bloom, the supplier lists would grow, and my waking thoughts would be a kaleidoscope of fuse lengths, colour palettes, and strategic deployment patterns. It was an obsession, a glorious, all-consuming task. And the results? Well, if I do say so myself, the displays were spectacular. My garden transformed into a mini-Vegas, with friends, family, neighbours, and even the occasional friend-of-a-friend's cousin joining the throng. There was food, there was merriment, and yes, there was a truly impressive amount of questionable liquid festive cheer. Those were happy times, filled with the crackle of anticipation and the rumble of impending explosions.
But here’s where things get… interesting. As the years rolled on, the physical toll of hauling crates of explosives and the financial impact of setting off enough pyrotechnics to rival a small nation’s military exercises began to weigh on me. The dream slowly fizzled out, replaced by the more sensible, albeit less exhilarating, reality of my bank account and my increasingly creaky knees. I had to hang up my firework-launching boots, a decision I still mourn with a pang of wistful longing.
Yet, the memory of those evenings, the sheer joy on people’s faces as the sky erupted in a symphony of light and sound, has recently coalesced into a rather peculiar thought. The meticulous planning, the drive to create something truly memorable, the yearning for that collective gasp of wonder – it all feels remarkably, eerily familiar.
It mirrors, you see, the very essence of my writing.
The same dedicated hours poured into crafting a narrative, the same obsessive pursuit of the perfect phrase, the same burning desire for my words to spark something in the reader, to create a vivid, unforgettable experience. And the adulation? Oh, the adulation I craved from my firework audience is the exact same echo I chase when I submit a story to a publication. The gratification of a finished display, a dazzling cascade of colour, is mirrored by the satisfaction of a completed manuscript, a carefully constructed world.
But here’s the deeply embarrassing, and perhaps a little depressing, mirrored part: while my firework displays were met with cheers, compliments, and requests for "next year!", and although many people admired the displays and enjoyed the hospitality, I have yet to receive a single invitation to anyone else's firework party. A fact that is also true of my literary endeavours; despite thousands of submissions, and despite those who have read my efforts telling me how great they are, they have, as yet, garnered… precisely zero responses. Not a peep. Not a "well done for trying." It's as if my creative endeavors, in both realms, have been met with the same quiet, polite dismissal.
It’s got me thinking. Am I the problem? Is there something about my particular brand of display, whether explosive or fictional, that leaves people… unmoved? Do my fireworks, or my stories, lack that certain je-ne-sais-quoi that transforms an admired event into an invited-to event?
Perhaps I’m too loud. Perhaps I’m too elaborate. Or, and this is the thought that keeps me up at night, staring at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe, perhaps I’m simply… not that interesting.
It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? You pour your heart, soul, and a significant chunk of your savings into creating something magnificent, something that brings joy and wonder to others, only to find yourself standing on the sidelines, watching everyone else enjoy the show, and wondering if you’re the only one who truly hears the music.
So, as the theme park’s grand finale approaches, and the distant rumble of test firings echoes through the night, I’ll be watching, as always. And I’ll be enjoying the show. But I’ll also be pondering the silent echo of my own creative booms, and perhaps, just perhaps, wondering if it’s time to try a different kind of spark. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll start planning my comeback firework display or a novel submission for next November. After all, who knows? Maybe this time’s the charm, both in the sky and on the page. Or, at the very least, it might finally get me some form of invitation.