Surely the plural of belief should be believes. Anyway. It is not worth your time clicking to check this out, but in Self Distract two weeks ago, I mentioned how I have no religion, no faith, and not one pixel of me is spiritual, yet I have certain beliefs. Believes.

It came up because one of them is the, to me, irrefutable, idea that any writing, any communication, is one to one. One writer talking to one reader. Regardless of how many others are in the room, this is me writing specifically to you.

But since it came up, I’d like to tell you the rest of these fortunately few intractable beliefs. Believes.

And they are just these:

• We are better together.

• The show comes first.

That’s it. Those two and the one above about writing to you are the things I hold intractable, unassailable. I also find them self-evident, like all the best beliefs, but maybe that last one needs a bit of evidence.

So here’s the thing. Whether it’s an actual show or it’s some event, some project, if I commit to it, that show comes first. Whatever it needs to work is what I will do, and I say that with a noble square jaw, but there are also times when it’s been inconvenient to me and others, when it’s been a problem. And when it’s annoyed people, including me.

I believe in this to the extent — and this has happened, I’ve done this — that if I come to think that the show will be better without me then I fire myself. If it’s better without you, I fire you — although admittedly that’s harder.

It’s also easier when it’s my show, my project, because then I just commission whoever I know is better. I’m surprised how easy I find that, but my focus is on the whole show rather than any particular bit that’s visibly down to me. But I have also fired myself out of other people’s shows, and one time it angered them.

I’ve forgotten all of the details that I shouldn’t tell you anyway, but this show was an actual show, it was an extra at the Birmingham Rep. It was a series of readings of stories and poems that was vaguely aligned to whatever the main show was, but it was also scheduled to run in the theatre’s lobby.

It was only going to be something like thirty minutes, maybe twenty, but the lobby is important and the main show is crucial. Because the audience for this extra was to be whoever was there for the main show.

And I stood there on the night with the producer of this extra show, and I think now something like seven or eight writers who she’d asked to read. We’re coming up to the start, she’s giving us last-minute directions like what the order is going to be. And maybe I’m bothered that the running order hasn’t been thought of sooner, I’m worrying about the overall shape of the show and whether it builds to something or just stutters along.

But then I’m thinking of how long my piece is, how long it sounds like some of the others are.

There is not one pixel of a chance that we can all read.

The audience isn’t there for us, they are there for the main show and that main show is not going to wait because we overrun. I can’t remember the maths now after many years, but just based on what I was learning in the moment, I figured there was a small chance that this extra show could work in the time available — if something like a six-minute reading were dropped.

My reading was something like six minutes.

You know what happened next, both because of how I’m telling you but also because it’s so obvious. I pulled out. Of course I did.

But the producer was pissed at me for it. I wasn’t even theoretically ruining a careful running order and there was no place that my name had been listed as being in the show.

I got a bit pissed back, I’m afraid. I realise it looked like I was taking over, and I suppose I was to an extent, but I told her I was puling out, I told her why, and I solely told her. I wanted to drop someone else too, to be certain the show would be done, but she was the producer, I wasn’t, and all I could do was what I did.

I was the one losing out on a show I’d written and rehearsed a piece for, my action was the sole thing being done by anyone to get that show done before its audience walked away, but she was pissed at me for it. If she ever ran another show, she never found out that I’d have refused to be in it.

I’m afraid I can’t remember now whether her extra show came in on time. But possibly because I had tickets for the main show.

Anyway. That all just came back to me now, writing to you.

I’ve always been like this, but over the years there has been a change. It’s only this, though: I’m now much more careful about what I commit to. I have to think it’s worth it, of course, but also I’ve no interest in starting things that I suspect for any reason won’t finish or won’t work. I wouldn’t now commit to that producer for anything after what happened at the Rep, for instance.

I don’t mind things going wrong or new information changing things, but if I suspect that the project isn’t serious or people aren’t interested in completing it, I’ll thank them and lament how I’m just too gosh-darn busy.

I’m not saying they should be bothered, but these are the things that drive me and I wanted to share that with you.

I’ll keep a fourth belief to myself, but I’ll tell you it concerns chocolate.