Where do I want to be in five years?

Earlier this week, a friend asked me where I see myself in five years. I'm nineteen now, which would make me twenty-four. I gave a short, probable answer but now I've had time to think about it, I'd like to tweak it slightly. Let's picture the scene:

Future Terri?

Future Terri wakes up in her flat, the rent of which is paid for by her long-term, full-time job in a publishing house. She pulls back the curtains and is blinded by the first glimmers of sunlight gracing the east end of London. She stretches, back joints popping, then tiredly pulls on some clothes.

After a light half an hour jog around the local park, Future Terri lets herself back in the flat and is greeted by her pet (beagle? ferret? Not sure - but there is definitely a furry pet). She has a shower , feeds the pet and then checks her emails whilst eating breakfast.

Future Terri pauses. An email from the publishers who recently picked up her novel - it will be in shops next week Monday and they have sent her an image of the cover. Future Terri's heart starts to pitter-patter inside her chest and her chewing slows to a stop. Look at it. My book. Frantically, Future Terri scoffs down her cereal in record time and conference calls her best friends to share the update.

They would be as ecstatic as her if it weren't so early in the morning - they hang up one by one, each grumbling their congratulations. Future Terri laughs, her spirits high. She scratches her furry companion between the ears before wandering into the living room. Her eyes fall on the coffee table and then the bookshelf - it won't be long until her name is featured there among the sea of authors.

Future Terri throws herself on the egg-shaped armchair, a soft smile playing on her lips. She thinks back to that blog post she wrote five years ago, speculating about her life...

How to write an application

As some of you may know, I don't have the best employment history. Two days at Claire's Accessories and- well, that's about it really. This (academic) year, I decided to up my game and apply to be a student ambassador. Or rather, I got fed up of looking for part-time jobs that wanted me to work fifteen hours or less (they didn't exist). Nostalgically wandering around the Fresher's Fayre with a couple of friends, we came across the student ambassador stall and were talked into taking home some application packs. The three of us discussed it and decided that it would be beneficial for our future -  and if we all did it together, we would be all right.

I'm still trying to figure out how I was the only one out of us who managed to fill in the multiple forms.

I didn't know what to put as my supporting statement. Why should they choose me out of all the dozens of other applicants? From what I remember, I bigged myself and, most notably, made being currently unemployed into a positive thing. I sent it off, not expecting much to come of it and allowed myself to forget all about it.

It wasn't until I got a message from one of my referees asking what I had signed up for that I started to think that maybe things were serious. Then, when I was called in for a 'group interview' type thing, I began to grow nervous. Of course, I decided getting the job wasn't important: not making a fool of myself was. So I tried hard not to embarrass myself and here I am four months later, a student ambassador (I've even got the polo shirt to prove it).

In February, I came across a post on our English Society Facebook page that was advertising an unusual work experience for second year undergraduates. I'm a second year undergraduate, I thought, clicking the link. I read the profile: the company were mad on writing and wanted to teach applicants about how they could earn a living through writing. I'm mad on writing, too!

To apply, I had to write 300 words on why I should be chosen. What it boiled down to was "I'm a super geek who writes every day and has been doing so for years". Yesterday I received an email congratulating me on earning a place.

The lesson? If you want to write a successful application, write whatever truthful nonsense you want. It's working for me so far.

All My Children

Janet Simmons was an exhausted single mother of four. The waking hours she didn’t spend at work were spent taking her children to school, making them dinner, cleaning up after them, making sure they went to bed on time, sorting out their arguments, driving them to their friends' houses. It was a relief when she collapsed into bed for a full four hours sleep before her alarm interrupted her and she would start the racy routine again.

On this particular Saturday morning it didn't look like Janet was going to manage it. Her youngest daughter had been playing with Janet's alarm clock the night before and ruined the settings on it. Woken up by loud squabbling from the twins, Janet rushed to get ready in less than half the amount of time she normally had.

Writer's block, my enemy

I wish I knew who made this, so I can credit them.

I think I experienced my first genuine exposure to writer's block recently. I struggled to string together a creative sentence for either of my stories and my poetry all went unfinished. Fortunately, I was still able to write essays and did my assignments on time. My brain must have reasoned that because essays are scholarly, they can't be creative and/or fun. It was wrong, but shhh, it's a secret.

It wasn't a nice feeling, opening a Word document and being incapable of writing anything. I think it hurt not only mentally, but spiritually and emotionally. I felt defeated, crushed by my severe inability to write. And I didn't tell anyone. I made out everything was fine, I was fine, it's all good and dandy...

Fantasy is fantastic

On my course, everyone and their aunt have started to think about dissertation topics thanks to some carefully planned emails and a half an hour lecture advising us to start thinking about dissertation topics. I wasn't as quick as some to figure out what I want to do but I got there in the end: Fantasy. When I told my friends, I got the reaction: what? And: Fantasy? That's like, Lord of the Rings, right?

Oh boy, have we got to talk. There is SO much more to Fantasy than simply Lord of the Rings. Oxford's definition (because then you know it's got to be legit) is "the faculty or activity of imagining impossible or improbably things." Which basically sounds like my day to day life. How that could be limited to Lord of the Rings I have no idea.

The closest module to Fantasy my university offers on the English Lit course is Surrealism in the third year. I asked a girl who takes it if it's similar to Fantasy and she said no. I'm so confused right now.

For a short education, here are some TV Trope links to help you (and me) distinguish between the different types of Fantasy. There are many more but these are the main ones, according to the website:

My character profile

I haven't done much writing recently. Even my poems are struggling. What better way to blag my way through a blog post that show you my method for creating characters? I'll use myself as an example so you can see what sort of thing I do. Note: depending on the character's significance/story length, I'll add or take away some of these questions.

NAME: Terri Cerés

AGE: 19

HEIGHT: 5’7”

WEIGHT: 141lbs

BIRTH DATE: 13th August 1994

HAIR: Thick afro, dark brown with one patch dyed light brown on the left

EYES: Brown, likes to think orange

BIRTHPLACE: London

OTHER FACIAL FEATURES/OTHER APPEARANCE DETAILS: Wears large, dorky glasses, trying to overcome spots, three piercings in left ear, two in the right

DRESS (Style, colours): Brightly coloured clothes, casual shirts and trousers, sometimes wears dresses/skirts but not often

DESCRIPTION OF HOME: Two storey council house, old but well-decorated. Cluttered with random items

DOMINANT CHARACTER TRAIT: Imaginative

SECONDARY CHARACTER TRAIT: Ambitious

SPEECH: Talks fast when she gets going but is often the listener, rather than the speaker. Cannot do accents

BEST FRIEND: [Name]

Because I'm happy

My second poetry performance at Rich Mix went well. Very well. I woke up feeling damned good about myself. I had done the reading for my class (Canto I and II of 'Don Juan') and was ready to seize the day. Skip a few hours ahead and I was on my way to work. Yep, work.

When that was over, I made my way over to Shoreditch. I was two hours early for sign-up and starving. I holed myself up in Pret and settled down to do some reading over a tuna baguette and vanilla chai tea. Getting through enough of Orwell that I could handle, I went for a walk and found 25p and then a nice little church garden where I managed to convince a dear old man that I was insane.

But I digress.

At the actual Jawdance event, I sat at the same chair I occupied last month, still feeling good and singing along to the music played by the DJ I didn't realise existed until the host pointed him out. I thought it was a CD of old school hits. Good tunes.

By some weird twist of fate, my performance was third. The host pronounced my name correctly (the accented 'e' thing is definitely working!) and I didn't trip over my own feet. I read my poem a little too quickly for my liking but people laughed in the right places which was cool. Then it was over and the place stormed down with applause. I am not kidding. I tried to head back to my seat but Yomi a.k.a GREEdS insisted I get back up so the audience could cheer for me again. I am still not kidding.