Hello

The following blog post was written a few days before I received some devastating news from my great aunt who I'd been staying with in New York. My aunt, my dad's oldest sister, had passed away from breast cancer. With that in mind, I couldn't bring myself to post about the fun times I was having.

I found this post (having completely forgotten about its existence) and decided it was long past due its time. So here it is:

This was all the information about Connecticut that I had to go on. Well, that and Yale university was somewhere in Connecticut. Oh, and there was a time where my whole family were going to move there (but that's another story for another time). Melman from Madagascar wasn't entirely wrong about there being wide-open spaces in Connecticut. It was a startling contrast from New York, where everything was packed with buildings and very city-like. Connecticut had almost a countryside feel to it and the spaces were absolutely beautiful. Green? No. It's Autumn - so it was all very red and gorgeous.

I really love trees.

What made the trip to Connecticut really great though was the connections I made with family friends. I met my godfather (and got him to tell me his entire life story while he, in turn, got me to say nothing), befriended the daughter of my my mother's friend (she's super weird and I love her) and generally realised that nobody who is connected to my life is boring.

So where am I now?

I'm in New Jersey, getting to know some cousins I've never met. My cousin's two sons (who are aged four and two) absolutely adore me, and are probably going to be REALLY upset when I leave. The four year old wanted me to dress him and the two year old wouldn't let me put him down for about twenty minutes.

And to think a few years ago I would tell anyone who would listen that I hated kids.

What I'm learning

If you've been following my blog for a while, you should know that I'm only recently 21 and fresh out of university. A baby in the world of Adult. I've lived with my mum the whole time and never really ventured outside of my comfort zone.

And now I'm in a whole different continent, in charge of myself. Sure I'm staying with family but they're not directly in charge of me, just allowing me to share their space for the time being. Before I arrived I was full of hopes, dreams and ideas. Now I'm here? Now I'm here I've learnt that hopes and dreams are all well and good but if you don't understand the public transport system, they're not going to get you very far.

That's not to say I'm stuck stranded on a roadside wondering how to get from A to B. I'm typing this from the sofa in my great aunt's living room (which also doubles as my bed). What I am saying is that some of my original plans have had a slap from reality and reality have turned them into dust.

So, you know. Planning ahead is good sometimes.

Stay tuned to how this turns out - I know it will be a surprise to me, too!

Photo credit: Tony Soh

A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder

What does every nerd who loves musicals do after going on an Inside Broadway tour? Why, she goes inside and buys tickets for a Broadway show, of course!

Have I mentioned my love of musicals lately? Since writing that post, I can now say that I've seen six musicals this year: Avenue Q, Cats, The Lion King (for the second time), Bugsy Malone, Matilda and A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder. A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder was recommended to me and my friend by our tour guide (who was absolutely delightful, btw) as a funny musical in which an entire family is played by one man. That is, one man plays five men of various ages and personalities and two women.

It wasn't funny. It was HILARIOUS. There were parts of it I didn't understand because I couldn't hear anything as I was laughing so hard. The performance was sharp and all the actors were flawless. From the first few seconds when the cast walked on to warn the audience (in song, of course) to leave if they couldn't handle a tale of revenge and retribution, I was hooked. There were so many ridiculous moments in the show that were absolutely perfect. It's a shame that the show closes "soon" (in January) - but here's hoping they migrate it to London so I can watch it again!

The show itself is about a man called Monty Navarro who has grown up in poverty with his mother. After her death, he discovers he is related to the fabulously rich D'Ysquith family and eighth in line to inherit the family fortune. But eighth in line means he won't be getting it any time soon - unless of course, he gets rid of a few people who stand in his way...

The murders are all executed (ha ha) in a hilarious fashion, ranging from pushing a priest off a church spire to an elderly aunt being eaten by cannibals. It's even more hilarious when you remember that each of the victims is played by the same actor: Jefferson Mays. Mays is a wonderful talent, although he doesn't steal the show due to the rest of the cast being so amazingly vibrant in their roles as well. Scarlet Strallen as Sibella Hallward, for example, was one of my personal favourites, from the moment she sang her first song.

I don't really know what else to say about A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder, except that if you ever have the chance to see it, definitely take it! You'll be in for an amusing evening I'm sure.

The Walter Kerr Theatre - don't be fooled
by the exterior, it seats over 500 people!

I'm in New York, baby!

I'm writing this out on my phone because it's 7am here in New York and everyone else is asleep so I don't want to risk getting out my laptop and disturbing them all. My body is still running on London time because it got up at 5am (10am BST) and refused to be lulled back into slumber.

But they taste so good...

I'm having a great time so far: I've managed to figure out
the subway (kinda), been to Times Square, had a tour of the Radio City Music Hall and died over cinnamon sugar pretzel bites. Those things will give you serious cavities. I've also gotten lost at LEAST three times and rained on as if I was still in bonny ol' England but that's just how life goes sometimes, right?

Later today my friend Other Sarah (as my brother likes to call her - I know a lot of Sarahs) and I are going to a few of the New York museums, including the Museum of Natural History. I'm excited for it, not least because it featured heavily in the animated film from my childhood We're Back: Dinosaurs. Hopefully if there's time today, we'll also make it to the Museum of Sex. I'm really interested in seeing that one because it sounds such an unlikely theme for a museum! I'll let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, have a picture of me inside the radio City Music Hall:

And that's just the bathroom.

Rule Breaker

Taking a break from big project writing at the moment. I was going to turn this into a short story but kind of lost interest after finishing the first part.

Photo credit: NASA

Rule Breaker

Spirits are not supposed to interfere with mortal lives. That was one of the Rules. Deshi knew the Rules well: it had been there when they had agreed upon them. And yet, though it served its role adequately in the cosmos without any complaints – not like Ophir who was now overseeing the mortals from inside the Earth – it wanted something more. It wanted, and it waited.

From its vantage point among the stars, Deshi watched the Earth. It watched as humankind learnt to defend itself from threats, develop tools to fashion as weapons and utilities. Other Spirits thought Deshi strange, for there was an entire universe for them to observe and there were events out there considerably more amusing that watching an entire species take thousands of years to discover fire, of all things. The humans were unfathomably stupid, the other Spirits decided, and Deshi was a fool to think them interesting.

Deshi didn’t listen to the other Spirits. They didn’t understand what it saw in the humans: that despite their stupidity and poor hygiene they were a remarkably resilient species. They survived natural disasters, cosmic war damage, famines. No matter what was thrown at them the humans would pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and come back again the next day for more. Deshi fell in love with the humans.

And that was against the Rules.

#

“Deshi, the other Spirits are laughing at you.”

Deshi did not take its focus off the Earth and yet it could see Etanah looming above it.

“Let them laugh,” said Deshi. “They are foolish.”

“You are foolish,” said Etanah. “Foolish for thinking those pathetic humans are worthy of your attention. If they could see us, they would worship us more than they worship the ones they call Kings.”

Deshi chose not to engage with Etanah’s conversation, gesturing instead to the scene she was concentrating on below.

“You see these humans? They have nothing. They must give all their coins to tax collectors and have sold their first-born child to a trader. They have much to be depressed about, and yet still they keep in good spirits so as to not worry their younger children. They are not pathetic. They are heroic.”

Etanah looked over at the Earth but all it could see was a deprived human family sitting in their own filth. Etanah sneered.

“If you must watch them, why not look over the cleaner ones?”

Deshi sighed: Etanah didn’t understand. None of them ever did.

“Do you not get bored, watching them struggle?” Etanah persisted.

“Never.”

Etanah moved away from Deshi, amazed that a Spirit could be this taken with the lowly humans. Etanah was already out of the Earth’s orbit when Deshi quivered.

Far below Deshi on the Earth, a baby’s cry was not answered. It rang out among the hills and yet nobody came to soothe the child. From the fresh blood glistening on his pink skin, Deshi could tell it was a new born somebody had abandoned.

This was not new. Babies were often left out by humans who either could not provide for another child or did not want one. Such babies were taken as meals by hairier mortal creatures, or had their lives stolen by the elements of Nature. This child was unfortunate but he would meet his end soon.

Except he didn’t. The baby continued to cry and cry and nothing was done about it. Deshi scanned the area around the child and found no threats to his survival, though there were also no saviours either. The wails of distress rang through Deshi, piercing its core and tugging on the matter that made up the Spirit. The baby’s face turned red and then purple as he screamed for a help that would never come. His tiny hands balled into fists, a vein throbbed on his head. He needed help.

Deshi checked that Etanah was definitely not in the Earth’s orbit. It was rare for the other Spirits to come out this way and when they did, they didn’t stay long. Deshi would not have witnesses for the act it was about to commit. It rose from its position on the edge of the Earth. With one last look around at the stars, it dove forwards and plunged to the Earth and the baby.

Though the Spirits had agreed upon the Rules, none of them had ever thought to break any of them. That was, until the day of my birth.

I'm a university graduate now

When I was sixteen I remember turning up to one of my English Lit classes, throwing myself into my chair and demanding to know "what's the point of university anyway?".

I almost didn't go to university, but I'm glad I did. Not because of the anxiety it caused, the way I started judging my self-worth based on my grades or the dull endless books I had to slog through. I'm glad I did because I met some amazing people who shared those tortuous three years; they made my sentence bearable. It felt so good to share my graduation day with these same people - it was like a celebration of all we'd been through together. Plus dorky hats.

I arrived early to collect my tickets and was ushered into a room full of hats and gowns where I was to wait for somebody to 'dress' me. That's right, there were hired professionals who knew exactly how to place the robe over my body so it draped just right and would not let me leave until they were satisfied with the way I looked. This is me immediately after being 'dressed':

I'm awkward

Just as a little disclaimer, there is a poem I have read twice now that refuses to be caught on camera. The first time, my friend forgot. The second time, my camera bugged out. Do not fret, however! The rest of my performance comprised of poems you can find here and here. Today's video is a snippet from my reading at a recent event that was put on to celebrate the launch of-

Okay, you know what? That sentence was going to be unnecessarily long-winded and my brain gave up on it halfway through thinking it up. Let me take some time out to give you some background and context. Ready?

In 2011 I went to a Creative Writing summer school which lasted three days. During those three days, I met two amazing writers who I kept in contact with all through these years. One of them set up a blog to encourage and showcase writers, and recently decided to expand it. It is now a fully blown website. Or, it will be, once they've ironed out the kinks. I'll share the link when it's ready and you can be just as blown away as I was. For now, here's their official Facebook page to give you an idea what it's all about.

To celebrate the creation of this website there was a launch event: an evening which applauded the written word as writers stood up and read something they'd written. There were poems, short stories - and mingling. Oh yes, there was mingling. I mingled. I'm a mingler. I'm the type of smooth and competent mingler who walks away mid-conversation because she can't think of something of value to add. Which, I realised about three seconds later, was probably seen as incredibly rude.

I'M AWKWARD OKAY?! *breathes* I'm awkward. Hence this poem:

Skulduggery Pleasant: the Dying of the Light

I do genuinely love the series.

This was meant to be a book review. It's more of a rant (sorry).

I've been following Derek Landy's Skulduggery Pleasant novel series for about five or six years. I discovered it by being amazed that my younger brother/twin was reading a book, and, becoming intrigued by the skeleton on the front cover, I asked to read it when he was done.

Nine books later, here we are. If you've never heard of it, the Skulduggery Pleasant series is about a skeleton detective and his teenage sidekick/apprentice as they fight to save the world. It's set in Ireland, uses a variety of magic, and the style is incredibly witty and fun.

I was gripped from the first book, when my favourite character nearly died (I was later to learn she had died in an earlier draft). A character known as the strongest man on earth got killed in a later book. And the main character was, as you know by now, an undead skeleton. The novels were gritty even while they were witty (I couldn't resist the rhyme!).

That being said, the final book disappointed me. It maintained the level of humour, action and character dynamics I was used to. Sure, it killed off a lot of my favourite characters without ever giving the hope of bringing them back. Okay, it did ruin the chance of my favourite fictional romance possibility ever. Yes, it marked the end of an era for me and my brother - ending a series we shared, giving us something to talk about it. I could deal with those things, fine.

21 selfies*

I turned 21 at long last! Being an August baby meant that my friends who were in my class at school treated me like I was five years younger, rather than just a few months. It meant I couldn't go out and celebrate when all my friends were 18, because they wanted to go out drinking and I wasn't legally old enough yet. Now, it often means that when it is finally my birthday, a lot of my friends are on holiday and so can't make it to the events I put on to celebrate. As long as they bring me some warm weather when they return, it's all good and gravy!

To commemorate my ageing process this year, I decided to try and get 21 selfies to document the occasion. I went to a vegetarian restaurant on the day of my birthday, and invited friends over the day afterwards (because the day afterwards was a Friday). That way I had a better chance of actually taking 21 seflies, which apparently turned out to be quite a lot of selfies for me. As it happened, I was only able to take 19 selfies - I wasn't smart and didn't count as I went along so I had no idea what number I was on at any stage.

Despite my failure, I have here for you 21 pictures from my two-day birthday: the 19 selfies and two pictures that were taken of me by my mum (photo 8) and a random stranger (photo 12).

It's half over

I remember a time when I was full of hope, bright-eyed and dreamy... Actually, you probably remember it too. It was the eve of the new year and I was really excited about resolutions, so much so that I made one for every month in 2015.

Well. That didn't pan out too well.

I achieved January's goal (to get a tattoo). I only sent my WIP to be read over by people who aren't me in late June, so February's goal was incredibly late. My summer job was confirmed in May, rather than April - but I'm not complaining because at least I have one. I DID manage to hand in all my essays on time and didn't have to ask for an extension (or worse, a deferral) so that's something. Throughout June I've been working a lot and I read one book, which I plan to review on here later. So June is a total fail. I don't feel relaxed at all. I may push back my relaxation time until August, because apparently I'm a masochist.

My goals for the rest of the year are as follows:

July: Maybe go to Trinidad? This can also be done in August. This is no longer a possibility. I'm working at the end of this month, with my summer placement and have a few things planned throughout, like LFCC - which was amazing. I'll probably go to Trinidad next year, hopefully.
August: Turn 21. I thought this would be easy, but I've been telling people that I'm going to skip 21 and turn 22 this year.
September: Attend graduation ceremony. Be graceful and stylish. I should probably start working on my walk. And find an outfit.
October: Go to America. My flights there and back are booked so this is definitely happening!
November: Read at one of those cool jazz poetry places that probably exist everywhere in New York. I mean, sure.
December: Figure out where my life is going in 2016. Oh boy.

Hyper Japan

This weekend I went to Hyper Japan for the first time. What is Hyper Japan? Good question. Hyper Japan is a massive convention in London which showcases Japanese culture and anime. It happens at least once a year, sometimes twice. I've never been before because although I love Japanese culture and anime, I don't really spend too much of my time focused on it. But the passion I feel for it is pretty strong - strong enough that I've started trying to learn Japanese through Memrise (they have other languages and it's free!).

Anyway, back to my main point: Hyper Japan. I had heard mixed things about it from friends but knew I had to come to my own decision. So what was it like?

I'll describe my day.

Yes, that is a massive Attack on
Titan character head behind me.

I got to North Greenwich station and from there, immediately joined the queue. Our ticket allowed us entry from 3.30pm and it was about 3.10pm when we arrived. The queue took us nearly an hour to get through, so we entered the O2 at about 4pm. We weren't worried, there was still plenty of time to look around before the event ended at 9pm.

We got trapped for a bit in the Nintendo area before we realised there was more to the event than a 3DS marathon. We walked a little way on and discovered the hall of all halls that was crammed full of marvellous stalls.

Ahem. Pardon the rhymes.

It was amazing. There were stalls where you could buy kimonos, tableware, stickers, manga comics, fans, art work, badges, CDs, jewellery, posters, stationary, t-shirts, sweets... The list goes on. Everything on offer was a small representation of the island country; whether they were authentic or styled in the fashion of Japan. Personally, I wish I had gone after pay day so I could have bought more plates and bowls but there's always next time.

That's some advice for you if you haven't been to Hyper Japan and are thinking about going: take some money. You will inevitably buy something, whether that be a cute plushie or so you can try the famous onigiri (which was likened to the American burger or European sandwich by the stall owners). That's probably sound advice if you're going to any sort of convention really: take. some. money.

You'll thank me for it later.

Also, don't be afraid to dress up. And by 'dress up', I mean put on cosplay of your favourite fictional character of Japanese origin - that's fancy dress to the uninitiated - but I also discovered that a certain kind of dressing up is also appropriate for Hyper Japan. I'm talking about dressing in Harajuku fashion. Now, I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on it. In fact, I wasn't even sure what it was called until I started writing this post. What I was certain of, however, was that it looked super cool.

Roll on, Hyper Japan: Christmas festival!

Notes from class #2

I'll start today's notes with a short poem from Janurary 22nd 2012. The lecturer of that day got all 300 or so students to write a poem explaining who we are. I wrote:

I am a boyish girl

And a superhero-detective-artist

DEFENDER of books

Tall ambitions.

It's an awful poem.


Notes From Class (now with more pictures!):

Little Red Riding more a cautionary tale than a fairytale

You can't separate thought from language

"The medium of drama is not words, but people moving around on the stage using words"

Expressing my melodramatic side in the bottom margin.

"To understand the poems, one must imagine one has written them"

Synecdoche - part figures the whole

Naturalists need to select/contrive parts of the world in such a manner that the relevance is in the real world itself

I remember this day so clearly. The trains were all delayed so I was
going to be late - so I thought about skipping class and going to China
Town instead, for a well-deserved vegetable steamed bun.

"The space around a poem is not blank space, but silence."

Can art be reduced to an ideology?

Modernity: sense of inhabiting the modern world, living in moment

As I've said before, university isn't fun 100% of the time.
I was SO BORED in this lecture.

Most poetry uses verse, but not all verse achieves the status of poetry. Prose doesn't subscribe to verse despite some writers attempting it.

Prose is to poetry as walking is to dancing.

Reality adheres to the imagination.

My talents know no bounds.

"Being a good poet is not about waving as many poetry flags your hands can hold."

"The creative process is never clean, never tidy. Flowing emotion like a punctured carton of ribena."

Larkin chose art over marriage.

I'm curious to know what the other half of
this conversation was.

Who narrates? Who is the narrative addressed to (narratee)? Does the narrator participate in the story or remain outside it? Does the narrator knows everything, only what a specific character thinks/feels, or only what characters actually do and say (external view)? Does the narrator speak in their own voice or adopt the voice of a character? Do the events happen in order?

Metonymy - compressed metaphor, omission of phrases

We use more standar language when we're focused on what we say
OR
We change our speech depending on who we think is listening

Thank you and goodnight.

Notes from class #1

So I might have mentioned that I finished university. Over the past three years, I've been writing notes in class - I've got six notebooks to show for my hard work. Except... I wasn't always writing notes about the book or poem we were studying. I have decided to write a collection of posts dedicated to the things I learnt in class - or the things I wrote in my notebook while supposedly learning in class. I give you...

Notes From Class

Three Principles of Poems:

A game of hangman from a seminar
that wasn't that interesting, clearly.

1. Sex
2. Death
3. Writing poetry

Chaucer: the father of English poetry

Imitation isn't plagiarism - positive

Romantic idea of the rebel

A cardinal sin! -describe/identify feature of verse with no analysis - need relevancy

Female: biology
Feminine: behaviour
Feminist: separates biology from behaviour

Snakes don't have ears. Snakes are lactose intolerant. Snakes can't travel on rope.

Apotheosis: turning into a minor divinity e.g. stars

Ideal narrator and reader share beliefs about the story.

Thou = you
Thy = your

Reformed alcoholic - transcendence?

Reality can only be accessed through subjectivity. Language gets in the way of reality.

Titles may be suggestive

Short stories focus on single interaction of character - before and after aren't necessary. Novels require coherence in plot, everything must be planned and explained.

The classic

I recently visited Lisbon with my girlfriend and her family, and on my way back to London, I was an hour early for my flight. So I browsed the very tiny airport, looking for a way to throw away the euros burning a hole in my pocket. I then came across this beauty:

At €6 it was a bargain for something so beautiful. It definitely was not something that I needed (I literally found a notebook in my room the other day and thought to myself "when did I get this??" because I have so many). But when I saw it, I knew it was something that would fit perfectly into my life. Why? Because I'm going to America for 49 days in October.

Sinners' Club

Nope, I'm not talking about a group of people who stand outside a church and snipe about how they're not going to get into Heaven (although I did just realise that the title of today's post would make an excellent book title... Hm...). The English Society at my university puts on poetry reading events once a term, dim the lights and call it "Sinners' Club". One of the highlights of this is that throughout the evening, attendees are encouraged (after consuming glorious amounts of free wine) to write an anonymous confession on a piece of paper, which then gets handed out at random at the end. Each one is read out. Nobody knows who confessed what. It is marvellous.

I recently read at Sinners' Club and got a friend to film me. I mean, I did the same thing last term, too, but well, we don't speak of that incident any more (my other well-meaning friend totally forgot and to this day cannot say sorry enough). All the readers were asked to write a short introduction and the president of the society read them out, which is why mine is so short and to the point. My rule is usually "when in doubt, make a joke about yourself". Anyway, without further preamble, here is me being totally awkward and reading my poetry:

To the Racist Couple who approached me at Finsbury Park station

Yes, I am calling you racist for asking if you could touch my hair. My hair is not an exotic pet that exists just so you can stick your entitled fingers into it, swirling around my feelings of discomfort and disgust.

You can look, but you
sure as hell can't touch.

You invaded my personal space. Generally, I don't like people touching me unless I can see it coming and have consented to it. I don't like group hugs. I hate being on public transport at rush hour because of the close proximity I am forced to be in with strangers. Racist Couple, you touched my arm to get my attention - you already violated my body before asking my permission to do it again. Do you see how your behaviour was problematic?

What would touching my hair achieve? Did you want to see if it was real? If it was soft? It it made you feel whiter than the first snowfall on a late winter's eve? Your question actually made me feel sick in my stomach. It's 2015 and there are still people like you around.

I'm tired of people bothering me because of my hair. Yes, it's different to yours but that doesn't give you the right to approach me. I am allowed to be rude in the face of your ignorance because, frankly, at your age you should know better. I am angry at you and I'm also angry at myself, because after you were gone I thought "at least they asked".

At least they asked. Because so many other people haven't. People I don't know have dived into my hair, exploring the texture with their slimy fingers, just because they think they can. In their mind, they are superior to me. I am an object to be marvelled at, to be gawked at - but not respected. Oh, no! I can't be respected by them, treated like an equal by them, because they would never dream of violating an equal.

You have been warned.

What's a Jellicle cat?

It's no secret that I love musicals. Okay maybe you didn't know it but that doesn't mean it was a secret. I love musicals: Bugsy Malone is my favourite. I'm also a fan of The Sound of Music, the Sister Acts, Les Misérables, Into the Woods, Annie, The King and I, Wicked, Chicago, Mary Poppins, Enchanted, Annie Get Your Gun...

I haven't actually seen most of these live, though. I've seen Wicked, The Lion King, and Cats. I had this bright idea that when I was a university student, I was going to be all scholarly and sophisticated, with mature hobbies like going to the theatre and reading literary reviews.

Erm... Yeah...

As sophisticated and mature as it gets.

So I've seen three musicals. Cats was a bit of a weird one, if I'm honest. I kept seeing ads for it on the tube and thought "hmm, looks interesting". While working hard in the library, a bus went past that said the season would end April 25th. I mentioned to my friends that I hadn't seen cats. One of them was appalled, so I didn't tell her I only knew it was a musical thanks to an episode of Scooby-Doo.

Long story short, I got really excited and convinced a friend to go with me. We booked the tickets that day. I refused to look up a synopsis, as I was terrified of spoilers, but I did have a little browse on the website. I discovered the songs were based on poems by T. S. Eliot. I thought it was going to be exciting. Well, I wasn't wrong.

My friend and I spent the first ten songs or so completely confused. We had absolutely no idea what was going on. I mean, we had to figure out what a Jellicle cat was (we couldn't really hear what the actors were singing when they sang in a group) and then we had to digest that one of the cats started rapping (although, having heard the original, I now think the rap sounds snappier... but that might just be an effect of seeing it live). In the interval, I heard a guy behind us say to his kids "I've got no idea what's going on", so we weren't the only ones. It was all a bit weird - but wonderful at the same time. The first Act wasn't over before I had decided who my favourite character was (Mungojerrie - or was it Rumpleteazer?).

Regardless of plot or whatever, the dancing was amazing. I was in awe of the sequence between Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer: they moved with such litheness it was like magic. And when Mr Mistoffelees came on, my friend I gaped at his calf muscles. Seriously, they were like iron, and we weren't even sitting that close. He did about a million spins in one go and I think I broke my fingers applauding him afterwards.

On balance, I had a good - if strange - time seeing Cats the musical. In a week's time I'll be seeing Avenue Q and actually, I've got no idea what that's about, either...

University: why?

I have emerged from three years doing an undergraduate degree in English literature very much scathed. I went from "omg I love books so much!" to "I never want to read another book in my life get away from me". Of course, three days later and I'm re-reading Harry Potter but that's neither here nor there. How did I take such a drastic turn?

Your typical third year student.

1. Studying dead white men. Like, all the time. In one of my modules, the tutor talked about the same five white dudes every. Single. Week. It was a twenty-two-week module.

2. Literary criticising everything to death.

3. Books. So many books. Every week. The reading list never ended.

4. Sitting in the library, seeing the same faces, doing the same thing, every day.

5. Not having any time for hobbies. First year wasn't so bad and even in second year I managed to squeeze in some fun time. Third year? Forghedaboudit.

6. Some of-

You know what? Let's just move on because I could rant forever. What I ultimately learned was that you really have to be dedicated to the subject to study it at such depths for so long. Seriously. If you're thinking about doing a course at university because it will get you a load of money later on but you actually hate it - don't do it! You'll get to third year and you will hate your course. Or yourself. Or both. I did, and I actually wanted to do my course.

Here's another tip: first year is built to weed out the weak. Many will fall. The trick to staying upright is to read as much of the set texts as possible, don't go out late, don't make friends etc etc etc.

Second year? Okay you can have friends and stay out all night but only if you're willing to spend at least one night in the library. And I mean sleeping over in the library, doing work the whole time. Who needs to shower, am I right? Sure, it will be fun at first, surrounded by all your friends and their laptops and their eager faces. You might make it to midnight and think to yourself "this is so exciting! I now can't even go home if I want to because public transport is no longer running!" Somewhere around 3 or 4am, when you're struggling to read a language you've known for twenty years and the girl next to you is crying because she can't figure out how to make her essay flow, you will realise you have made a very, very big mistake.

Third year is what it's all been leading up to. It's the year of hating tutors, hating your grades, hating the institution, hating the system that made you think university was ever a good idea. Honestly? I have not had a worse time in my life than when I let the stress get to me. My anxiety increased dramatically, I was in the hospital at some point - I genuinely didn't think I was going to make it out of university alive.

But I did. I'm here. And I'm here to stay - and write.

The ghost says

I know it's been two months since my last post. I know I had all these great ideas about blogging and reaching goals and all that.

I also know that the final year of university is a b*tch.

However! I've got two days before my final deadline. After a couple of weeks of well-deserved rest, I shall be back with all new ideas, a new layout and more hope than ever before. Until then...

THIS BLOG IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

February: where did it go?

Valentine's Day also happens
around this time - or so I've heard.

This happens to me every year. February comes, it's the down-time after Christmas and New Year, it's not quite Easter and I lie to myself. It will be fine, I say. You've got loads of time to achieve the things you want to this month. It's probably a leap year as well, and that means, what, another 24 hours to be awesome? (Spoiler: it's not a leap year).

I haven't quite managed to accomplish this month's goal. And by 'quite', I mean I completely forgot about my WIP and it's gathering dust. Whoops. I do intend to finish it properly this year, I guess I was just overly ambitious with my expectations.

The maximum word count is 8,000.
Missed it by that much.

Dissertations are long. I can't wait for my course to be over (just 9 weeks to go!). The stress is getting to me, if it hasn't already. The longer I spend making footnotes, the more I can feel my soul losing the will to go on. Especially after noticing I was over the word count, cutting it down, then making points stronger until I was even MORE over the count than ever. It cut deep to have to snip out entire chunks of work.

On the upside, at least I did not set myself a goal for this month. I'm not sure how well I'd cope. Roll on, April!