#amwriting

I actually am writing; yes readers I have managed to conquer the borders of procrastination equipped with the tools to write and have permeated the wall surrounding me with the nib of a pen. It feels so... unexplainable. Not something I won't be able to put on to paper, but a feeling I'll try to replicate in my writing. Flushing out everything that is building up like awkward tetris blocks is one of the most satisfying feelings (also was that a weird simile or a good one, I honestly don't know). Writing isn't a game and if it were, it'd be to just do it. When your tools become dusty, your losing, but when your typing away at times of the day when people aren't catching commuter trains or even thought about sipping their morning coffee... That is a sensation I will never get tired of.

Even now on my post-caffeine high, watching the world bloom outside my living room window. I don't know if any of you have ever watched the sun rise and if you haven't, its something you need to experience at least once in your life. I've watched it numerous times, due to problems sleeping or because I've been pulling an all nighter and each time it fills me with energy. It feels rejuvenating to just bask in the world waking up and as I plug myself into Morning Mood by Grieg that feeling swells between the oboe and the flute and the strings and it is just so inexhaustible. I can play it each time I witness the sunrise and still know that each one is different; incredible.

So for the moment I've been working on three stories; my fairytale The Bloody Syrup which is a tribute to Angela Carter and a rewriting of The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson, The Seventh Veil which is my dissertation piece and novel idea & finally The Enigma which is my dystopian environment piece. I've realised how in the past I used to try and spend individual time writing one piece at a time and never multiple pieces but I guess I've evolved. Its difficult not to adapt when the situation changes; I'm a second year student with piles of work to be finished and I can't always work the way I wanted to.

But then it makes me think: "This time, next year... I'll have written my ECP. I'll have applied for PGCE courses. I'll have a month and a half left of my tenancy before I pack up to go."

When I was 17, I was told I would (and I quote) "never be able to make it into a University that asked for higher then CCC or CCD". I achieved grades well above what was expected, I became extroverted and I decided that I wanted to become a writer. I just think its so strange that I managed to get here and when I'm feeling low and shit, I try to remind myself of my career advisor smelling of alcohol, telling me I wasn't good enough. And now I'm here.

And now I'm writing three stories simultaneously, watching them hatch into the world.

A Tiresian Tragedy

I haven't blogged as much recently, partly due to the fact I've been blogging here, but also due to the fact its been difficult to write about a particular subject. Well, anything really. I mean, I have so much to say that before I can even go all ninja finding writing materials that I've forgotten what I wanted to say. I'll sit and ponder for ages what it was that I was thinking and another idea fades like a shooting star.

It really is starting to become a problem (ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ

Recently though I've been working on a new story for my Textual Intervention module. We're studying fairy tales; their dynamics, how there is underlying intratextuality and how ANGELA CARTER BASICALLY WROTE LOTS OF PORN (yup). But I love her work, and it actually influenced my decision for my assignment piece, which also takes its form from my favourite fairy tale; The Little Mermaid.

Now, I know what you may be thinking, "Oh I love it! I've watched the Disney version!" - NO. Stop, please don't go on because to me, it just takes the essence away from the original story. It just polluted the story with unnecessary characters and campy villains and oh dear I really can't go on any further. But the original by Hans Christian Anderson, is a tale of unrequited love, self-sacrifice and humanity. Yeah, it probably sounds like a misery machine and do you know what? Perhaps it is. The first time I read it I felt melancholy; I guess, since Anderson's original reader was for a man who would never return his love, I can sympathise. But there is something I was fascinated with: the notion that even though we come from different places and speak different languages these cannot hinder us from tearing down barriers and escaping our roots. But when we tear ourselves from the past, we can't go back. When our hearts are set on something we can't persuade them out of it. We should follow what we want and if it leads to misery, then we can proudly say that we did what we wanted to do. That, in essence, is what I find to be one of the most poignant messages within the tale.

Although my retelling of the story is actually intentionally supposed to be depressing  (〃￣ω￣〃ゞ Here is an excerpt from my piece called A Tiresian Tragedy:

But Warren and I were aware that none of them were like us. They had a linear path that was set for them, whilst ours was twisted and bent, marred by transience and uncertainty. When my family saw me stray from what they wanted they left me to the obfuscation and retreated. To them, our family was a machine and I was a broken cog that should be replaced. Now, their lives functioned like clockwork.

We had planned that day to take a walk down to the beach in the hope that we’d either be able to pull or get hideously drunk trying. As I pulled myself onto a chair at the beach bar, I felt my skin sizzle like the electric wires that stretched across the city. Even in this weather the scarring, though barely traceable in normal weather, felt as if it were suppurating. The glints of glass that remained embedded in my skin felt as if they shimmered as the rays of light danced upon my cheeks.

I'll be uploading it to my blog in the near future, once I'm entirely satisfied with it. Hopefully I'll be posting more regularly now~

First Snow

Its day one of Semester two. I'm officially over halfway through my degree. It feels like it hasn't been long since I started and in reality, its true; I'm halfway through my second year and in the coming months I'll be making some massive decisions about my future. I haven't even had my first class and images of the future are flickering in the forefront of my mind like a broken projector jumping between hazy possibilities of where I'll be going. There's no signposts, no path laid out by some friendly deity and no tour guide to show me where I need to go. Where do I need to go? Where do I want to go? I often find in the early morning, especially when I'm feeling under the weather, that the nagging at the back of my mind that was easy to dispel has pushed its way to the front of my mind, refusing to relent and unphased by my attempts to cast it out.

The roundabout of roads becomes overgrown with flora that tower oppressively far above and space feels claustrophobic, tight, compact, sealed off. Walking any direction brings me back to the same place I started. Trying to purge the thought makes the hedges burn bright and fierce. I feel like my lungs and time is the smoke waiting to snuff me out.

And whilst this array of choices becomes a raging internal battle, the snow is falling softly outside. The cold is seeping in and the chill is the lick of nature trying to lull me into a respite I've been seeking for hours and hours and hours. The hours that pass feel like they have stealthily sneaked away to some unknown shores and the unknown shores are where I'm currently treading water. The maze becomes the sea and the sea becomes me. The sea swallows me up and the maze is still me.