I Hate NY

It’s 3.00pm on New Year’s Eve, and guess what? I still don’t know what I’m doing to celebrate, or if I even want to. This happens every year for me. New Year’s Eve = Indecisive rubbish. I can’t remember the last time I had a spectacular time on NY’s eve, or if I ever have. There’s so much pressure pending on going out and getting so drunk that you end up in bed for the first week of an expectant new year, and it doesn’t seem worth the bother.

I’m not going to do that tonight. I’m getting over a nasty cold, my friends are dispersed in too many different directions that it would be impossible to chose one specific party to attend and the miserable weather is one more good reason to stay in. The anticipation to NY countdown just doesn’t cut it for me; I’d rather be at home watching a good film with a take away. Which is exactly what I might do, with my flu-riddled boyfriend snivelling and coughing next to me. Great.

Another reason I don’t dig NY is that I’ve got a lot of catching up to do work-wise. I’m heading back down south on Tuesday, and desperately need to tie up loose ends and pack. I have to get my business cards printed, (I’m still waiting for Luke to come up with a caricature of me to put on the cards that does justice to my features without making me look fat or demented. I know it’s only a sketch, but it wouldn’t hurt Luke to accentuate a few of my features to make me look more beautiful. If he doesn’t produce something I’m happy with, I’ve got some arty photos to use…

But I hope I can use one of his pictures because he’s got great talent and having Luke’s work on my cards will give both of us a bit of harmless self-publicity. If I ever get round to writing a children’s story, I’ll definitely ask him to provide the illustrations.

Back to NY - the sooner it’s over the better, and then I can get my head and hands back where they should be: in a book or on my laptop. I’ve tried so hard to keep up with my ‘to do’ list over Xmas, but the time has galloped past and chucked me at the starting line again. I’ve read a few books, composed letters, written a 3000-word story, but that’s the extent of it.

I was going to send off my work experience letters before Xmas, but realised there wasn’t a stapler at the house to staple my CV’s together. Then, before I knew it, Xmas had descended and if I’d have sent them off, they’d probably be lying on office floors ready to be chucked away with the rest of the Xmas junk mail. So, I’ll send them on Tuesday and keep my fingers crossed. I’ve written to ten companies, and I’m hoping that I’ll at least get one positive response.

I’ve just finished reading Blake Snyder’s Save The Cat! Which is a one-stop-shop scriptwriting machine. Snyder is one of Hollywood’s most prolific scriptwriters, he’s had over a dozen movies put into production and earned millions of dollars from it. I met him at a seminar in Penzance, where he single-handedly taught us the best way to pitch, structure, write and re-write a script. It all seemed to make perfect sense, and reading the book helped to reiterate everything he went over in the seminar.

Armed with my new found story structure tools, I’m ready to start writing my own script. If I stick to Snyder’s ‘beat sheet’, and Robert McKee’s slightly more complex formulas, it should be fairly simple. I’m already applying these principles to all types of story I write; these principles are nothing new – just new approaches to the time-old tradition of storytelling.

Christmas Phishmas

I've officially had enough of Christmas now.
I had a fabulous Christmas eve, preparing the house for visitors, and decorating every available surface with some form of foliage or other. Then I went for a brisk walk in the woods with dad and Lilli. Mum had also gone out to pick up some mistletoe from our neighbour's house and the house was empty for at least an hour.

What we didn't know whilst we we walking was that mum stayed at Annie's for a Christmas tipple (or two), and had left the Rayburn on at full tilt, getting hotter and hotter.

Our friend Richard (one of the dinner guests we were expecting shortly after our return) turned up a little early, and by chance, mum had left the door unlocked. So Richard came in to find the chimney glowing red and smoke emerging from the Rayburn. We arrived back a few minutes later and if it wasn't for Richard's quick reactions and old school fire handling skills, Christmas could have been a bit crispy.

When mum appeared, she tried to make light of the situation by making a joke about Santa getting stuck down the chimney - how very convenient.

After such a startling incident, wine was much needed and the nibbles were quickly assembled. Mum then served up a fantastic fish pie with salad leaves from the garden. After our guests had gone we retired to the sitting room, in front of a roaring fire, and watched the pick of the slush-pile of Christmas TV.

Christmas day was split into two, the first half spent at home, and the second spent at Luke's house. There couldn't have been more of a contrast - but in a wholly pleasant way.
I had a lie-in til ten-thirty, then helped prepare vegetables and canapes of smoked salmon on cheesy muffins. Dad collected grandma and they arrived back at twelve-thirty. We opened presents, ate too much, then grandma fell asleep in front of the fire.

We snuck out for a walk by the canal, came back to Christmas pud and custard. That was the extent of it - apart from a few arguments between mum and dad over the lunching processions. I left the house at five and got to Luke's just as his family had turned their living room into a wrapping paper mountain. There were ten people in that room, but the mess suggested many more had been and gone. But no. Just them.

I opened presents from Luke and his parents, and helped myself to a large glass of bubbly. Luke's family are loud, raucous and completely barmy. But I love it, because they're such a contrast to my family, who are a bit up-tight and quiet. I watched with a smile as the younger kids squabbled over games, wine spilt over the carpet and each Xmas soap special was played back-to-back.

Later, more of the family arrived and more presents were opened. A toast was raised to Luke's auntie, who died five month's ago, and I watched as tears were held back. This family has been through so many twists of fate, horrific divorces and premature deaths - it is no wonder they stick together like they do. Nothing is kept secret, nothing is left unresolved. They are by no means the perfect combination, but I admire their honesty and sense of togetherness.

I found myself attempting to complete the most impossible puzzle with Luke's little brother Jake, after a few more glasses of wine. Not only was it black and white, it was one of those illusion patterns. The ones that you're supposed to stare at until you see something within the original picture. We got all the pieces around the edges, but then gave up, the middle bit was just too much to handle.

I was coaxed into going out on Boxing Day, much to my dismay. I've had enough of drinking, I can feel it taking it's toll on my skin and my over-all fitness already. But Luke says it's tradition, so I go with it. We started drinking at four and then walked to Wetherspoons and met my sister and a few other friends. The mood was still quite festive, but I just wasn't getting into it. Luke and I had five-bean chilli, which sobered me up and I had to start drinking doubles to compensate. We were supposed to be meeting up with Luke's family, but we didn't know where they were and decided to check just about every pub on the high street in search of them.

We had a drink in every pub we checked, but to no avail. It was too late to go back and find our other friends, so we settled in Galleries. I felt a bit secluded, because Luke knows just about every person in Bridgwater and I haven't got many friends here now. But we had a bit of a dance and then went home and ate some dirty, dripping with buttery badness garlic bread.

To me, Christmas is over after Boxing Day, which is today. So I'm all ready to get myself geared up with my writing again. Having had nearly two weeks off, it's time to get my creative juices flowing. I'm going to work on my two homework assignments asap, then tackle the dissertation form and prof. studies portfolio as soon as I get back to Falmouth on the second of Jan.

I've printed out ten letters to send to various TV production companies about work experience, but I don't want to send them too soon after Christmas, in case they get put in the bin with a mountain of Xmas junk mail.

My business card design will be ready before the end of the week, I very lucky to know a friend who is also an employee of a printing company and he's going to give me expert advice and a cut rate! Even if they're not produced before I go back, I'm sure Rob can send them on to me. Still not sure whether to go for something simple and corporate, or quirky with a photo or caricature of me on it. Either way, it'll be an investment, I wee bit of self-branding and publicity...

Decisions, Decisions

Having just rushed to finish an article for Bloc, I’ve come to realise how much I enjoy writing features, and may consider changing my option for next term. I arranged an interview with a writer friend of my parents, Brigid McConville on Tuesday. I’ve known Brigid all my life, but I had no idea that she’d achieved so much as a writer and filmmaker.

Equip with my new Dictaphone and digital camera, I spent an hour with Brigid discussing her unconventional career from a travel writer in London to a journalist in treacherous, war torn Somalia and Afghanistan, all in pursuit of the most intriguing stories. Her bloody-mindedness is an inspiration; her over-arching goal is to give a voice to marginalised women through her writing and films.

What I admire about Brigid is her willingness to cross any terrain – literally and metaphorically to source her stories. I was astounded to find out that she had narrowly missed being shot several times in Africa and Afghanistan. A few years ago she went to Afghanistan to interview a Taliban governor. She was the first woman he’d ever spoken to and apparently he was extremely hostile and uncooperative.

She wasn’t even allowed to write anything down, but she took the risk. Not only has she risked her life for the sake of outstanding journalism that has won her prizes, she has written over a dozen books, brought up three children and been a freelance features writer for many of the nationals and women’s magazines.

For a writer with no formal training, she has risen to a comfortable level of recognition and she’s gained a sufficient list of regular slots with the Radio Times, Woman magazine and most recently, Mslexia magazine. I really appreciated her honest view of the media machine and hope I have relayed as much as I could of her advice in my article. Although it was hard to include everything within a 1,500 word limit, the third draft is looking well balanced and I hope that anyone who reads it will find it insightful.

It was my birthday yesterday, and so I am twenty-four and I care less and less for birthdays, as I get older. The day was fairly uneventful, Luke made me breakfast in bed, I had a late lunch with dad and Lilli, and then donned my heels for a night out in Bridgwater. On the way out of Wetherspoons, I hit upon an idea for a good story opener.

As we walked down the street, a section of the pavement was littered with glass and splinters of wood. A few lads were talking to two policemen, looking up at the broken window. The object of the angry incident had landed in the boot of a swish new car – shattering the back windshield. Who ever threw that fire extinguisher must have thrown it minutes before we walked past. It had been a large bay window and a huge extinguisher, it could have been a very dangerous situation – had we arrived there a minute or two earlier.

The reason I thought this situation would be a good story opener is because there is so much intrigue behind it. Who threw the extinguisher and why? What if someone was on the street as the window shattered? What caused the instigator to react so violently?

So on to the Labour Club – a comedy venue, full of excitable teenagers and old school rockers. The Labour Club has become our new hot spot. It’s not the most fashionable retreat, but what it lacks in style it makes up for in character and music. When we went there last week, they’d laid on a free buffet of sausage rolls, cheesy baps and crisps. How convenient, considering I hadn’t had any dinner.

A friend’s brother was DJing – one of his first ever appearances. He would have been half decent, if he wasn’t so drunk. Nerves. It was very amusing to watch him struggling with all the knobs on the mixing desks and haplessly trying to line up the tracks. I think he’s got potential, but desperately needs to acquire some organization skills. I caught up with a whole host of old friends and had a dance – on the table, which was probably not such a good idea. But hey, when else could I get away with it, other than on my birthday?

So it’s three days till Christmas and I’ve still got shopping to do, but I can’t handle it. I went into Sainsbury’s today and I swear people were fighting over the carrots. I’ve never seen it so busy in there before and I started to hyperventilate at the thought of struggling through the isles. Not only was I disgustingly hung-over but I’d forgotten my shopping list.

I’ve decided to make truffles as presents, but I couldn’t find any mini bottles of spirits and wasn’t sure how much chocolate to buy. I think I’ll go back just before closing time – you can usually guarantee it'll be like a ghost town then.

Lost Words

I went back to the canal yesterday, to write down the words and phrases carved into the wooden beams supporting the space between the footpath and an ancient building over the other side of the water. I have yet to research the history of the carvings, but I’d like to analyse what they mean and maybe create a story from them. They read as follows (each line represents the carving on each seperate beam):

Navigators
Sinew and Bone
Jolt of the pick
Clack of the Hammer
Iron on Stone
Red Quantock
We came and went
Our legacy
A Boat
Coming Clean
Through the Hill

I sometimes find it hard to believe that Bridgwater was a highly prosperous port town, with a brick making industry that was hard to rival. It has all but lost those affluent connotations, but I would not want to forget the heritage of my home town. The river Parrot is now nothing more than a mud bath for abandoned supermarket trolleys. But I have seen photographs of magnificent boats entering the town’s high and clean waters, and the contrast is striking.

I’d like to think that the carvings on the beams above the canal are there to honour the men who worked so hard to make the town industrious. It tells of their toil and the pride they bestowed on their work. I think ‘sinew and bone’ is a reference to the close relationship they have with the earth they were extracting. I have a feeling that ‘Red Quantock’ is the name given to the stone - this would fit perfectly with the colour of the stone walls the beams are supporting. Quantock Red is abundant in Bridgwater, most of the houses built in the same period are all a very distinguishable burnt red colour.

The last three phrases really confuse me. Obviously, there were boats on the canal, but I can’t figure out the significance here. Unless the men are digging the canal, ready for boats to use. The only reason I could give for the use of ‘through the hill’ is another reference to the Quantock Hills.

The form is poetic and I am intrigued to find out the true meaning of the words. Why they are placed where they are? Who wrote them?

Christmas Cheer (Too Much, Too Soon)

We are only nine days into December and I think I've already had a bit too much Christmas cheer.

Thursday was our last official day of lectures and what a great day it was to round off such an industrious first term. In Bill's class we sat around in a huge circle and were each given a compilation of our homework, all 26 pieces with the theme of 'Metamorphosis'. We then had to read each one in turn and then comment on the others. None of the entries had a by-line, so we had to see if we could guess the author.

I've only read work by about half of the class, so it was harder than I thought it would be. Some people had changed their style to deliberately dupe us and others wrote in an entirely different genre than normal. There were a few that gave the game away by making the authorial voice strong enough to recognise and others ended up having to read their own work - which led to shifty body language and detections of awkwardness. But on the whole, the exercise was a great way for us to critique each others writing skills and to emphasise the overall consistent standard of the work.

At the end of the session we did a vote for our favourite three stories and then the authors were revealed. Hearing my work read by someone else and then critiqued by others was a bit unnerving. But it was certainly constructive - I noticed the mistakes in my story straight away, just from the way it was read out. There were a few 'stand out' stories which genuinely moved me, and I seriously think the collection is publishing material. And considering that the standard is already high - just two months into the course, I think we should try to publish some kind of anthology before we graduate.

So after all that suspense, and anticipation we dispersed after watching a short film with Richard E. Grant satirizing Kafka - just for some light relief. I got back into town at quarter to four - our Xmas dinner at Five Degrees West was booked for four. So I had only a smidgen time to buy a dress to wear, do my makeup and get myself cross the other end of town in my daintiest heels with gale force winds against me. Needless to say I was pretty late. Everyone was there already and I must have looked quite amusing with my wind-swept hair knotted around my head and rosy nose and cheeks burning in the warm atmosphere.

The wine flowed and the food swiftly disappeared - trust us students to make the most of our tenner! I think I saw Joe intercept a waitress when she tried to take away the ripe cheese selection - waste not want not. Maybe not the best thing to take home from a party, but if it's destined for the bin...

We took up our section of the restaurant till closing time, everyone extremely merry (one or two almost legless). The die-hards amongst the group honed towards Toast and then Club International (rumour has it that Steve McFadden aka Phil Mitchell owns the joint, which speaks volumes). Thursdays at Club are pound-a-drink student nights - which automatically spells out trouble. By this point I knew I'd crossed by limit and concentrated on dancing off my drunkenness. We danced madly to a selection of nineties dance tunes, Christmas oldies and modern cheese. Someone gave me a red bauble and I seem to remember passing it round to everyone, why it caused amusement: I could not tell you now.

We were drunk as skunks and I think we made quite a scene with our raucous behaviour, you've got to remember that Club tends to be chav central - so we probably looked quite out of place in our glam party get-ups. I have to say Liam is such a wild card - his dancing demands attention, he's got so much energy and disco pizazz. The night was over before we knew it, out on the street - an after party suggested at Duncan and Ryan's house. But the majority were in need of a Bayside kebab - (a place that's got a bad rep. for leaving the street in such a greasy mess on the weekends that they had to implement a 'no take away' ruling). It was fit-to-burst inside, and I couldn't be bothered to wait around for a bag of chip that would take me all week to work off at the gym.

I walked home with Liam and Ben who were going to get a taxi from the Moor, then staggered across the road - desperate to take my heels off. It was sad to say goodbye to my new friends, it's astounding how well we get on - and in such a short space of time. I'm off home on Tuesday, back to my old set of friends for yet more Christmas and birthday celebrations.

Editing Exam

Today we had an editing exam, which consisted of two quite daunting tasks. One was a 'top' edit, where we had to read a text and then rearrange it, according to our own personal logic, and to make the text more comprehensive. I would have quite enjoyed this one, except for I didn't have a watch on, so was completely oblivious to the fading time. Needless to say - I struggled to hand it in as a complete edit. I spent too much time planning a mock-up on paper and then when someone said there was only ten minutes left - I had to hastily copy everything and more onto the test paper.

I think with fifty or sixty minutes, this test would have been ideal. But forty minutes went by quicker than a blink of an eye. In terms of what I actually got done in the time frame - I think I grasped the basic errors in the original text and my dodgy drawing of guitars and their accessories will certainly amuse Christina and Susannah: endlessly. I used to be so good at art - where did it all go wrong? It was the pressure - that's what I'll keep telling myself!

The second test was a four page biography of Charles Dickens. It was poorly written, poorly punctuated, and the grammar was all over the place. This text came with a style guide of three pages and again, a forty minute deadline. Now - I like to read slowly, I have to read slowly to take things in properly. But I couldn't decide whether to take the text slowly and edit it as I went, or to read the style guide first - so I knew what to look out for as I read the text.

I ended up doing a really close edit on the first two pages, and then a semi-close edit on the third. I didn't even realise there was a fourth page until five minutes to the end. Susannah said she'd prefer us to do a detailed study of a fewer number of pages than doing all of them to hastily. I did get to tackle it, but not as closely as I'd have liked. I think the second test was more subjective than the first - so it's harder for me to gauge how I did with it. I think I picked up on a lot of the typos and grammatical errors, but I didn't really have time to sift through the structural details.

Enough of the critical analysis all ready!
Lets talk about something fun. Only one more lecture left before the old Xmas celebrations begin. We have Bill from nine til two then on to Five Degrees West for a good old fashioned Xmas knees up. From what I can gather, there is going to be a superb turn out (of staff and students). Must pace myself though, I've got parties lined up for the next three days - don't want to burn myself out at the first hurdle.

I've got my Cornish work placement sorted out, so I can look forward to a few days off over Xmas, and maybe I'll have time for some light reading. Maybe a spot of Blake Snyder or Robert McKee? It's not going to be a holiday , but at least I get to curl up with my cats and boyfriend and don't have to sit in a room without windows all day. (No offence to Tremough's designers... but really - space as a motto? (I laugh in the face of adversity!)

Don't know how I'll get all my books and clothes home with me, I haven't been back for longer than a few days at a time. Three weeks at home requires a lot of baggage, and I am a girl. Never mind, as long as I don't pick up to much on the other side, I'll be OK. But it's my birthday on the twenty-first, so I'm bound to accumulate more...

Bill's session tomorrow should be interesting and highly entertaining for all. We weren't allowed to put our names on our homework this week, so I'm presuming it's going to be guess the author time. I can pick out a few peoples style without seeing their by-line, but I have not read work by everyone on the course. It will be intriguing to see if anyone has deliberately tried to hide their style in order to confuse us.

Still Stuck

I am still oblivious to exactly what is wrong with my computer. I've searched all day for "Keygen" shortcuts on the internet, but it's all alien to me. I don't know how much more time to waste on it. I've got deadlines to consider - but how can I got on with them if I can't open Word?
I bet there's a really simple remedy, but I'm too scared to apply anything - just in case I twist myself and my computer into even bigger knots.

I've been using Google Docs the past two days, seemed like a good idea. It simulates word documents online, all you have to do is set up an account. I've got four files so far, I don't know if I fully trust it, but I'll put copies on my memory stick for backup. The greatest benefit I can fathom from it, is that you can access these documents anywhere.

So, if I don't get myself out of this Microsoft deadlock sharpish, at least I've got somewhere to write for now.

I Hate Computers!

I am officially at war with technology, more specifically with Microsoft. Yesterday I thought I'd be a bit clever and install a Microsoft Office update onto my iBook. But of course, it couldn't be that simple. The installation went very smoothly, but when I went to open Word as normal, it wouldn't let me until I'd completed a 'CD Key' code. What the hell is a key code? Apparently it's a code on your original Microsoft software CD.

But, unfortunately for me, I never had the original. I copied it from a friend who I have not been in contact with in four years and no longer have her number. Shit! Even if I did manage to contact her (which I am trying to do), hers was a copy too and I doubt she'll be able to get in contact with whom ever she got it from. Now, I'm in a bit of a pickle - I'm a MA Professional Writing student, and I can't open Word on my computer. Luckily, I've got a copy of most of my work on a memory stick, but how am I supposed to write my assignments and all my coursework, due in in January?

I don't know, my brain does not compute with computers. I spent all last night, desperately opening and closing every document, utility, and every combination for the code. But it's not going to happen. It just isn't. But then I thought, what if those lovely people in the IT centre can help me? Well, they couldn't. It wasn't as if I got my hopes up or anything, but I thought they'd at least give me some advice. No.

Apparently - the code is a new security precaution. Too many people have been copying Microsoft for free, and now they expect existing customers to conveniently put their key in and away they go. I am a fraudster, and my blissful ignorance has backfired spectacularly. I may even have to reinstall OS X again, from scratch. The only writing I can do on my computer is this blog, I may be able to open a rusty copy of Apple Works, but it'll be pretty basic.

I hate computers and I hate myself for not taking any attention during IT lessons at school. I hate being a techno-phobe, but it's probably too late to reinvigorate any kind of loving relationship. Ever.