2011: The Year of Good Intentions?

Greetings everyone. I ushered in the new year by hosting a small soiree at my flat. By the time the clock struck midnight on 2010 (and closed that door behind me) around 25 people were crammed into my living room. It was a sea of people hugging and kissing and shaking hands and wishing everyone a Happy New Year. I wish I had thought to take more photographs.

2010 was not a bad year. Not the best year of my life (I think that belongs to the later half of 2002) but not down there with one of the worst (1997 was the start of a steep decline). In 2010 I:

• Completed a Masters in Science 
• Turned 25 and had a wonderful time on my birthday
• Moved flats
• Got a new job more suited to my qualifications
• Went to my first professional conference
• Started cooking properly again

So what do I plan for 2011? In the last days of 2010 I started feeling a bit lost. This is a usual cycle for me and hits every couple of years or so. It didn't seem to matter when I was a teenager. After all, when you're fifthteen, you think you're going to live forever. That feeling starts to ebb away when you're twenty five. My mother retires this year. My mother is old enough to retire. "Life is too short" was the wave that came crashing over me this year. 

And this time I am determined to do something about it. By coincidence an article appeared in yesterday's Sunday Herald which was part of a section of columnists writing about trends we would see happening in 2011. One article tackled the subject of alternative lifestyles; primarily a move away from the greed of consumerism and the constant need to acquire material goods. The first half of the article about minimalism really spoke to me. Despite my better attempts I have tried not to fall for the consumerism trap of always wanting more. But I have. My wardrobe is full of clothes I hardly wore and were expensive impulse buys. There are boxes of unread books stacked high in my bedroom. Enough is enough. 

Part of the above article discusses a blog called Minimal Student. Last night I was up until two in the morning reading through the articles. The blog's writer, a girl called Jessica, seems to be writing just for me. Of course I know she isn't but that is the mark of a good writer; making the reader feel like they are the intended, and perfect, audience for this material.

I'm going to ferment on what I have read over the past day. Already I have taken baby steps by an extension to Chrome called StayFocused. It is a handy tool. You can list websites that you are allowed a certain amount of time to browse. For example my blocked sites include Facebook and Twitter which are bad for eating up my time. Initially I didn't realise that the time you set includes all the sites listed on your blocked list. So I had used up my allotted time by the end of breakfast time today. 

Which meant I got stuff done. I put away the weekly shop Him Indoors ventured out to buy, cleaned out the kitchen cupboards, finished some work owed to someone else and caught up on some Write in for Writing's Sake admin. Late afternoon I settled down to watch The Usual Suspects in memory of the late, great Pete Postlethwaite who died today. Another reminder that life indeed is too short; he was only sixty-four. 

I feel like I have collected my thoughts a bit better. Tomorrow I am going to spend time thinking. Proper thinking not just "Oooh what shall I have for tea tonight?" Then I'll come back here and decide what I am going to make of myself in 2011. 

 

 

Why I Gave Up on NaNoWriMo

I talked the talk. I was all prepared for NaNoWriMo this year. Even carried out some research which is something I rarely do when writing. The writing process for me is usually a blank Word file and I get typing. Sometimes I have an idea in my head. Or I start with a line of dialogue. I type and type to see where it takes me. Then, in theory, I go back and edit it. Sadly I lack the ability to reach the editing process which is something I need to work on. When I was doing my evening classes last year I had to have a finished product for sessions. Take away that external deadline and I wander around, not doing much. It's the pattern I've followed since I started to write my own stories when I was 10. On an old Apple Mac for those interested. Like a really old Mac that had a screen about the size of your standard iPhone nowadays.

November has been a busy month for me. I started a new job that pays monies. My voluntary work began to pick up and required three days out of my week. I took over the admin for Write in for Writing's Sake.The old social life began to re-awaken. And there's that dirty bugger called Christmas lurking around the corner. Plus the mundane old stuff of making sure I have enough clean clothes to wear (which did become a slight problem last week) and that I was starting to eat properly and trying to ditch a lot of processed crap. Alas eating properly means spending more time cooking. For someone that can't really cook this poses a problem and simple things, like chopping an onion, takes twice as long as it really should.

The biggest problem is that I felt I didn't have enough time to read. I was clocking in 10 minutes at bedtime and cramming some words in during the commute. After waiting for ages, my library requests began pouring in. I wanted to read them rather do writing.

So I said

A good friend gave me the gentle push to stop writing. If I want to go off and do the research then go and do the research. My story is located in a particular time and place. Yet I was throwing in references that were all over the place. As an ex-History student it's important for me to get these things right (write?). If I decide to take part in NaNo again then I shall decide to write a silly story. One when it doesn't matter about time and place and setting. I think I'll have more fun that way.

Goodbye NaNo for another year. I am sure we will meet again.

Warning: This May Surprise You

One character quality a lot of people assume I have. Can you guess what it is? It is not terribly exciting or interesting or fascinating. A lot of people assume I am an extremely organised individual.

True, in some areas I am. Anyone who has ever travelled with me knows how scary I am about being on time. Surely it's correct to be at the train station/bus stop/airport at least an hour before departure, right? If I don't have the relevant tickets or documents on my person, I get very panicky and insist the other person shows me them at all times. Until they get sick of my constant asking and eventually hand the bloody things over to me.

But that, my friends, is where it stops. I am a truly awful and forgetful person when it comes to things. There have been times friends have rang me and asked "Where are you?" and I have forgotten we were meant to meet. I have tried putting this information on my mobile, my iPod, even a traditional paper diary. But nothing seems to work.

Another crime I am guilty of is procrastination. The Internet is partly to blame for this. After all, where would my urge to suddenly look up Unity Mitford or find out what capers look like go? Possibly channelled into something more productive, like posting that important letter or writing that essay. As a result I can spend an hour going from Wikipedia article to Wikipedia article and truly wonder where the time went. The refresh button is my friend on the evils of Facebook, Gmail and other such wonders.

Also, and this is down to being lazy, I am a really untidy person. This is partly due to wanting to hang onto most of my crap such as theatre tickets, leaflets for theme parks and other useless information. Plus my slightly scary obsession of having lots of books about the place. Despite wanting to be an archivist (which, let's face it, part of the job involves being quite a tidy person) I am not very good at tidying things away at home (and sometimes at work...). Sometimes I blame the smallness of the flat I live in. True, it's small but Him Indoors manages to restrain his scatter tendencies and keep them in his own room.

I should also face up to this fact that this blog post is providing some escapism away from tidying up the living room and kitchen. Gawd bless you internet!

Edinburgh Adventures

I was writing an update about my weekend in Edinburgh and thought it might be of some interest to people here.

On Saturday evening we had Alexander McCall Smith at the Book Festival. For years his events have always sold out extra quickly and I only achieved gaining tickets this year by sitting in work and hitting refresh constantly on the screen. Anyhoo, I got them and it was a rather interesting talk. He seems such an ordinary man and then casually drops into the conversation "I was visiting a baboon colony in Botswana" and so on. I wonder if his books are getting intentionally nastier. His new series, Corduroy Mansions sounds rather spiteful and a million worlds away from the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. He did spend some time on 44 Scotland Street which is such a lovely series. Bertie, the poor put upon 6 year old, is obviously a favourite. However, in the Q&A session, I was slightly displeased at someone's attempts to have their girlfriend feature in a future 44 Scotland Street episode as the "mad cat lady who lives across from the Cumberland Bar".

A quick note about the hostel we were staying in. I had never stayed in a hostel before and wasn't sure what to expect. Caledonian Backpackers came slightly recommended by a fellow Bookcrosser, partly for it's proximity to the Book Festival venue and (as I later found out) to the Royal Mile. Unfortunately the sound proofing was awful. We were staying in a large dorm (of 20 beds) and the guests were rather courteous. But staying somewhere near Princess Street with no double glazing was a disaster. I think I only got 4 hours sleep the first night. Luckily, I got moved after the first night into a Female only dorm towards the back of the hostel which was a bit quieter.

On a sidenote, I'd consider staying in a hostel again. And both my companion and I agreed that if we were travelling alone a hostel is a good place to check in and interact with other people.

Anyway, on Sunday morning, we went to see Anthony Sher who, as well as being a fantastic actor from what I've been told, has written a great many books. He's a fascinating man, what with being South African, gay and a secular Jew. Although the interviewer did bring his cocaine addiction out from the left field. Companion went all fanboy over Mr Sher, bless him, and got his books signed by him after the talk. If I didn't already have lots of books in the flat I would consider picking one up.

After the talk it was a wander up to the Royal Mile and the Fringe Box Office for me to purchase tickets. After looking through the program I had decided to spend my vouchers on seeing Adam Hills, Princess Cabaret and Hitler Alone. In the queue we were accosted by Iszi Lawrence who was doing a free comedy show in an hour at a nearby venue.

All in all I was rather chuffed with my Fringe highlights. Adam Hills is hilarious and had a BSL interpretor who really interacted with the show. I know now the BSL sign for clitoris and a sign unique to Australian sign language (for "Fuck you! Fuck the lot of youse!" Am very surprised this is not in Scottish sign language). His show was a wonderful mix of comedy and tragedy. His message about inflating people was truly poignant and the launch of balloons after his act brought a small tear to my eye.

Princess Cabaret was rather interesting. It was a mix of songs and sketches centring on the Disney princesses. I never thought of Jasmine from Aladdin being a Middle East Peace negotiator or Sleeping Beauty waking up to the horror of STDs and 'darkies' wandering the streets. Favourite moment: the song about an enraged Tinkerbell finding Peter Pan in bed with Wendy and trashing his cave. Really enjoyed it.

What a contrast with my final 'paid' show which was Hitler Alone. It was in a small, claustrophobic venue, probably sat around 20 people. It was held at a language institute and was the only performance I was offered a cup of tea or coffee for. Paul Webster, playing the 'villain' himself was very, very good and had done his research. On the flyer for the show, he explained he was born in 1939 and had childhood memories of playing in bombed out buildings. And of a Jewish refugee teacher savagely beating a fellow schoolpupil for drawing a swastika on a jotter. The danger of these performances is that they can make you feel 'sorry' for this broken and defeated man (the play was set in the final hour in the Bunker in which it was reported Hitler disappeared to a room, ranting and raving). The sorrow of which he spoke about his mother and loss of friends was heart breaking. However, all empathy was wiped away when Webster completed his performance by falling to the floor, ranting, raving and spitting about the evil of Jews .

Finally, Iszi Lawrence was a bit of a mixed bag. Not bad for a free performance (her story about causing her flatmate's cat to vomit upon the sight of her naked body was predictable but still hilarious) but it did flag a bit towards the end. She may need to spruce up her routine to last an hour, normally the time for a headliner at the Stand. Plus my enjoyment wasn't helped by having had two pints and desperately needing a wee.

Oh and my last event at the Book Festival. Melvin Burgess was my idol when I was a teenager. He was giving a discussion panel with Anne Fine and Rachel Ward on the topic of 'Compelling Novels, Vulnerable Children'. Considering his books deal with drug addiction, underage sex and extreme violence, I'm not surprised. The discussion was interesting but it was full of bloody social workers simpering about how they interacted with children.

Anyhoo, there was a signing after the discussion group and I raced to buy his new novel to get it signed. The following conversation ensured (warning: major fan girl moments):

Melvin: Hi there, what's your name?
Laura (me): Laura.
Melvin: (begins writing on the front page of the book)
Laura: You know, the only book my mum has ever tried to prevent me reading was The Baby and Fly Pie.
M: (amused) I've never heard that said before! A lot of people do complain about the ending because it's so negative.
Laura: It was the bit when he realises his sister's a prostitute. So I had a massive tantrum until she gave me it back.
M: Well it wasn't promoting it as a career choice! You had a tantrum, eh?
Laura: Yes, I was 12 years old and a rather spoilt only child. I think she was more concerned about me because I wanted to be a writer.
M: Have you got anywhere with that?
L: Hmmm it's been on hold but I'm getting back on track again.
M: Keep writing.
L: (cue gush of crap) I don't expect you to remember this but I sent you one of my short stories years ago and you sent me back a letter saying 'Keep Writing'. And I've always keep that in my head.
M: (looks up, a bit puzzled).
L: Thank you again. I really appreciated it. (grabs book and runs away).

And you know what he had written in my inscription? "Hope your mum doesn't stop you reading this!"

Wot I Thunk About Writing

This blog has been rather quiet. I have an extremely bad habit of picking up new things with enthusiasm and then dropping them when other things happen. Mind you, real life has been hitting me with the shitty stick of late with Him Indoors not being very well, two deaths in the family within a week and all round stresses of everyday life.

Excuses, aren't they fab?

So my five week writing class trundled to an end. In the final week I had written a short story that I was rather chuffed with and received extremely positive feedback for. That has been sent off to a writing journal for the editors to consider publishing. Fingers crossed, tis has been a while before I've felt confident enough to send anything away to be published, hell written anything good enough to be sent away.

And, dammit, writing has been rather good fun. Last weekend I spent some time alone, staying in Edinburgh and taking in parts of the Festival. This seems to worry some people, my father especially for some reason, but I rather enjoy spending time on my own. I like being able to have four pieces of toast with chocolate spread for breakfast, I like deciding where to go for dinner, I like being able to sit in a park bench in the sun and write for hours without having to answer anyone or field worried "Where are you?" texts. Asides from the crapness of the hostel I was staying in (which would have been better if they invested in some double glazing) this trip is something I'd consider doing again.

The concept of writing retreats is something I had always poo pooed. "Oh yes, Fanny and Artemis were telling me how they were meditating on the post-modern themes within poetry written on birthday cards. Must go, we have a class at 2.43pm helping us to discover what surrealism is." And these retreats are not cheap, oh no. A quick glance through ones listed in the back of various writing magazines show people are charged a pretty penny for the privilege of sleeping in a tiny room and to shit in a bowl.

Now now, madam, you're being harsh. Surely this isn't always the case? Anyway, a writing trip spent somewhere on my own is something to consider. As long as I don't develop a life damaging condition like George Orwell did.

Back to the point in question and stop rambling. A couple of Mondays ago I attended the launch of Cargo Publishing, a new publishing house based in Glasgow. I remember being asked a couple of years ago if I wanted to perform some of my work at one of their artist nights, when they started years ago. I said no, too afraid I hadn't written anything substantial in years. The teenager that had spent hours living with made up characters had retreated. (On an aside, please do read Cancer Party the first venture from Cargo. More info can be found here. Any book black listed by the Scottish Catholic Alliance sounds like a damn good read to me).

Back to the rant from someone the wrong side of 20 (soon to be 25 *panics*). There has been a little spark of confidence put back into my imagination. Him Indoors has been partly responsible for that. Look at other people's work. Learn from it. And say in a loud clear voice:

"I can do better than that."

Here's hoping the next quarter of my creative life is more productive than previous years.

Return to Regular Service?

It looks like this blog could be returning to a more regular service. Only one exam stands between me and the rest of my life. Which is liberating and scary at the same time.

One thing I will be joining is the Sunday Salon which the wonderful Ms Wolf introduced me to. I do feel intimidated by the various amount of reading challenges people are on. I am considering starting my own titled 'Reading what I bloody well want after four years of being told what to read'. Not as snappy as some but it could work.

For the moment I am going to discuss something a little morbid. I suffered a family bereavement a couple of weeks ago. Alas this is usually followed by a funeral. Something about religious funerals has always bothered me. This is written from a mainly Christian perspective because I have not been to another faith's funeral ritual. In the past year I have attended two sketchy Church of Scotland funerals. As far as I was aware both individuals being remembered had not displayed any strong religious tendencies and the decision to involve the Kirk came from their families.

Attending both these services convinced me I want a humanist funeral. Neither minister knew the deceased and pieced together tid bits given by the family members. Each sermon ended with the usual advert for the free meal or an extended welcome for those present.

Fuck that.

When I die I want my friends to talk about "Remember the Flaps story?" or "Remember the kick arse nights out we had?" or set off some fireworks or something. Something which celebrates my life and what little achievements I may have made. Funerals are for the living. So why don't they have a bit of life to them?

Oh and funeral directors are robbing bastards. At the last funeral there was an extra charge of £100 because it was held at the weekend. Ignore the fact the family had little choice in the matter and the weekend was the first available time after the death.

Be My Baby

My head has been buzzing with various topics lately but none coherent enough to put down on here. However, an article in today's Guardian along with a friend's unplanned pregnancy, has left my internal world spinning.

Do you know there's an important anniversary next week? It's the anniversary of when abortion was legalised in this country. At last, women were acknowledged the legal right to have control over their own bodies. They could make the choice concerning reproduction. Why not, heterosexual (and some queer men) make those decisions every day, without judgement. And have no problems doing so.

Yet again, the ugly right-wing religious fanatics of America have reared their heads. As well as several states taking away women's right to emergency contraception, they want to lower the 24 week limit on abortions. And it's frightening to think Britain might be considering the same thing. You think governments would embrace abortion more. A lower population of wanted children means less of a drain on local and national social care resources. The illusion of smaller classrooms and lower unemployment rates could become a reality for some political parties.

But there seems to be such a stigma against this. Bear with me. Under no circumstances am I advocating women to be forced into abortions but to have it presented as a potential option to an unexpected pregnancy. It's not murder, it's not pissing off God, it's not selling your soul to Satan. Do those who say it's an act of murder give any thought to the circumstances when imposing this blanket judgement? What about a woman who has been raped or sexually abused and become pregnant as a result? It's all very well telling her to carry through with the pregnancy and give it up for adoption. Imagine living with the knowledge that this thing, this reminder of your pain and your abuser is growing inside your body. Or what if you simply don't want it? I seriously doubt before every pro-lifer engages in a sexual act that could result in a pregnancy stops for a moment and ponders over the potential life they could be creating. And don't get me started on eejits that claim even condoms cause murders. How dare they when an AIDs epidemic is sweeping across Africa, another example of humans literally fucking each other over? So, going back to the original comment on condoms, no male should masturbate because they might be killing off potential babies? Again, I'm sure every male pro-lifer thinks exactly the same thing when he's shaking hands with the bishop.

But am I getting angry for nothing? The facts speak differently. How many babies born at 24 weeks survive? 1%, rising to 11% at 23 weeks (Guardian, 17th October 2007). Are there really vast amounts of lives being taken? Yes, these embryos have the potential to grow into babies, toddlers, children, teenagers, adults, middle aged, old aged individuals. Though here I have to admit my glaring contradiction that came to me when I was reading the fabulous We Need to Talk About Kevin. I believe abortion is a right but believe the death penalty is wrong. Does that mean I only value life in adults? Or teenagers if you're talking about America, where states can chop and change legislation on the death penalty. In a way, that's true as I don't believe you have human rights (or consciousness) until you come shooting into this world, whether that's via a vagina or tugged out via the intestine.

That's irrelevant. What I value is women's rights in this society. I may not always agree with the decisions they make but I am trying to learn to respect them. I may not wish their lives upon me but I should remember it's their life to live.

The Guardian article that created this ramble can be found here: Clickey click