Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Tall, Venti, or Grande?

Day 3 without coffee. Let's pretend it's for lent and not to prove I don't had a problem. My name's WriterAtLunch and I'm addicted to Starbucks.

It turns out, when coffee-free, I'm not at my optimum. My words trip over each other, like over-excited morons. my thoughts are slow and have to be dragged into being. At exactly 3pm every day, I experience an overwhelming crash. My bowling ball head longs to meet the desk. In the morning, I walk past the life giver itself, Starbucksium, and in the evening, force myself past once more.

Do you see how happy the people are inside? How awake they are? Each one of them coated in a golden glow, greddy fingers round those bright, white mugs, the sweet syrup inches from......

*passed out*

It's too hard! Give me coffee! Aarrggghhh!

ALSO

It turns out that if you bring your gym kit to work, and just leave it under your desk, it creates the illusion of fitness. I spot it every morning, a trainer poking out the bag, and think, 'Good for me, being all pro-active with exercise. At any moment, any moment at all, I could go to the gym'.

It's fabulous, you should try it.

Get to the end of the day, and ask yourself, 'Is today the day?'

Then say, 'No, but tomorrow will be.'

Repeat all week. Make it to the weekend, and feel so very sporty. You're one of those people, who can't stop thinking about going to the gym, and one day, you might actually make it there.

Anyhoo, I'm too busy at the mind gym, trying to construct a personality out of what God gave me. previously, half of myself was made from coffee beans, but I can't rely on that anymore. I'd like to apologise in advance if you run into my substandard self, I'm working on it.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Murder by numbers

Does anyone else have Sisqo's 'Thong Song' on loop in their head?

Just me? Oh, okay.

I am considering moving this blog to Tumblr, because I feel that it has outgrown this place. *Sob*
Well not really, it's actually because I'm all about aesthetics and Tumblr is prettier. I don't really understand it, and it freezes constantly. The most I can achieve is a blog called 'Untitled', and no posts. I think you'll agree, it's a definite improvement on what I've got going here.

ALSO, I've gained a small but steady readership in Venezuela. Welcome, hang up your coat, stay a while.

ALSO, I came home (alone) last night, and noticed muddy footprints up the stairs. I hesitated. I looked at the clean soles of my boots, and continued upwards. And then, entering the bathroom, I got the whiff of a man, a man previously unknown to me. A man who had recently been in this very room. My nose has all the capabilities of Sherlock, if he had been a hoover. It knows everything from a few inhalations. The only logical thing to do was get a knife from the kitchen, and go looking. I chose a dirty knife, speckled with spring onion slices, and hunted him. I brought forth the knowledge I had stored from every horror, ever psychological thriller, and unleashed it. I tip toed, I sought out nooks and crannies. I branded my knife, high in the air, ready at every turn, to stab.

So it turns out, our bath is leaking down into the shop below, and the plumber had come round (after speaking to Ginger Beard) and performed some Plummerish things.

At least I know, that when the time arises I will be ready.

To be honest I was thinking, 'Not here, not now, not by some cocky mo fo, who has the audacity to take a bath in my home before he murders me.'

Also, I am often compared to Rambo by my peers.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Extremely Loud

The film I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for, was acceptable.

It hurt to watch. It made me fall in love with the book again, because the book is so much more. It's an intensely sad two hours. Normally to avoid crying in cinemas, I tell myself it's not real. Because it never is. I'm not talking about the historical back-drop here, but the fact that you're witnessing a bunch of actors do what they do best. That old line didn't work.

I felt like it was me, and that book. Problem being, that you can park the book, take a deep breath, and get on with your life. But here, the sorrow is constant. Yes, a  bit much, a bit milked. No, I don't like crying on, off, on. off in public places, and having to imagine dancing chickens across their faces as a distraction.

It's one of those films that pushes a little of that necessary thankfulness into you. You know, I'm so lucky, stop taking things for granted etc etc. And we do all need that in healthy doses during our lives. For me, I wanted to have written it. It was like a taunt, this is what the written word can do, and you my friend, are not doing it.

Maybe that's why I ended up writing at 7am this morning at work? Maybe not.

I wouldn't advise you to see the film on the big screen, or even with friends. Rent it, and watch it alone. It's too personal to sit in a crowd with. It's not to be shared. I think we all wanted to howl, and sob, but spent two hours fighting it and ashamed.

But read the book first, enjoy the delight of the book first. Trust me, it's what Foer would want.

The best part of the film, is where Oskar is telling his Grandfather his story, and all the words start to overlap, and the images, and it feels like too much emotion everywhere. It was like listening too closely to yourself. Summary? Painful, and brilliant.

Also, don't read the book on a Kindle. becuase I really don't want to get violent.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Fight violence with violence

Amazon sent me The Journals of Sylvia Plath, a beast of a book, £14. All the pages are different lengths. I said I couldn't be bothered to send it back, and requested a partial refund.

£3 was automatically refunded.

Thanks chump sticks. That will serve me very well indeed, in the pound shop.

Honestly. I don't know why they didn't just send me my missing bits of page in a sandwich bag. it would've been less abusive.

Also, I'm sick. I'm not getting an appropriate amount of sympathy, because everyone else has it. We're all walking around being pretty disgusting, and don't have the energy to feel sorry for each other. Hopefully most people will get over it soon, so that they can give me the comfort I deserve. Because if there's one thing I've discovered, it's that things are usually worse for me. I try telling Ginger Beard this ofter. But he's too small minded to understand.

Has anyone else turned into a snake? My skin is drying out and falling off. Is this normal? Please send your answer on the back of a postcard.

I sat opposite this boy on the train last night. I say boy, because I knew that he completely lacked the capability to grow a beard. He was trying to sleep with his jumper against the window. And I thought, 'Ah bless him, poor little beardless student.' And then he kicked me, the shit. You know what I did? In that stinky, BO riddled carriage. I kicked him back. That's called karma.

Do yourself a favour, make a few good decisions today. Kick people who kick you. Feel sorry for me because I am poorly, go and buy The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and make yourself a cup of tea to read it with.

Work is for conformists.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Foer, how I love thee.

Okay, so I didn't write, I slept. In my defence, I was sick, and hallucinating my socks off.

Erica was on the living room carpet this morning (in book form) and glared at me.

Also, Jonathan Safran Foer's novel, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' has reached the screen. Foer is the male counterpart to my Erica (as if I haven't stated this enough). I grow misty eyed at the idea of the two ever collaborating. But I digress. My favourite book, EVER, is out here on Friday. I'm terrified it won't live up to expectations, and equally terrified it will, and I'll just sit there crying for two hours. If you spot a girl, body strung across two seats, enclosed in a tissue nest, sobbing, do say hello.

I'm a bit miffed at the idea of people discovering the book via the film. He's been my little secret for years. I've given him to friends for birthdays, eagerly accumulated his back catalogue, introduced him as an unheard-of-wonder. But now he's out there, set adrift. It's good for him, of course. But for me, it feels like theft. Have I always been this possessive? Yes. It's like cupping something brilliant in your hands. Maybe because once most things start attracting a majority crowd, they are spoilt. Not that I should imagine the situation as millions of bodies descending down on Foer, crushing him. So go see the film, but don't go see it. Or read the book, but remember that it's mine. I'm glad we have an understanding.

I'd like to tell you about life without curtains. You become an unpaid stripper. You dart behind white doors, clutching a towel to your chest. By week three, you stop caring. Let them look, and you undress facing the road. This is what they have turned me into. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am at war, albeit so far a very polite one. We can't get the landlord to set us up with curtains, but we're not allowed to modify the property, without an agreement. So, for the foreseeable future, if you want a show (male and female), park outside my flat between the hours of 6-7am, and 10-11pm.

Monday, February 13, 2012

The truth will set you free.

Well kids, I did try. I mean, I sat there, laptop firmly across knees, fingers poised, Erica Jong in her 600 glorious pages, perched on the sofa arm.

It was like waiting to be struck by lightening.

What did I expect?

The keyboard was covered with cobwebs, as was my brain. I wrote what I knew. I wrote about my family and a few vague realisations. BUT, couldn't stop myself from going beck over each fumbled line, and editing. A commar here, deletion there. Before the poor things had sucked in a first breath, I was smothering them with criticism. The truth is, that for a long time, the only place I've felt comfortable unleashing my words, is here. Where it seems okay to tell the truth.

And somehow, that's what I struggle to produce most of the time, truth. It's what makes Erica fabulous. The heartbeat of it pulses through the classics. It's usually the key ingredient to anything moving. So, why, with this in mind, do I find it so evasive?

I've been focusing so hard on the bigger picture, the next five years, landmarks, the things drilled into us as children: objectives. That I've lost sight of the smaller picture. In fact, what would suit me well, is a firm grasp on the tiniest of pictures. Reading is helping with the cobwebs. I'm writing poems in my head again, when I drift off to sleep. A dripping tap provokes an idea for a character. But the real battle is between myself and the editor, the very same editor who pronounces each shivering sentence 'boring, inadequate, already said.'

Tonight I will go home and try again. I need to realise that it doesn't need to be good, just present. Maybe good will come later, maybe it won't. But with the complete absence of words, I'm just an office girl, who once had a silly little dream. Who frittered away thousands pursuing that same dream, and now puts it away, in some shoe box on a high shelf.

You know, we dedicate a lot of time to complaining about others. The ones who drag us back, pull us down, and generally block us from our potential. But in the end, it is ourselves we can hold accountable. Our very own minds who throw up excuses, woven so tightly, that it takes us years to realise. I'm going to wake up one day, at forty, and disappoint myself so much, I can't get out of bed.

It's time to start telling the truth.

Monday, February 06, 2012

Discovering Plath

Inevitably, because it always is, I've ended up reading Erica Jong again. But not just one book, for one is never enough. 'Seducing the demon' which I was hoping would be an electric jolt to the writer within (so far so good), and 'Fear of Fifty', so desperate am I to learn about the life of this bolshy woman. I've stumbled upon her commentary of many female writers, and through that, rediscovered Sylvia Plath.

Many jobs ago (or so it seems) I ran a little book shop at Leeds University. It will surely be remembered as one of the most treasured times of my life. I sat for days, and devoured the literature on the reading lists of English students. I selected books for the shelves, based on what I wanted to read. And so, I met and fell for Salman Rushdie, Margaret Atwood, and Miss Plath. 'The Bell Jar', an experience, more than a series of pages. Much like Jong she writes feverishly, and fearlessly, and you are carried along in the chaos, like it or not. A stationary reading, which feels like animation.

Today, I am going Wiki crazy for her, and her life, a life peppered by suicide, even posthumously. I've bought the unabridged journals, not the one Ted Hughes so ruthlessly edited, and of course my very own 'Bell Jar' copy - yet again an attempt to absorb talent, rather than trying to produce it myself.

My bookcase is already groaning, as much with unread novels as read ones. But my desire to own more, is growing. I think I'm going to dedicate my evenings to books, so impatient and desperate do I find myself at present, for the written word. The TV has been banished to the bedroom. Then, hopefully, my own stories will show up. I actually feel (thought very quietly) that I'm ready to write again. I've been off for a long time. I've pronounced myself a writer, and shared the ideas behind past tense projects, and spoken of writing, but not actually picked up a pen.

So thank you as always to Erica, who makes me firstly ashamed of the absence of effort, and secondly invigorated by want.

Thursday, February 02, 2012

3000

Soon after this post goes live you will have helped me reach 3000 hits. You lovely, scrumptious person. But specifically I would like to thank my stronghold in Bulgaria and Russia (yes, tis true). And also the predictable traffic from sites like PoGosh ('PoGosh is a open source collaborative research and development en-devour.  What this means is that we work to procure, distribute and promote advancements in cancer treatments and health solutions').

Thankfully, people are not longer being directed to me from porn sites, perhaps my blog is no longer perceived as erotic literature. Sadly, no one is visiting from the Open University. after such an initially, promising turnout. Was it something I said? A poor grasp on grammar or sumfink?

So far this week I have burnt my face, upon opening the over door, poisoned Ginger Beard with dodgy fish pie, driven for 40 minutes in rush hour, with both wing mirrors folded in, and flashed my neighbours. A pretty bog standard week for me, I think you'll agree.

I sit here, at ridiculous'o'clock, sipping at two cups of Berocca, and raise one of them to myself. Well done myself, on having such an odd, embarrassing life, that people are drawn too it, you entertaining freak. I hope you too, will join me, and raise your Berocca. I did also forget to celebrate my blog's birthday last year (incidentally it turned 1 in November). SORRY. Luckily, there's enough Berocca to celebrate it all!

Peace and love chumps, peace and frigging love.