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.
Sunday, 31 December 2006
Friday, 22 December 2006
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.
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 vague and 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 in front of us was littered with glass and splinters of wood. A few lads were talking to two policemen, looking up at the broken window. The perpetrating 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 from the huge bay window above, minutes before we walked past.
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?
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.
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 vague and 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 in front of us was littered with glass and splinters of wood. A few lads were talking to two policemen, looking up at the broken window. The perpetrating 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 from the huge bay window above, minutes before we walked past.
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?
Wednesday, 13 December 2006
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 discover the history of the carvings, but I’d like to research it and maybe create a story from my findings. They read as follows (each line represents the words carved on each separate 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 now. The river Parrot is now nothing more than a mud bath for abandoned supermarket trolleys. But I have seen old 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?
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 now. The river Parrot is now nothing more than a mud bath for abandoned supermarket trolleys. But I have seen old 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?
Wednesday, 6 December 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, 28 November 2006
Editing my words away
I had my first subbing session today - which consisted of picking a short article apart and then making a 200 word document into 50 words. The first piece was a bit of a mess - over complicated sentences, ridiculous repetition and redundant adjectives. Of course, I didn't pick up all this at first read. But, with a little push in the right direction from Angela, it soon became clear.
I could pick up the basic grammatical errors, but there were some spellings mistakes and more fundamental errors (specific to the context) that I didn't find. Having said that, we only had ten minutes to do the exercise and I'm not the fastest of readers. I got a lot out of the exercise, but I still think I'm going to struggle with the editing exam next week. It's the subjectiveness of the process, what's to say one word should be given precedence above another? Authors often don't even bother to acknowledge their editors comments and carry on regardless. I'd imagine it's a hard job, but the more you do it, the easier it becomes to pick up on mistakes without questioning yourself.
The other brief was for an advert for a glassblowing shop in Islington. We had to decide what to chop in order to minimise the word count - without affecting the continuity of the piece. This was very difficult. In the time that we had, we struggled to find the tone without compromising. But Angela hinted to us where the words could be cut, and we finished at 49 words.
I don't think I'd get on as an editor, I'm too indecisive. It would probably hurt my brain, debating what to change, what to keep and what the hell the author was thinking using all those bloody useless adjectives...
I could pick up the basic grammatical errors, but there were some spellings mistakes and more fundamental errors (specific to the context) that I didn't find. Having said that, we only had ten minutes to do the exercise and I'm not the fastest of readers. I got a lot out of the exercise, but I still think I'm going to struggle with the editing exam next week. It's the subjectiveness of the process, what's to say one word should be given precedence above another? Authors often don't even bother to acknowledge their editors comments and carry on regardless. I'd imagine it's a hard job, but the more you do it, the easier it becomes to pick up on mistakes without questioning yourself.
The other brief was for an advert for a glassblowing shop in Islington. We had to decide what to chop in order to minimise the word count - without affecting the continuity of the piece. This was very difficult. In the time that we had, we struggled to find the tone without compromising. But Angela hinted to us where the words could be cut, and we finished at 49 words.
I don't think I'd get on as an editor, I'm too indecisive. It would probably hurt my brain, debating what to change, what to keep and what the hell the author was thinking using all those bloody useless adjectives...
Wednesday, 22 November 2006
Finally Making the Grade
To my great delight, I'm finally getting the grades I want in Critical Practice. I have to admit I found the formula Derrek gave us at the beginning of the course quite challenging. But now that we've progressed to a basic story formula, I seem to have found my feet. I think I got too bogged down in research that I couldn't see the wood for the trees. I am more of a fiction-head, so I am beginning to thrive on the new story formatting.
It's amazing how everything seems to revolve around conflict and resolve. And three is the magic number. Three scenes, three acts, three conflicts. Four is too many, one or two aren't quite enough. It's the same in film, Blake Snyder (Hollywood Script Writer) also says that all films follow a three act rule and every scene includes a micro conflict and a micro resolve.
So I'm finally on a B+ and I'm ready to make the next grade. Here is my assignment from last week. Make up your own mind as to if it follows the conventions of a classic narrative. I think it's engaging, entertaining and has a degree of dramatic irony to boot. See what you think:
Death By Banana
ONCE UPON A TIME: in Bognor Regis.
There lived a: young girl called Maeve.
WHO: Desperately wanted her older sister’s teddy bear. He wasn’t just any teddy bear; Alfie was a three ft. mountain bear, with silky black fur and beady black eyes. Maeve’s father had won the bear for her older sister Dora at the fun fair. Alfie was the same height as Maeve and when she hugged him, she got lost in his arms.
BUT: Dora thought she loved Alfie more than Maeve. Dora was cruel and callous, if she saw Maeve so much as looking at Alfie, she would administer a Chinese burn or a pinch as punishment. Once she said, “If I catch you hugging Alfie again, I will pull all your hair out. Daddy won Alfie for me. Which obviously means he loves me more than you.” This hurt Maeve’s feelings, but she made sure to avoid Dora’s evil gaze.
So it happened: One day, Dora did a really terrible thing. It was something so terrible she couldn’t tell her mum or dad. So she had to find a way to pin the blame on Maeve. Dora said, “Maeve, I’ve decided you can have Alfie.” Maeve’s eyes widened, and she did an epileptic dance around the bedroom. Dora looked on, disapprovingly and said, “Hey – don’t get too excited, you can’t have him for nothing. Come here and listen to me. I need you to admit to doing something bad.”
Maeve moved closer to her sister and said, “But I can’t lie, especially if I don’t know what it is!” Dora replied, “Look, you want Alfie, don’t you? If you want him bad enough, you’ll do this. I promise it isn’t horrid.” Maeve furrowed her brow in distrust, and said, “OK, but you have to give Alfie to me right now.” Dora snatched Alfie and shouted, “No. No. No. You must go and speak to mum first.”
BUT meanwhile: Unbeknownst to the girls, their mother Alice had discovered the reason for Dora’s wicked plot. Goldy the goldfish was dead, floating gormlessly at the top of the tank. Next to the fish tank she noticed a displaced banana skin. “That stupid girl, I saw her eating a banana earlier, looming around the tank – teasing that poor fish. Better go and give her a talking to,” Alice said to herself. She put down her cup and walked out of the kitchen.
SO unbeknownst to: Alice, Maeve was still weighing up the stakes. She finally decided that she was willing to take the blame for her sister’s carelessness, the temptation of owning Alfie proved too strong to resist.
UNTIL the time came: Dora was ready to confess her secret. “I accidentally killed Goldy. It happened earlier, when mum was busy in the kitchen. I was eating a banana, and Goldy looked so hungry. So I dropped a piece of banana into the tank for him to eat. He looked like he was enjoying it, so I went off to play. But when I checked him a bit later, he was floating at the top of the water. I killed him Maeve, but you’ve got to say it was you,” whispered Dora.
Maeve’s mouth widened and she wished she could take her promise back. She gulped and said, “Dora, that’s terrible. But I’ll still do it for Alfie.” The girls shook hands; a wry smile crept across Dora’s mouth.
WHEN suddenly: Their mum stormed in, catching the girls mid handshake. She said, “What are you doing girls? Don’t tell me you’re swearing to keep what happened to Goldy a secret? Well – there’s no point, I already know it was Dora. I saw you eating that banana earlier.”
SO it turned out: Dora confessed her misdemeanour to Alice, and begrudgingly said sorry to Maeve.
AND forever after: The situation was resolved; Alice bought a new fish called Ruby, and they were only allowed to feed it fish food. She said, “Alfie is the root of all this trouble between you two, so you must share him, or else I’ll give him to someone who really deserves him.”
Funny eh?
And don't tell anyone, but... I was that naughty older sister! However, the fight over the teddy bear was another matter, a more serious matter that happened a few years later.
My sister and I were both bridesmaids at a wedding for some friends of my parents. As a present for being such adorable little angels, we received a teddy bear each, kitted out in the same dresses to match our own from the wedding. We were stoked. We treasured those teddy bears and when one got lost, things turned nasty. Really nasty.
I can vividly remember running about in a rough and tumble way, desperately trying to claim the remaining teddy. Now, my sister is two years younger than me, but she was a mean little kid, she really gave as good as she got. One minute I'd have the teddy and then run as fast as I could into the garden, Lilli hot on my tail. Then there was hair pulling and kicking and screaming. You may ask: 'but where were your parents whilst this battle was commencing?' Well, they knew we were fighting but chose not to get involved, they wanted us to solve our own differences. Obviously, they thought it was too petty a subject to get irate about.
But we had to stop at some point, and I think it could have turned into an epic year-long battle if it was left up to our stubbornness to dictate. But when my parents saw us flagging, I think they confiscated the object of our affection. We probably cried for an hour and then cut our loses. We had lots of fights when we were young, but I'm glad to say it doesn't happen so often now, well, not the hair pulling kinds of frays anyway.
It's amazing how everything seems to revolve around conflict and resolve. And three is the magic number. Three scenes, three acts, three conflicts. Four is too many, one or two aren't quite enough. It's the same in film, Blake Snyder (Hollywood Script Writer) also says that all films follow a three act rule and every scene includes a micro conflict and a micro resolve.
So I'm finally on a B+ and I'm ready to make the next grade. Here is my assignment from last week. Make up your own mind as to if it follows the conventions of a classic narrative. I think it's engaging, entertaining and has a degree of dramatic irony to boot. See what you think:
Death By Banana
ONCE UPON A TIME: in Bognor Regis.
There lived a: young girl called Maeve.
WHO: Desperately wanted her older sister’s teddy bear. He wasn’t just any teddy bear; Alfie was a three ft. mountain bear, with silky black fur and beady black eyes. Maeve’s father had won the bear for her older sister Dora at the fun fair. Alfie was the same height as Maeve and when she hugged him, she got lost in his arms.
BUT: Dora thought she loved Alfie more than Maeve. Dora was cruel and callous, if she saw Maeve so much as looking at Alfie, she would administer a Chinese burn or a pinch as punishment. Once she said, “If I catch you hugging Alfie again, I will pull all your hair out. Daddy won Alfie for me. Which obviously means he loves me more than you.” This hurt Maeve’s feelings, but she made sure to avoid Dora’s evil gaze.
So it happened: One day, Dora did a really terrible thing. It was something so terrible she couldn’t tell her mum or dad. So she had to find a way to pin the blame on Maeve. Dora said, “Maeve, I’ve decided you can have Alfie.” Maeve’s eyes widened, and she did an epileptic dance around the bedroom. Dora looked on, disapprovingly and said, “Hey – don’t get too excited, you can’t have him for nothing. Come here and listen to me. I need you to admit to doing something bad.”
Maeve moved closer to her sister and said, “But I can’t lie, especially if I don’t know what it is!” Dora replied, “Look, you want Alfie, don’t you? If you want him bad enough, you’ll do this. I promise it isn’t horrid.” Maeve furrowed her brow in distrust, and said, “OK, but you have to give Alfie to me right now.” Dora snatched Alfie and shouted, “No. No. No. You must go and speak to mum first.”
BUT meanwhile: Unbeknownst to the girls, their mother Alice had discovered the reason for Dora’s wicked plot. Goldy the goldfish was dead, floating gormlessly at the top of the tank. Next to the fish tank she noticed a displaced banana skin. “That stupid girl, I saw her eating a banana earlier, looming around the tank – teasing that poor fish. Better go and give her a talking to,” Alice said to herself. She put down her cup and walked out of the kitchen.
SO unbeknownst to: Alice, Maeve was still weighing up the stakes. She finally decided that she was willing to take the blame for her sister’s carelessness, the temptation of owning Alfie proved too strong to resist.
UNTIL the time came: Dora was ready to confess her secret. “I accidentally killed Goldy. It happened earlier, when mum was busy in the kitchen. I was eating a banana, and Goldy looked so hungry. So I dropped a piece of banana into the tank for him to eat. He looked like he was enjoying it, so I went off to play. But when I checked him a bit later, he was floating at the top of the water. I killed him Maeve, but you’ve got to say it was you,” whispered Dora.
Maeve’s mouth widened and she wished she could take her promise back. She gulped and said, “Dora, that’s terrible. But I’ll still do it for Alfie.” The girls shook hands; a wry smile crept across Dora’s mouth.
WHEN suddenly: Their mum stormed in, catching the girls mid handshake. She said, “What are you doing girls? Don’t tell me you’re swearing to keep what happened to Goldy a secret? Well – there’s no point, I already know it was Dora. I saw you eating that banana earlier.”
SO it turned out: Dora confessed her misdemeanour to Alice, and begrudgingly said sorry to Maeve.
AND forever after: The situation was resolved; Alice bought a new fish called Ruby, and they were only allowed to feed it fish food. She said, “Alfie is the root of all this trouble between you two, so you must share him, or else I’ll give him to someone who really deserves him.”
Funny eh?
And don't tell anyone, but... I was that naughty older sister! However, the fight over the teddy bear was another matter, a more serious matter that happened a few years later.
My sister and I were both bridesmaids at a wedding for some friends of my parents. As a present for being such adorable little angels, we received a teddy bear each, kitted out in the same dresses to match our own from the wedding. We were stoked. We treasured those teddy bears and when one got lost, things turned nasty. Really nasty.
I can vividly remember running about in a rough and tumble way, desperately trying to claim the remaining teddy. Now, my sister is two years younger than me, but she was a mean little kid, she really gave as good as she got. One minute I'd have the teddy and then run as fast as I could into the garden, Lilli hot on my tail. Then there was hair pulling and kicking and screaming. You may ask: 'but where were your parents whilst this battle was commencing?' Well, they knew we were fighting but chose not to get involved, they wanted us to solve our own differences. Obviously, they thought it was too petty a subject to get irate about.
But we had to stop at some point, and I think it could have turned into an epic year-long battle if it was left up to our stubbornness to dictate. But when my parents saw us flagging, I think they confiscated the object of our affection. We probably cried for an hour and then cut our loses. We had lots of fights when we were young, but I'm glad to say it doesn't happen so often now, well, not the hair pulling kinds of frays anyway.
Saturday, 18 November 2006
TV Scriptwriting Seminar
Managed to get up at nine today, but my head was lagging behind desperately. I dithered around for a bit, then got myself down to the Maritime museum for a workshop on writing for TV. It would have been brilliant if I wasn’t so fuzzy-headed. Lesley Stewart was eccentric and engaging, Dan Sefton slightly quieter but just as intriguing.
They had a lovely bit of banter, doing their best not to dampen any illusions we had about the TV script writing industry. I already knew about the pit falls, but there were some things they highlighted that make a lot more sense now. It was good to pick up some tips from two successful scriptwriters; they were entertaining and thorough in their responses.
They had a lovely bit of banter, doing their best not to dampen any illusions we had about the TV script writing industry. I already knew about the pit falls, but there were some things they highlighted that make a lot more sense now. It was good to pick up some tips from two successful scriptwriters; they were entertaining and thorough in their responses.
Friday, 17 November 2006
Madness and Mayhem on a Train from London
Yesterday was a day that I will treasure forever. It was a long, surreal, head-spin of a day. Up at 5.00 am, after a very disjointed night of sleep. Apprehensive about the impending interview, I kept waking up with my heart pounding, certain I was going to be late. I hobbled along to the train station in my brand new T-bar’s and waited briefly in the shelter.
The journey up was fairly uneventful; we got to Paddington in just over four hours. That’s crazy, considering it usually takes me that long just to get to Somerset. Paddington was hectic, crowded and daunting. I had about an hour to spare before my interview, so I had lunch and found a place to sit and write some notes. There were police everywhere, which made me feel a bit nervous. Then I watched as one policeman saw a suite case unattended and began to try the combination lock to search it.
Unbeknown to him, the man that owned to bag was a few metres in front, extracting cash from a hole-in-the-wall. When the man turned round, witnessing the policeman fiddling around with his bag, he said, “Hey, that’s my bag!” The policeman looked a bit surprised and replied, “You can’t leave luggage unattended around here.” He got back on his feet and wandered off again.
It’s a shame this sort of scrutiny is becoming a part of everyday life. Paddington is a great place to people watch, but I couldn’t really concentrate on anything other than my rising nerves. So, my time came and I took the stairs to the top café where I was meeting The Writer’s team of interviewers, I was desperately trying to remember what Neil looked like (I’ve only seen him once and that was at the front of a lecture hall.)
They greeted me with zealous smiles and offered me water. (Still or fizzy? I took still, but then thought they might be doing some kind of psychological test to see if I was adventurous or not!) The interview started quite badly, they asked me to criticise my responses to the briefs they set me and then asked me what I thought about their website and what was wrong with it. They played good cop - bad cop with me, firing questions left, right and centre. It was intimidating and I did feel out of my depth, but I kind of redeemed myself at the end by asking them some good questions and I sucked up a bit by thanking them for the opportunity to meet them.
I couldn’t wait to get to the bar and finally relax. Joe and Liam had already had their interviews, so we went to the Dickens Tavern (how ironic?) and waited for Jenny. We then rushed back to the station via the off-licence to stock up on wine and beer for the journey. Being Friday, the train was bursting with ratty commuters and students. Miraculously we managed to find a booth for all four of us, every seat was booked, but to our great relief, no one came to claim our seats.
We were hyper and oh so relieved to be heading home again. The drinking began and we got louder and (most probably) annoyed the hell out of every one in our coach. We played consequences, and offered our fellow commuters wine in compensation for our behaviour (funnily enough, no one took up the offer!) Liam played his station game, which consists of waving madly at people standing on the station. Once he had their attention, he would beacon them to get the attention of a person near-by. If it worked, the stranger would be made aware of Liam and then Liam would pretend he was a friend of theirs. Thus embarrassing everyone involved and providing a plethora of confusion. I laughed so hard I cried, the baffled strangers were probably quite annoyed by his behaviour, but getting someone to do something silly and then realise how silly they look was absolutely priceless. What a wicked boy that Liam is!
I did feel very sorry for a small, old Canadian man who sat directly opposite us, I knew he wasn’t happy because I saw him shout at the woman next to him when she was speaking too loudly on her mobile. So, Liam offered him some wine. He didn’t accept, but was fairly polite about it. Next we played picture consequences, and drank more wine. We got held up at Exeter, and in that time we made some new friends and most of the other passages seemed to disperse. By the time we set off again, the coach was near empty.
At this point we were playing the Rizla game, and people from around the carriage were following it with great interest. We picked up some extra players in the form of a comedy producer for channel 4, his friend and two older women. They were as pissed as us and so we played on. Steph bought another two bottles of wine and we finished the game, just as the train rolled into Truro.
By the time we reached Falmouth, we were royally sozzled. Ravenous, we walked to Asha and had a superb curry and more wine. Exhausted (and still in my precious new heels), we then stumbled to Toast. A pint of cider later – it’s definitely time to give up and go home. The London lads said they’d meet us in town, but as they didn’t show, and so there really was no other reason to elude sleep anymore.
What a spectacular day! A rollercoaster of a ride, surreal and definitely delirious. We met a whole bunch of interesting people, drank too much, partied hard and learned a valuable lesson from the interview. I don’t think I’ll be asked back for the apprenticeship, but I don’t really care. It was such a crazy day out, even if I was only actually in London for about three hours. It was a wake up call for me. I’m so far removed from the London scene; I’ve barely been out of Cornwall in the last couple of years. I need to gear myself up for a change in lifestyle. I’ve been toddling along at a snail’s pace, blissfully ignorant of the bigger picture.
I have a love/hate relationship with London. I love visits, but the thought of living there in the smog and chaos does absolutely nothing for me! But, I can’t ignore the fact that most of the media industry is based there, so I’m going to have to change my views and forget my prejudices. I’ve learned a lot about myself from yesterday, I need to prepare for my future and embrace the changes.
The journey up was fairly uneventful; we got to Paddington in just over four hours. That’s crazy, considering it usually takes me that long just to get to Somerset. Paddington was hectic, crowded and daunting. I had about an hour to spare before my interview, so I had lunch and found a place to sit and write some notes. There were police everywhere, which made me feel a bit nervous. Then I watched as one policeman saw a suite case unattended and began to try the combination lock to search it.
Unbeknown to him, the man that owned to bag was a few metres in front, extracting cash from a hole-in-the-wall. When the man turned round, witnessing the policeman fiddling around with his bag, he said, “Hey, that’s my bag!” The policeman looked a bit surprised and replied, “You can’t leave luggage unattended around here.” He got back on his feet and wandered off again.
It’s a shame this sort of scrutiny is becoming a part of everyday life. Paddington is a great place to people watch, but I couldn’t really concentrate on anything other than my rising nerves. So, my time came and I took the stairs to the top café where I was meeting The Writer’s team of interviewers, I was desperately trying to remember what Neil looked like (I’ve only seen him once and that was at the front of a lecture hall.)
They greeted me with zealous smiles and offered me water. (Still or fizzy? I took still, but then thought they might be doing some kind of psychological test to see if I was adventurous or not!) The interview started quite badly, they asked me to criticise my responses to the briefs they set me and then asked me what I thought about their website and what was wrong with it. They played good cop - bad cop with me, firing questions left, right and centre. It was intimidating and I did feel out of my depth, but I kind of redeemed myself at the end by asking them some good questions and I sucked up a bit by thanking them for the opportunity to meet them.
I couldn’t wait to get to the bar and finally relax. Joe and Liam had already had their interviews, so we went to the Dickens Tavern (how ironic?) and waited for Jenny. We then rushed back to the station via the off-licence to stock up on wine and beer for the journey. Being Friday, the train was bursting with ratty commuters and students. Miraculously we managed to find a booth for all four of us, every seat was booked, but to our great relief, no one came to claim our seats.
We were hyper and oh so relieved to be heading home again. The drinking began and we got louder and (most probably) annoyed the hell out of every one in our coach. We played consequences, and offered our fellow commuters wine in compensation for our behaviour (funnily enough, no one took up the offer!) Liam played his station game, which consists of waving madly at people standing on the station. Once he had their attention, he would beacon them to get the attention of a person near-by. If it worked, the stranger would be made aware of Liam and then Liam would pretend he was a friend of theirs. Thus embarrassing everyone involved and providing a plethora of confusion. I laughed so hard I cried, the baffled strangers were probably quite annoyed by his behaviour, but getting someone to do something silly and then realise how silly they look was absolutely priceless. What a wicked boy that Liam is!
I did feel very sorry for a small, old Canadian man who sat directly opposite us, I knew he wasn’t happy because I saw him shout at the woman next to him when she was speaking too loudly on her mobile. So, Liam offered him some wine. He didn’t accept, but was fairly polite about it. Next we played picture consequences, and drank more wine. We got held up at Exeter, and in that time we made some new friends and most of the other passages seemed to disperse. By the time we set off again, the coach was near empty.
At this point we were playing the Rizla game, and people from around the carriage were following it with great interest. We picked up some extra players in the form of a comedy producer for channel 4, his friend and two older women. They were as pissed as us and so we played on. Steph bought another two bottles of wine and we finished the game, just as the train rolled into Truro.
By the time we reached Falmouth, we were royally sozzled. Ravenous, we walked to Asha and had a superb curry and more wine. Exhausted (and still in my precious new heels), we then stumbled to Toast. A pint of cider later – it’s definitely time to give up and go home. The London lads said they’d meet us in town, but as they didn’t show, and so there really was no other reason to elude sleep anymore.
What a spectacular day! A rollercoaster of a ride, surreal and definitely delirious. We met a whole bunch of interesting people, drank too much, partied hard and learned a valuable lesson from the interview. I don’t think I’ll be asked back for the apprenticeship, but I don’t really care. It was such a crazy day out, even if I was only actually in London for about three hours. It was a wake up call for me. I’m so far removed from the London scene; I’ve barely been out of Cornwall in the last couple of years. I need to gear myself up for a change in lifestyle. I’ve been toddling along at a snail’s pace, blissfully ignorant of the bigger picture.
I have a love/hate relationship with London. I love visits, but the thought of living there in the smog and chaos does absolutely nothing for me! But, I can’t ignore the fact that most of the media industry is based there, so I’m going to have to change my views and forget my prejudices. I’ve learned a lot about myself from yesterday, I need to prepare for my future and embrace the changes.
Tuesday, 24 October 2006
What a Social Life!
Mum just sent me our diary of 1990, and after leafing through it for ten minutes I can conclude that I was a very social eight-year-old!
To name but a few hobbies; St John's Ambulance Badger Club, piano lessons, French lessons! Not to mention all my extra-curricular activities, which included parties, barn dances, children's festivals, theatre trips and numerous holidays with both sets of grandparents. I really ought to thank my parents for providing all these fantastic opportunities! I had a better social life then than I do now...
It was a great pleasure to flip through those memories and try to recapture my childhood. I had to ask mum to explain a few entries, things like; Did my parents have to pay for the taxi my sister and myself got to school, when we lived outside the catchment area? What was the 'Easter Eggs-hiliration' we went to on Thursday 5 April?
Many curious entries and many more to explore. I know in the holidays we were always shipped of to grandma Joan, who would usually take us away with my auntie Anita to various YMCA's around the south west. Then we'd go to Swanage at the tail-end of the holidays and stay with dad's parents. Their house was amazing, my grandpa had about four greenhouses dedicated to just about every species of cactus imaginable. He had one huge one (like the ones you see in a Hollywood movie when they're cruising through the desert) that wore comedy fake sun glasses, taking on a personality all of it's own.
Then there was the collection of random videos we watched on rainy days, (I'm presuming some were cast-offs of my dad's and his two brothers), which included; Star Wars (the old ones), Top Cat and The Sound of Music. We'd watch these repeatedly until we knew the characters and songs by heart.
Then there was Grandma's cooking. She's Danish and big on food, so she'd stuff us and then make us eat more and more puddings. But her food was absolutely irresistible! She fed my grandpa so much that he's subsequently had various heart problems resulting in a heart attack. She now over-feeds my uncle's dog. Ziggy is a lurcher and she's supposed to be agile and trim, ready to out-run a hare in a heart beat. Not Ziggy, I could out-run her at a stroll. Poor girl, she just can't resist grandma's fine cuisine. She's got dog-diabetes now. And she's on a dog-diet.
It's not grandma's fault, she comes from a country that loves food and pleasing people with it. But in this day in age it's not the sort of thing you want to promote. Having said that, I'd kill for one of her chocolate crispy bars or a spoonful of her fruit pudding...
I'm so glad my dad has taken on her culinary flare, but at least he's a bit more health conscious with it.
To name but a few hobbies; St John's Ambulance Badger Club, piano lessons, French lessons! Not to mention all my extra-curricular activities, which included parties, barn dances, children's festivals, theatre trips and numerous holidays with both sets of grandparents. I really ought to thank my parents for providing all these fantastic opportunities! I had a better social life then than I do now...
It was a great pleasure to flip through those memories and try to recapture my childhood. I had to ask mum to explain a few entries, things like; Did my parents have to pay for the taxi my sister and myself got to school, when we lived outside the catchment area? What was the 'Easter Eggs-hiliration' we went to on Thursday 5 April?
Many curious entries and many more to explore. I know in the holidays we were always shipped of to grandma Joan, who would usually take us away with my auntie Anita to various YMCA's around the south west. Then we'd go to Swanage at the tail-end of the holidays and stay with dad's parents. Their house was amazing, my grandpa had about four greenhouses dedicated to just about every species of cactus imaginable. He had one huge one (like the ones you see in a Hollywood movie when they're cruising through the desert) that wore comedy fake sun glasses, taking on a personality all of it's own.
Then there was the collection of random videos we watched on rainy days, (I'm presuming some were cast-offs of my dad's and his two brothers), which included; Star Wars (the old ones), Top Cat and The Sound of Music. We'd watch these repeatedly until we knew the characters and songs by heart.
Then there was Grandma's cooking. She's Danish and big on food, so she'd stuff us and then make us eat more and more puddings. But her food was absolutely irresistible! She fed my grandpa so much that he's subsequently had various heart problems resulting in a heart attack. She now over-feeds my uncle's dog. Ziggy is a lurcher and she's supposed to be agile and trim, ready to out-run a hare in a heart beat. Not Ziggy, I could out-run her at a stroll. Poor girl, she just can't resist grandma's fine cuisine. She's got dog-diabetes now. And she's on a dog-diet.
It's not grandma's fault, she comes from a country that loves food and pleasing people with it. But in this day in age it's not the sort of thing you want to promote. Having said that, I'd kill for one of her chocolate crispy bars or a spoonful of her fruit pudding...
I'm so glad my dad has taken on her culinary flare, but at least he's a bit more health conscious with it.
Sunday, 22 October 2006
The Voice of a Seven-Year-Old Boy
I've been a very good girl this weekend. I've resisted all offers of Oyster Festivals and Beers Festivals to concentrate on my work. (With the exception of two hours spent guiltily watching "X" Factor and several gym sessions. And a few tea breaks!) It's been hard but very gratifying. I've completed two assignments and started research on two other projects. I'm desperate to get my screen play pitch into the Nick Darke Award scheme, but the deadline is Nov. 1st and they want a twenty page sample script and 2,500 word outline! It's going to be tough, but I'm going to try and submit.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
I've been a very good girl this weekend. I've resisted all offers of Oyster Festivals and Beers Festivals to concentrate on my work. (With the exception of two hours spent guiltily watching "X" Factor and several gym sessions. And a few tea breaks!) It's been hard but very gratifying. I've completed two assignments and started research on two other projects. I'm desperate to get my screen play pitch into the Nick Darke Award scheme, but the deadline is Nov. 1st and they want a twenty page sample script and 2,500 word outline! It's going to be tough, but I'm going to try and submit.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
Wednesday, 18 October 2006
When I was eight...
Just got the strangest assignment today, but strange in a good way.
I've got to write an account of what my bedroom was like when I was eight. I kind of remember what it was like, but will definitely need some jogging of the old grey matter. I've asked mum and dad to find any diaries or photos of that year and asked them to contribute if they can remember anything significant. The aim of the project is to do some thorough research. I need to fully immerse myself in that time. The year of 1990. To get a proper understanding of 1990 I need to find out what I was wearing, what I was listening to, what I liked to eat, what was going on in the news, even what my favourite toy was!
I like the project because I like the idea of delving into my childhood again. I'd love to write an autobiography, so this will be good practise for me. If I do it successfully, then what's stopping me from recalling my fourth birthday? Or my first day at school? I remember my sister's first day very, very well and she's only two years younger than me. She really didn't want to go.
I remember mum dragging her out of the bedroom, kicking and screaming. As she approached the hallway with mum slightly in front, she grabbed onto a door frame and did not let go. Once mum released her fingers, one by one the tortured procession continued. All the way in the car, whine, whine, whine. "It's really not that bad" I'm thinking, but dare not say anything. She cried all the way there and then all the way into her class. It was almost a bad the next day, I guess you could of called her a real home girl.
Got to the gym for the first time in three weeks today. I hate having to go down a weight after getting to quite a good level of fitness, but my body just couldn't hack the pace I got to three weeks ago. Must stop eating so much, I think it's a winter hibernation instinct instilled in me from my Danish and Latvian roots. That's what I tell myself anyway.
Now my timetable has panned out, I've realised that I have got time to do other stuff like exercise and watching snippets of TV - for educational purposes of course!
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We've got lectures until 2.30, then a course meeting til 4 and a guest speaker from 4.30 til late. Need to do a bit of research on our guest speaker in case we get to interview him. We will be discussing more about Bloc-Online as well, which seems like a daunting task, but could be very good practise. We've got a lot riding on our shoulders, with the Guardian Media nomination, our first issue needs to surpass the current standard - or at least match it!
I've got to write an account of what my bedroom was like when I was eight. I kind of remember what it was like, but will definitely need some jogging of the old grey matter. I've asked mum and dad to find any diaries or photos of that year and asked them to contribute if they can remember anything significant. The aim of the project is to do some thorough research. I need to fully immerse myself in that time. The year of 1990. To get a proper understanding of 1990 I need to find out what I was wearing, what I was listening to, what I liked to eat, what was going on in the news, even what my favourite toy was!
I like the project because I like the idea of delving into my childhood again. I'd love to write an autobiography, so this will be good practise for me. If I do it successfully, then what's stopping me from recalling my fourth birthday? Or my first day at school? I remember my sister's first day very, very well and she's only two years younger than me. She really didn't want to go.
I remember mum dragging her out of the bedroom, kicking and screaming. As she approached the hallway with mum slightly in front, she grabbed onto a door frame and did not let go. Once mum released her fingers, one by one the tortured procession continued. All the way in the car, whine, whine, whine. "It's really not that bad" I'm thinking, but dare not say anything. She cried all the way there and then all the way into her class. It was almost a bad the next day, I guess you could of called her a real home girl.
Got to the gym for the first time in three weeks today. I hate having to go down a weight after getting to quite a good level of fitness, but my body just couldn't hack the pace I got to three weeks ago. Must stop eating so much, I think it's a winter hibernation instinct instilled in me from my Danish and Latvian roots. That's what I tell myself anyway.
Now my timetable has panned out, I've realised that I have got time to do other stuff like exercise and watching snippets of TV - for educational purposes of course!
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We've got lectures until 2.30, then a course meeting til 4 and a guest speaker from 4.30 til late. Need to do a bit of research on our guest speaker in case we get to interview him. We will be discussing more about Bloc-Online as well, which seems like a daunting task, but could be very good practise. We've got a lot riding on our shoulders, with the Guardian Media nomination, our first issue needs to surpass the current standard - or at least match it!
Tuesday, 17 October 2006
There are Not Enough Hours in the Day
I have to admit, I'm finding it hard to prioritize my time at the moment. I've got so many exciting ideas and projects to complete but it seems like I have no time to actually execute them. There are a few writing projects not part of the course that I would love to enter, but I have to prioritize with my primary focus: course is king.
Any time I stray from the course content I get a niggling feeling - "Get back on the path," my conscience says. But at the end of the day, any reading or writing I do from now on is going to influence my course work.
Having been told today- "Do not research your next essay", I am greatly relieved. The format we have to follow is very simple, but after extensive research, it is very hard not to get lost in the information. It's only 800 words, but when you've got ten pages of research, it becomes impossible to focus on your original argument. This week's essay will be simple and easier to write (I hope.) I'm going to get going on it today, if I leave it any longer, I'll end up not having a weekend again.
On a lighter note; I heard the best conversation on the bus yesterday, I had to keep from laughing out loud at them. The conversation took place between two freshers, both with strong northern accents. Their conversation went something like this:
(Their discussion subject was fresher antics)
BOY 1: "I just can't keep up with them, living with seven other people, who try to out-do each other in crazyness. Like the other day, they turned the kitchen into an ice-rink. They just squirted a load of washing up liquid on the floor and skidded around."
BOY 2: "That's bad but not as bad as the food fight we had at mine the other night. There's still globs of stuff on the walls, I wasn't really involved, so I'm not cleaning it."
BOY 1: "Yeh mate, I try not to get involved but you feel a bit left out if you don't join in. We're freshers and this year's all about fucking up."
BOY 2: True, but I can't help thinking its gone too far. Our house has been involved with the police twice so far. I think our landlord might kick us out if we fuck up again."
BOY 1: "Don't talk to me about the police, mate. We were in Wetherspoons on Friday and we nicked a load of the fake plants and ran out with them. Then we had sword fights in the street and the police got aggro."
Typical new student behaviour, believe me; I've seen some pretty impressive pranks in my time. It's four years since I was a fresher and this conversation really took me back! I could picture the seven crazy flat mates trying to out-do each other, getting more and more extreme and ending up either badly hurt or in trouble with neighbours, the police or landlords.
I went to a party on Marlbourgh Road (a week or two after moving down here for my degree) and it was very loud and very busy. Later on when the house was full to the rafters, everyone drunk and dopey, an unexpected visitor arrived. It was the man from next door, with a hammer raised in his hand. He ran through the house and smashed the sound system up until it stopped playing. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Oh, to be that age again... No, I really don't miss it. In fact, it was a very confusing and awkward time, figuring out how to be independent for the first time and not getting anything right.
Any time I stray from the course content I get a niggling feeling - "Get back on the path," my conscience says. But at the end of the day, any reading or writing I do from now on is going to influence my course work.
Having been told today- "Do not research your next essay", I am greatly relieved. The format we have to follow is very simple, but after extensive research, it is very hard not to get lost in the information. It's only 800 words, but when you've got ten pages of research, it becomes impossible to focus on your original argument. This week's essay will be simple and easier to write (I hope.) I'm going to get going on it today, if I leave it any longer, I'll end up not having a weekend again.
On a lighter note; I heard the best conversation on the bus yesterday, I had to keep from laughing out loud at them. The conversation took place between two freshers, both with strong northern accents. Their conversation went something like this:
(Their discussion subject was fresher antics)
BOY 1: "I just can't keep up with them, living with seven other people, who try to out-do each other in crazyness. Like the other day, they turned the kitchen into an ice-rink. They just squirted a load of washing up liquid on the floor and skidded around."
BOY 2: "That's bad but not as bad as the food fight we had at mine the other night. There's still globs of stuff on the walls, I wasn't really involved, so I'm not cleaning it."
BOY 1: "Yeh mate, I try not to get involved but you feel a bit left out if you don't join in. We're freshers and this year's all about fucking up."
BOY 2: True, but I can't help thinking its gone too far. Our house has been involved with the police twice so far. I think our landlord might kick us out if we fuck up again."
BOY 1: "Don't talk to me about the police, mate. We were in Wetherspoons on Friday and we nicked a load of the fake plants and ran out with them. Then we had sword fights in the street and the police got aggro."
Typical new student behaviour, believe me; I've seen some pretty impressive pranks in my time. It's four years since I was a fresher and this conversation really took me back! I could picture the seven crazy flat mates trying to out-do each other, getting more and more extreme and ending up either badly hurt or in trouble with neighbours, the police or landlords.
I went to a party on Marlbourgh Road (a week or two after moving down here for my degree) and it was very loud and very busy. Later on when the house was full to the rafters, everyone drunk and dopey, an unexpected visitor arrived. It was the man from next door, with a hammer raised in his hand. He ran through the house and smashed the sound system up until it stopped playing. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Oh, to be that age again... No, I really don't miss it. In fact, it was a very confusing and awkward time, figuring out how to be independent for the first time and not getting anything right.
Wednesday, 11 October 2006
Hollywood Scriptwriter
Yesterday and the day before, I was lucky enough to be part of a group involved in a workshop with one of Hollywood's leading script writers; Blake Snyder. He was a man of boundless energy, infinitely passionate about writing and most importantly he keep me buzzing and awake, my stinking hangover a long lost memory. He opened up a whole new world to me: I desperately want to write a script. Who'd of thought most movies follow the same simple formula and you can write a good script as long as you've follow his easy fifteen beats method!
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