I think I just rambled, Life

THINGS. ALL THE THINGS.

I haven’t posted for a while. BUT I HAVE MY REASONS. In the last few weeks of non-posting, I’ve:

  1. worked
  2. gone to London
  3. seen Wonder Woman

DISCHUFFED WITH WORK

I’m using the word ‘dischuffed’ from now on. Recently at work, a darling Joanna Lumley lookalike used it, and I’m in love. That is all. (And I’m not dischuffed with work; I just wanted to fit the word in somewhere.)

As September looms and an uncertain certain future shines, not on the horizon, but straight into my eyes. (IT BURNS!) I’ve been taking as many shifts as work can throw at me. Consequently, it’s hard to find time to do things. When you get home from a long shift, you don’t think:

MY GOSH LET ME HAVE MOOOOORE THINGS TO DO RIGHT THIS MOMENT!

You want to wind down. You want to relax. You don’t want to plunge into other things. AND THAT’S MY EXCUSE. And I’m sticking to it.

onthetrain

I GO TO LONDON. BECOME METROPOLITAN. TRY TO BREAK INTO M&S.

I travelled down to London via train. I’ve learned a lot about trains since my first solo trip on one – apparently, it’s not enough to get the right platform, you also have to wait for the right train. All trains arriving at platform 6A, for example will not go to the same place. This was quite the surprise.

In London, I …

  • worked out how to navigate the Underground (occasionally by accident)
  • found Grosvenor Square (definitely by accident)
  • did not locate any Heyer heroes (a grave disappointment)
  • was mistaken as a businesswoman by a banker #dubiouslyproud

Also in London, I strode jauntily down Oxford St, a spring to my step. I was a queen in a beautiful flowy dress. I was in London. Red buses were going past. Life was good. I strode up to the steps to M&S (opposite Selfridges? Or was it …?!). I reached the doors. I attempted to open the doors. The doors did not open.

I forgot that there are such things as opening times and slunk off like a shamed hedgehog to the side doors which were suddenly open because I … had arrived at 8:59 and … and then it was 9:00am and … *heavy sigh*

But as a side note, the M&S staff are lovely and I wanted to hug them and squeeze their London out of their cheeks.

atthestation

THE WONDER OF THE WOMAN

One day, I was fed up with scrimping and saving. So, in rebellion against saving sprees, work, and denying myself books (FOUR WEEKS WITHOUT BUYING A BOOK. THIS CANNOT KEEP UP MUCH LONGER!!), I went to watch Wonder Woman. It’s got some epic moments. Some hilarious moments. Some touching moments. I enjoyed it.

BUT I HAVE AN OBJECTION.

The mustache.

It was terrible.

Honestly, I like facial hair. If I was a man, I’d have a glorious, glorious beard. However … the mustache? No. No. A thousand times, no.

Kill it with fire.

TO END

Today is my day off. This is a good thing, for sometimes a bone deep tiredness takes hold; the sort that almost makes you finish a tannoy at work with:

Goooood evening, ladies and gentlemen,

blah blah blah. blah blah blah, blah blah blah.

Thank you for shopping at such and such.

Amen.

 

Books, Life

films swooning (and Wodehouse)

I’ve just finished a long week of work. My brain is a little frazzled and glitchy, but that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll survive. (BUT WILL EVERYONE ELSE? HUH? HUH?!)

musick

My place of work is less than ten minutes away, and on the way there, I find myself listening to a few songs of Imagine Dragons – chiefly, Bleeding Out.

I’ve got the lyrics mostly memorised. Which means I can sing every other line. I’m dreadfully pleased with myself.

(I’m not entirely sure what the song is about – someone bleeding out? Probably. Maybe?)

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reading

I’ve finished Ukridge (NOT pronounced Uk-bridge. Learn to read, Ness) by P.G Wodehouse. I have to say three things about this book:

  1. Ukridge is infuriating in that you want to hate him, you know you ought to hate him … but you can’t quite bring yourself to say that he is the most loathesomely selfish character in the history of ever.
  2. He has little redeeming qualities, other than being a creation of Wodehouse, and so therefore, inherently funny.
  3. Corky needed a romance, and a medal for being such a good friend – for valiantly attempting to intercede with Ukridge’s aunt on his behalf, for putting up with Cecil, and yes – even and especially Ukridge himself.

Cecil, by the way, is a young boy who wants to see the sites of London. And by ‘sites’ I mean ‘the sites where all the gory murders have taken place’.

Then, again, Cecil’s was not one of those personalities which become more attractive with familiarity. I should say at a venture that those who liked him best were those who saw the least of him.

Wodehouse always comes out with these one liners that catch you off guard and induce great merriment:

“”I’m not saying that Cecil doesn’t take a bit of knowing. He’s the sort of boy you have to be patient with and bring out, if you know what I mean. I think he grows on you.”

“If he ever grows on me, I’ll have him amputated.”

watching

Recently, I watched Last Knights and honestly … this movie. Why? Why was it made? When was it set? What was its point?

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“Why’d you put us in this film?!!”

I just … they took all the cultures and put them in a blender, added tons of epic high fantasy stills from DeviantArt, grabbed Morgan Freeman and gave him Wise Man Dialogue and *boom!* a movie. And then – just to make it that more interesting, they shoved in so many fade to blacks, it’s like the movie is constantly swooning.

Oh, and the hero? No reason to like him. No reason to sympathise with him. GIVE ME REASONS TO CARE MOVIE! But they gave me none. Zilch. Nada. They made him irredeemable and then *haha* just pretending.

But no. OOOHHH NOOOO!! THAT IS NOT HOW YOU DO IT MOVIE! THAT IS NOT HOW YOU DO IT! No. There is a line, movie. You just nuked it. It’s glass now. GLASS!

And the final shot? THE FINAL SHOT?!! He closes his eyes … and everyone sighs with relief. The movie is over. The ending wasn’t so-

BUT THEN!! His eyes flash open and it’s like the character is like:

OH SHOOT! THE OVEN! I FORGOT TO TURN IT OFF!

BAM!

*fade to black*

Life

mucking around on boats

I’m on holiday at the moment. After much agonising, I decided which books to take with me (a new-ish release, something of Heyer, and Mere Christianity) and which to leave behind (three other books. It hurt my soul).

At 1:32 in the morning, I jammed some clothes, a handful of odd socks and whatever miscellaneous I could find into a bag. I had priorities. My clothes were not priorities.

thewalkway

One does not think one’s best in the wee hours of the morning. In fact, a life rule of mine is: never think deep thoughts beyond 12:00 at night. I end up coming to the most depressing conclusions and become the single most gloomy hedgehog in the history of ever.

Consequently, as it was late and I’ve established that I don’t think well late at night (I can write, but I cannot think. It is most odd), I forgot to pack certain things.

Things I Tragically Forgot To Take With Me:

  • A blanket. I really could have done with one. (This is England. There is chill.)
  • Aristotle, my bunny. (One always should bring their bunny with them. The fact that I’ve never done it before is beside the point.)
  • Something pretty to put in my cabin.
  • A book by Georgette Heyer; I’m reading a book about her work, but I should have KNOWN this would make me want to read one of her books.

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My ambition this holiday is to finish A Crown of Wishes, Georgette Heyer’s Regency World, write a short story and go back to editing Insalted (I brought the manuscript with me. It is heavy. Very heavy.) If my ambition is as lofty as Everest, the reality will probably be as high as a molehill.

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Georgette Heyer’s Regency World is proving to be extremely interesting. For one who thought factual books weren’t her cup of tea, I actually quite enjoy them.

Why I Enjoy Factual Books:

  • They give the illusion that my brain cells are growing in intelligence
  • They intrigue me
  • I can now quote accurate facts. You can’t really say ‘oh, did you know that Lady Jane was actually a shapeshifter? And she survived and had a lovely life with her true love who was a shapeshifting horse?’ because you will receive Odd Looks and people will (for some reason) disagree with you mightily.
  • An example of what I’m learning: the Regency period is considered to be from 1780 to 1830. Oh, I’m going to be quoting that one. If I can remember it.

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happy reading!

OH AND DID YOU KNOW THAT THE REGENCY PERIOD WAS FROM 1730 TO 18SOMETHING?!!!

On Writing

the writing stag

This tag is actually called ‘The Writer’s Tag’ but someone mentioned how much it looks like ‘The Writer Stag’ and this amuses me greatly. Thanks to Mirriam for tagging everybody, and so therefore tagging me.

"As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul longeth after thee."    As The Deer: Hymn:
// pinterest

WHAT GENRES, STYLES, AND TOPICS DO YOU WRITE ABOUT?

Genre: Fantasy – because you can borrow from all of history and throw in a dragon and it will be legit. I love history, but fantasy is unrestricted – if I want to mesh a Viking and Mongol culture together … I can. AND NO ONE CAN TELL ME NAY!!!

Styles: I do write some serious content, but humour always creeps through. I love funny things, and sometimes I find myself writing a line with true glee. Or struggling to get a joke that is HILARIOUS!!!! in my head onto paper. That’s less fun.

Topics: Oh – everything. I try to put themes and topics into my stories but my characters always refuse to participate. They see right through my puny attempts and go on tangents about wanting to be a medicine woman or something.

HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN WRITING?

Years. Years and years. I completed my first novel in 2014, but I have piles and piles of unfinished and finished short stories banging about from the time I thought revision was spelled with an ‘h’. (Dude. Think about it. It still makes sense.) I won first prize for gore once. I was bemused. Did no one else write realistically?

WHY DO YOU WRITE?

Because I love stories. Because that love bubbles over until I have to write something down. Sometimes the magic happens – my fingers fly over the keyboard and the characters talk and events unfold seamlessly onto the page. But that doesn’t happen often; I have to work for it – but the stories …

I write because I love them.

walkingdesk

WHEN IS THE BEST TIME TO WRITE?

Much to my annoyance, at night. When everything is quite and all is dark (‘… silllllleeeeennnt niiiiiggghhhhttt ….’) and my mine is emptied of stresses and there is nothing but the words and I. You have no idea how much I resent this flaw of mine; I’d much rather write easily in the morning.

PARTS OF WRITING YOU LOVE VS PARTS YOU HATE?

What I love? Finishing. There is nothing quite like the feeling of knowing the story is finished; you’ve told it. It’s done. The end. It’s beautiful. A moment to be savoured.

What I hate? The bringing myself to sit and write. My mind leaps like an antsy frog on coals and has this kind of conversation:

ME: Little grey cells, shall we write?

BRAIN: Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Good idea. BUT WAIT YOU HAVE TO VACUUM BEFORE YOU DO THIS.

ME: … but … what?

BRAIN: CLEAN! DUST! WASH! ORGANISE YOUR BOOKSHELF! WASH YOUR CAR! ONLY THEN CAN YOUR WORDS FLOW. ONNNLLLY THEN!!

Me: Okay. That sounds like a good plan.

(spoiler: it’s never a good plan)

mewithbook

HOW DO YOU OVERCOME WRITERS BLOCK?

Nowadays? I exhaust my procrastination muscles, and then do a surprise leap into a Word Document. Takes time, but works like a charm. Sometimes. So a faulty charm, basically.

ARE YOU WORKING ON SOMETHING AT THE MOMENT?

Yes. Insalted is on draft 2.5 and The Mediocre Title That I Need To Change is ticking along alright. I’ve really let my creativity run wild on that one – there’s a crime lord dragon and the heroine’s kidnapping a husband.

Everyday activities, really.

WRITING GOALS THIS YEAR?

  • Finish editing Sandwiches
  • Prepare Insalted for querying. But finish it first. (That’s rather important, I hear.)
  • Finish the 1st draft of The Mediocre Title That I need To Change

right. so i’d better get going to that, then

I think I just rambled, Life, Story Time

[Story Time] repercussions of daydreaming

When I was a youngling, I daydreamed excessively; in my dreams I was extremely clever and I had secrets – world-changing, mind-blowing secrets. I could give the best, most convincing comebacks, break into sudden ninja skillz, and do daring deeds that would leave grown men gaping in my wake.

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I’d do all of this without repercussions. One doesn’t really think of real world consequences when you’re in a delicious daydream, fixing a tragic moment of fallibility in your life.

Par example, when my family was introduced to a new church; instead of retreating into my blue coat when the microphone was shoved in my face and whispering my name …

… it would go a little differently. The pastor would ask my name. I’d stand straight and tall. ‘You want my name?’ my attitude would say. ‘THIS IS MY NAME!!!’ and at the end of the aisle, the church doors would slam open, and in would pour an entire troop of animals enough to make a zookeeper weep.

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like this. but with lions. and giraffes. and maybe an elephant?

It’s important to note that my daydream was conspicuously absent of:

  1. animal droppings
  2. outraged animal rights activists.
  3. the screams of horror from churchgoers who just wanted to hear some preaching (was that too much to ask?!!)

When you’ve spent half your life with your nose in a book and your head in the clouds, your sense of proportion, social settings, and – alas, to my cost – brain-to-mouth filter sometimes malfunctions.

Take my last, most monumental gaffe, for instance. I’ll share it here. You can probably feel the echoes of my disbelief from where you’re sitting.

LAST MONUMENTAL SOCIAL GAFFE:

I can’t remember the mood I was in when I turned up to my driving test, but it must have been quite something.

My examiner reminded me of a TV character and I really quite liked him – he sort of set you at ease. I didn’t do quite the same service to him.

He introduced himself pleasantly with a ‘My name is N—, what can I call you?’

Usually, I would have said my name and included a nice and pleasant: ‘nice to meet you.” Usually, I managed to function as an adult. That day, I did not.

I didn’t say my name. I didn’t plead for a pass. Oh no. My brain saw OPPORTUNITY written across the sky in big, multicoloured letters.

It saw opportunity. It took that opportunity. I opened my mouth:

You may call me Lord and Supreme Dictator of the Universe

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Nowadays, I try to rein myself in a little; try to fix the ol’brain-to-mouth filter. Be a little mature. Realise you can’t just blurt anything out – even if you think it’s the pinnacle of humour. This works sometimes. But now and again, every so often, if a customer asks how my day has gone, I find myself answering:

“Well … the zombie apocalypse hasn’t happened yet, so it’s been pretty good, thank you.”

(They often seem bemused. I, on the other hand, am always enormously impressed that I – a bookworm – can pronounce ‘apocalypse’ correctly.)