Mid-term Assessment

This is one of the (many) sections of my mid-term Assignment for Creative Writing; We have to hand in 10 pages (or 2500 words) of notes and extracts from a 'writer's journal' we have been keeping over term- in the journal we have to discuss the effects of things on our writing, write on responses to films, music, weather, ANYTHING and how it inspires us, and generally discuss why we find ourselves writing . This section- entitled 'Lonely?' discusses how my being single affects my writing. It includes Tweets from my twitter page (http://twitter.com/Disco_Jesus) that have been used as notes and inspiration for this piece.

Lonely?

• Oh,hello bridget jones.yes,i'm watching ur film eating sweets&i'm single.well yes i suppose i am a bit of a cliche.alright,fuck off bridget. about 2 hours ago via Snaptu

• Me:i'm not gonna dress up-i'm going to the library with Connie Mum:but what if there's a good-looking nerd? Me:...I'm gonna go wash my hair 5:43 PM Feb 20th via web

• Saw 'Valentines day'. it was as loved up&hollywood perfect as was expected.it was good.i'm getting drunk 2nite tho,right?or now,now's good. 6:39 PM Feb 16th via Snaptu

• Great british railway journeys on tv and ice-cream in my tummy: who says singles can't have fun on valentines?? 10:39 PM Feb 14th via Snaptu

• fort's not so much fun on my bill.it's awesomely massive size,whilst incredibly impressive,only exacerbates my current issue of loneliness 10:16 PM Feb 5th via Snaptu


I find that my lack of relationship worms its way into every aspect of my writing, even if it began as something else. Take my poem ‘Cold’, for instance; It started as a simple poem about how I was cold after walking back from town, and suddenly it becomes some deep metaphor about loneliness. From weather to whining- go figure.
I don’t like that that’s how I write, though. The majority of my friends are male so it confuses me that when my words spool out of my pen, from the touch of my fingers and the twist of my wrist caused by the contortion of my muscles and my conscious decision to move, that the words are so hell-bent on...well, whatever the literary equivalent to castration is. I involuntarily hate men when I write. But I have always used writing as more than a of a form of expression- It’s very therapeutic, honest, and often it’s when I’m writing that I discover how I really feel about a situation or a person. So maybe it’s my minds way of saying “Hey- Amy? Yeah , you’re not a fan of men. Wanna know why? They screw you over- even the good ones. In fact, there are no good ones. You should write that down”. Well, it’s got a point...

I have hopes that as I grow older and wiser as to the follies of Mancruel as me and my friend like to wittily call them (She too has fallen victim to the same tricks time and time again; she attracts the badly behaved boys whilst I attract the unavailable ones) my writing will become less about them and more about me. I know very well I am a writer, and that it is what I am meant to do with my life- for now it may be soaked in teenage angst and moaning self-deprecation, but my now is applicable to my ‘now’. As for my ‘then’...well, we’ll see whether or not my ‘then’ is applicable to Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, won’t we?

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I'm kinda proud of it. but it's a first draft, so feedback anyone?
^^
xXx

Twitter's Down

This is what happens when Twitter is down;

(by the time i finished this it was back up- RESULT)
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Daydreams.

Whilst absorbed in casual daydream people often imagine scenarios that they wished had happened or ones they wish had happened differently. Even though their minds are elsewhere, they're still far enough into reality that the train of thought only acts as a distraction; however, my mind takes the process of daydreaming far too seriously. Conversations that never took place are so real in my mind I miss Bus stops, situations that never arose cloud my judgement so that I begin to make bad decisions based on events that never actually took place. Constant creation of tiresome circumstances leads to avant-garde style scenarios falling from my mind and tripping up my feet- I become impossible around company once a trigger reaches my conscience, and my imagination decides to cover reality in slumber until awoken by the roving fingers of my friends being clicked together in front of my face. Their expressions are a mixture of mild annoyance and bemusement as the tongue in cheek question of "Where'd you go?" plays around my ears- they are completely unaware that the potential answer to that question is entirely serious. And also incredibly hard to answer.
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The Bell Jar

This is one of the many reasons why this book is quickly becoming one of my favourite books of all time, and why I now see Sylvia Plath as one of my writing heroes;

Sylvia Plath, 'The Bell Jar', Chapter 5;

"I spent a lot of time having imaginary conversations with Buddy Willard. He was a couple of years older than I was and very scientific, so he could always prove things...
These conversations I had in my mind usually repeated the beginnings of conversations I'd really had with Buddy, only they finished with me answering him back quite sharply, instead of just sitting around and saying 'I guess so'.
Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying,
'Do you know what a poem is, Esther?'
'No, what?' I would say.
'A piece of dust.'
Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together'.
And of course Buddy wouldn;t have any answer to that because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep."

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In which Amy finds the website of her dreams

I have fallen in love with a website;
http://xkcd.com/

That is all
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Is this the real life? is this just fantasy?

(Alex and Amy are walking to a pub in town. as they go past one shop with glass doors Amy sees what she thinks is a real woman standing in the doorway and it makes her jump really badly)
Amy:Argh!
Alex:What??
Amy Oh! (chuckles, and points to the 'woman', realising her mistake) I thought that was a real woman then!!
Alex: (looking incredulous) Yeah, that IS a real woman!!
(Amy turns to see a real woman bent double, laughing in the doorway)
Amy: OOOHHH!!!
Alex: (laughing) You're so retarded

and you know what?? i am.

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lesson learned

Word to the wise, ladies and gents-
if you don't hear your downstairs phone ringing for ages because you're listening to a song about pokemon, and then suddenly hear it and realise what it is and that you have to go answer it, running down the stairs shouting "KEEP RINGING!!!KEEP RINGING!!" will not keep the phone ringing.
it will only make the fact that it stops ringing as your fingers reach for the receiver that little bit more annoying.
I do these things, so you don't have to people. i'm good like that.
xXx

"lectures are educational and essential in the furthering of your career as a" "zzzzz SHUT UP THEY'RE BORING"

How's THAT for creative writing??
shame it was drawn during a lecture on John Dunne.
he's a boring bugger though, and robots and flamingos couldn't be boring if they tried,
let's face it.
xXx

Cold

The only way I know my mouth is open
is from the damp silver that reaches up,
from behind my tongue and teeth,
and waves a wispy hand ahead of me, an icy fog.
However, the chill has helped me to forget my features,
one by one brushed away by the winters wind-
a side effect of the bitterness of an unwell mother nature.
My eyelashes begin feeling like they’ve fallen victim,
to the almost arctic nature of the road I walk,
and now reside at the bottom of my lenses that frame my face,
but do nothing to protect me from the pinching breeze-
my cheeks are crimson with the weathers’ effort to leave me cold.

Four layers later with a hot cup of tea,
no longer walking; sitting, resting, whiling away the hours
with company in the form of mediocre re-runs
(Familiarity being a necessity in the act of keeping warm)
and cover in the shape of 3 pairs of socks.
Heating throbbing from walls and carpet,
clinging to the warped rubber of a smouldering water bottle,
as if it was something to have and to hold.

I’m still cold.

xXx