Well, here we are again. First of January 2013 was the last time I posted on here, three and a half years ago. And look at what I’m going on about! Change! I’m going to change, blah blah, I mean it, blah blah.
What a load of bleeding old rubbish!
For those who haven’t been in my life, I’ll fill you in. I haven’t change. I’m still the dictionary definition of procrastination and the poster boy for never seeing anything through. Okay, I’m older, I have a few grey hairs now (less than 5% of the total my hairdresser tells me, so no need to reach for the Grecian 2000 just yet), I own a house and I’m married. But the core of who I am: exactly the same.
This does irritate me, because I do want to improve. I really do get cross with myself, I get really hacked off sometimes because I tell you what, the amount of epiphanies and “shit’s gunna get sorted now” moments that I’ve had and still nothing’s changed or happened, it’s ridiculous. And those moments, they start losing their shine after a while. There’s only so many times that you can say “that’s it, I’m changing. Shit got real. Things are going to happen! #yolo” and it actually have some credibility before it just becomes a meaningless mantra.
You know I still love Ugly Betty and I still like to imagine I’m having a moment like Wilhelmina does towards the end of season 4 where she snaps out of being a bit nice and finally goes after the success and power that she so desperately wants. “I want the whole damn company”, she utters with a delightful, silky venom. I like to think I have moments like that where the metaphorical gloves come off, but the truth is it hasn’t really lead to anything fruitful yet. I have the same uninspiring job and my books still aren’t selling – #unsuccessful – so I’m obviously not doing enough.
I don’t know what it is! Why!? Why!? Why can’t I get up off of my lazy arse and get on and do something? Why do I sit on the sofa and stare at my laptop of an evening rather than switching it on and writing something? Why don’t I update my CV? Why don’t I pop into the recruitment agency on my way home? I walk right past it!
So anyway, those are my frustrations du jour. No fixes here. No thoughtful summing up paragraph at the end where I have yet another epiphany. No. No answers. Just questions.
Right. That last post got me thinking, and now I’m on a self-pitying warpath so bear with me.
University is cruel. It is. Best three years of your life, oh yes. But after? After is horrid. After is the most awful emotional process I’ve ever had to go through. I know I’m not alone, at least two people I’ve actually opened up to about this have said the same. I mean you go from being a more of less socially introverted wallflower to having these brilliant friends that become a very real family. You live with them, eat with them, cry, laugh, urinate (when drunk) together – you feel like you know yourself, like you are the person you’re meant to be.
Then it ends and everyone’s scattered. Worse, people change. People don’t seem as fussed as you are, they seem to be getting on fine whilst you have to hide the photos of all of you as it makes you feel sick to look at them.
Then you become hardened by it I think. You become cynical, a bit darker than you were. The Freudian id comes out to play. The frustration of life not being as good makes you angry, you get that fire in your belly and you become a bitch. I am SO cynical now. All that soppy cancer/war hero/animal rescue shit on Facebook makes me feel ill quite frankly. I know that’s different to how I was before, I have changed, I know I have.
Three things hold me together:
1) Andrew. He stops me from being too crazy, makes me laugh even when I’m trying to be miserable.
2) My writing. The one place I’m never cynical. My books are set at a university, I think I escape through them to that time again.
3) Steph. Because she’s the best, because she gets me and I get her.
People live too far away.
Just read my last blog post and realised how much I need to update. Let’s just say this: attempt failed. Mission aborted. Well, sort of anyway.
As usual with me, I dived in head first right at the deep end (a dangerous habit considering I can’t swim) and not suprisingly I started drowning. Getting up at half 6 then working 7 til 5 whilst running to work and exercising every evening AND eating super healthy AND trying to keep housework under control AND editing my first book AND writing my third book – well, it was a recipe for disaster. I got ill in the end because I think it was all too much. Yes, yes people have it tougher, but for me that’s a lot to juggle. Something had to give, and I’m afraid it’s the exercise. I still try and do bits when I can, but it’s not every day. I’m still eating sort of healthy though – smaller portions and no snacky junk in the evenings except at the weekend.
I hated getting ill, it doesn’t happen often. Laid up in bed or festering on the sofa unable to move – all you’re left with is your thoughts. Still, I won’t say it wasn’t completely lacking in benefit. The rest was good for me in a way, as alone with my thoughts it did mean I had some kind of epiphany;
I’m 23, edging towards 24. Young yes, but there are those younger who have done a lot more than I have. You see my brain got a bit muddled, a bit waylayed I guess. I’ve been trying to push everything at once and I’ve ended up pushing nothing, and all the time there’s one thing that I want to do more than anything. Write. Over the last five years I’ve poured blood, sweat and tears into writing my novels – but I’ve done nothing with them. The publishing world is shrinking, agents taking on fewer and fewer people – whilst a million new ways to read on ipads and kindles and whatever else develop everywhere. So I’m taking it into my own hands, seriously this time. I will see my first book published this year, as I will do it myself. No more distractions, no more self sabotage, no more dilly-dallying about. This time, I mean business. I’m going to finish editing book one and get it out there – by any means necessary. And I’m thinking of other projects too:
– “Skins” style dramedy novel set in ancient greece.
– Novel series about a young man who travels round the country in a VW van investigating supernatural stuff, running from a mysterious past.
– Script for a tv series set in a huge london fashion store.
-Novel/novel series that will try to make local government sexy.
– Oh and I also have it in my mind to see if I can interest any papers by writing a no punches pulled account of my time at Topman, letting people know what really happens in Philip Green’s jewel in his crown. Call it my revenge for a year and half of being made to feel like a schoolchild.
See, I have lots of ideas. Now I’m going to go and start getting them going. Watch this space!
Once a week there’s a torture that truly belongs in one of the circles of hell. It feels like it fits quite nicely at the very top, where all those indecisive people are running around this way and that being chased by swarms of bees. Luckily there aren’t any bees in my local Sainsburys, but there are a lot of indecisive people running amok.
I used to love it, I think because it’s a sign of independence – you know, if you are an adult then you have to go and do “the big shop” once a week. Yeah, I used to really quite enjoy it. Now, I hate it. I DETEST it. I hate it more than I thought it were possible to hate a weekly task. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.
It’s just annoying isn’t it? No matter where you go – Sainsburys, Tesco, Morrisons, Asda (lucky if you go there though, they are the cheapest I think,) – it’s always the same. People, bloody people. Bloody stupid, ignorant people who take no issue with leaving their poxing trolley right in the middle of the aisle and then wandering off – perhaps chatting with Mrs. Bloody Stupid about what baked beans would be best to buy that week. Or do we even need baked beans, hmm I don’t know, have we got any at home? Well, in any case, let’s just stand right up close to the shelves so that other people who actually wrote a list can’t access their desired products. AND have you noticed – these peoples trollys are usually empty all the time? It’s as if they actually do just come to the supermarket to just leave their trollys in the aisles and piss people off. Well they do a great job.
And then there’s people with kids. Usually the most annoying are either chavs that have reproduced too much and have brought the entire clan out for a shop (you can tell these by the fact that they ALWAYS have a big box of beer cans in the trolley – without fail) or middle class “yummy mummys” (I hate that expression with the same power that I hate the food shop) who are out buying organic this and overpriced that with dear little penelope and fortesque, each adorably dressed in tiny posh persons country clobber. As you walk past them you usally hear the mum having to whisper a telling off as by being too rich and middle class she’s raised a couple of spoilt brats (wonder how that happened?) And people with kids seem to think that the middle of the aisle is the perfect place to park up and fuss over said children – either telling them off or if they’ve bumped into a friend then they both stand there and goggle at the child, amazed at how clever they are to have actually given birth to something. Yes, congratulations, you’ve mastered reproduction along with oh let’s see – yes – EVERY OTHER LIVING THING ON THE PLANET.
Then there’s the issue if you bump into someone you know. Now sometimes this is okay, but sometimes it can be the worst thing ever – depends on the person. If it’s someone that you “like” i.e. through some misfortune you know this twit and you have to pretend to get along, then you suddenly become very protective of your trolley. They inevitably have to say something stupid like “You doing your weekly coupley shop?” – which I was asked one day whilst I was with Andrew. What’s more annoying is that they used a cutesy voice you use to talk to babies or dogs. Yes, we are a couple, so yes, we have to do a food shop. Are you sure you’re not a politician? You seem to be very adept at being a patronising git and stating the bloody obvious whilst you’re at it! Or they look in your trolley and say “Ooh, you’ve got some bargains there! Gnocchi, oooh, very posh – what are you going to do with that?” Okay, first of all, Gnocchi isn’t posh, and it certainly isn’t very posh. Just because you belong to the pie and mash brigade and you haven’t been bothered to ever have it – it doesn’t mean that I’m posh, it means that you’re probably a lazy cook. Second of all, mind your bloody business and sod off, it’s got bugger all to do with you what I’m going to do with it. If I was half the man I ought to be then I would force them down your throat, dry and uncooked and then watch merrily whilst you choke to death.
Okay, I’m done. Rant over.
I call it the Wilhelmina Spark.
Named after Wilhelmina, my bitchy heroine from Ugly Betty – naturally. Every now and then something makes me so mad, so angry, that this little switch just flicks inside me and it makes me want to do away with morals and niceness altogether, forget about peoples feelings or anything like that, and makes me want to do anything possible to make what I want to happen, happen. If it means screwing people over, fine. If it means blackmail, lying, cheating – whatever.
A part of me knows that’s awful – but then a part of me thinks that’s good too. One of the things I hate most in life is feeling powerless. Now if I feel angry and powerless, that’s not a good mix at all. That’s like water and electricty, or fat people and choker necklaces (see, bitchy!) – it just doesn’t go. I think I get the Wilhelmina Spark because at least it makes me feel like I can do something about it, even if it means I don’t actually end up screwing over anyone or blackmailing anyone, and I actually just consume two boxes of fabs, sigh heavily and go to bed. But it at least makes me feel like I still hold some power, and I suppose if it stops my head exploding then it’s a good thing.
Let me explain what got me to this end. I had a really lovely weekend. Some quality Andrew time, some family time, some fireworks. Hobbycraft, Notcutts and Poundland all had cameos, so it was good! And what I was really looking forward to was right at the end of it all, sitting down with the laptop and starting to plan my Unbound account. What’s Unbound? Oh well, on Friday’s BBC Breakfast there was a slot about how publishing was about to get turned on its head, how it would now be easier for people who had thus far found it difficult to get published to actually see their work in print. Fantastic, said I. Basically, instead of one big wig deciding whether or not to take on your work, you pitch your Book to the world through this website called Unbound – you do a video, you write about you, about your work – and then if people like it they pledge money – they pay the website, and when you reach your target then Unbound will publish your book! Hooray! I get all excited, start planning the video, and how I can make it all stand out etc etc. Then I sit down about half an hour ago and go to the site and sign up. Brilliant….okay, so how to I actually get my work on there? Ah, a button that says “Authors” – great – I’ll click on that! And then…..oh…..wait, hang on……………..what? WHAT? THEY ONLY ACCEPT SUBMISSIONS FROM PUBLISHED AUTHORS OR LITERARY AGENTS!!!!!!!!!! That’s not turning publishing on it’s head at all!!!!!!!!! That’s exactly the same as a normal publisher!!!!!!!!! They didn’t, not for one second, mention ANYTHING about that on BBC Breakfast. Luring me in with their Flash Plug-in website and indie coolness. I am SO angry because I really feel conned. How is that better for people who can’t find their niche? It isn’t! You STILL need a literary agent first! ARGHHHHHHH!!!!!
I had half a mind to send them a nasty email, telling them how deceptive they were being, but I couldn’t bring myself to. So I just wrote a scary sounding facebook status and then came on here. But I do feel that little spark inside me, telling me I need to do something. I don’t know what, or how yet – but something needs to be done. This is getting bloody ridiculous now.