Is this how a writer's mind works?

I want to be a writer, and as a writer I never stop writing, or at least, I never stop thinking about writing. All day long I play things over and over in my head, every scenario I experience I can’t stop imagining how it would look in print. Is that sad? Is it being over-dedicated? Or is it just who I am?

Although, saying that, I never thought that sitting down to write a novel would be so hard, maybe its because I’m only 21 and most people are at least five years older when they come to write their first book. Maybe I’m being over-ambitious? I mean, five years ago I was only sixteen-going-on-seventeen, and my God have I changed since then. I barely recognise the person that I was. I was selfish, immature, naïve, overemotional, melodramatic and generally quite annoying. No doubt five years from now I’ll look back on myself and think exactly the same things about my year 21-year-old self.

I believe you should never underestimate how much it’s possible for you to change. I’m not talking about a conscious change where you sit yourself down and think: “I need to reinvent myself”. Because trust me, that NEVER works. That kind of thinking comes about when people don’t want to admit their faults, and one thing I have learnt is that your faults make you who you are. They are so much a part of you that when you make a conscious change to leave them behind, it’s impossible. For example, I happen to be a very loud and rather opinionated (or mouthy, if you ask my Dad) kind of person. I’m also, or so I believe, a marmite person. You either love me, or you hate me. That isn’t an exaggeration. Yet there are so many people out there who just seem to get on with everyone, and for so many years I wished I could be that girl.

I tried, honestly, to change who I was when I went from sixth form to university. I decided that, in the space of one day to the next, I was going to act less emotional, drink less alcohol, eat better, be quieter, be less demanding, open myself up to getting along with people who normally I wouldn’t have been able to stand five minutes with…

This worked for about half the year before my old self, my REAL self, started to peek through. And the friends I had made during that time deserted me in spectacular fashion, leaving me to start all over again.
At square one.
As myself.

Apples and... wine.

The thing about having blog readers is they start to nag you when you stop writing for a while. Not that I'm complaining, it's a good thing! I wouldn't be sitting here writing now, with a rather large glass of red wine beside me and a yummy sausage casserole (a-la-how-my-mum-makes-it) in the oven, if I hadn't been nagged about it earlier.

These have been my thoughts today:

I really wish I liked apples. Honestly, it's something that really gets me down. You know, an apple a day and all that is a good thing. And they always look so lovely too... all red and green and shiny. Then you bite into it, expecting something sweet and juicy and beautiful. A taste as wonderful as the lovely shiny object you hold in your hand. And it's always so damn disappointing. Take my apple today, it was a glorious apple - red, shiny, like it had rolled straight out of Snow White. But it was honestly the most boring thing I've eaten all week. If it was actually poisoned it would have been more fun.

I really envy people who sit and eat apples. And I hate them a little bit too. They always look so bloody smug. But, to be honest, when it gets to 4pm and my blood sugar takes that afternoon dip when all I want to do is have a nap, I have the choice between apple... or flapjack. It's not a difficult choice to make. Mmm... flapjack. The saviour of the cake world for those who cannot eat wheat (myself included).

And this is what I did:

So, today was my second day playing proper journalist, it's my first real and honest step outside of the student bubble since I graduated. It's a step towards a... CAREER. When, may I ask, did I get OLD enough to have a career?

After getting over the initial nerves of yesterday, I think I've settled into the office pretty well. I went to court for the first time ever yesterday, and found it so surreal. And strangely emotional. I felt so voyeuristic, even though as press I had every right to be there. There's something about seeing a woman break down after being sentenced to six months in prison, or a man accused of beating up his wife stand there without the slightest bit of remorse on his face that I have a feeling will stay with me... I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a crime reporter.

But after that yesterday was pretty easy-going, and today in fact. I've been on familiar territory though. Getting voxpops, checking press releases, writing little panel stories. I've come up with a couple of pretty good ideas myself though, which made me rather proud. One is waiting to go to press and one is in the pipeline, so yay me so far! I'm just not looking forward to it all being over at the end of the week.

A news desk is where I belong, I've known that for the last six years. And it feels SO good (and quite a relief!) to finally be getting there.





P.S. Jo aka Big Mouth BlogGirl - have been trying unsuccessfully to comment on your blogs for the last week! Do you have privacy settings on? Loving the blog as always, my fellow tea drinker!

What makes a (pants) writer...

Well, I am officially the most pants blogger on this site. And I call myself a writer... Bah!

I do love to write, honestly. I could quite happily sit and do nothing but write mindless (and sometimes mildly entertaining) drivel whilst drinking copious amounts of tea all day long, but it seems that the hours of work (read: especially shorthand) that I have to fit in each day sufficiently outnumber the amount of hours in the actual day. Hmm... I feel that herein lies my problem, maybe I should just stay up later and see how my zombie-like state affects my journalistic skills... But hey, I'm sure that's me along with the rest of this overworked and underpaid world - or in my case, the not-paid-at-all world.

I'm well aware that a writer who barely has time to write should probably not call herself a writer, but shh, don't burst my bubble. I like being inside it now the comparatively safe student bubble has been popped. So instead I give myself over to the world of fiction which helps to distract thoughts from the fact that I have no money to shop with (I long for shoes and handbags...)

But anyway, enough excuses... Oh yes! Duh. I moved house last week too. Forgetting that tiny detail just shows the extent to which my mind is slowly unravelling. I now live with the boyfriend and four other people in a fantastically tall house in the heart of Brighton-land by the seaside. And seriously, I just can't see the novelty of living so close to the beach of my childhood holidays ever wearing off.

So apart from packing, repacking and unpacking boxes, building furniture and struggling with a very stubborn and determined-to-fall down curtain rail (which I've almost come to blows with on several occiasions already), I've had a pretty hectic few weeks. It's all gone by in a blur of shorthand, politics, law, making pretend newspapers and playing musical houses. Fun times.

So... to business. Despite this time seeming AGES away when I started my course, I've got my first stint in six years on a local paper next week and I am terrified. My crisis of confidence would have to pick now to kick in wouldn't it? I know I can do it, I've done it before and I was MUCH younger and even more clueless back then... but there's always been something about showing other people (particularly strangers) what I can (or can't) do that fills me with terror.

Take this week at college as an example. We've been working on 'virtual' newpapers, wherein we all research and publish our own original news articles. I, of course, wrote about how students are affected by the credit crunch (using the inspiration behind my first blog post) and before I sent it off to the rest of the group (who are my friends) I felt almost sick. What if they think it's terrible? What if they criticise me? What if they don't criticise me because they're trying to be nice and in fact it's awful but I don't know so I carry on writing terribly? Argh! (My brain hurt a lot at this point).

In the end I went for it and yes, I did get criticism, but I could see why. So I changed stuff and it ended up on the front page, with lots of nice things said by the rest of the group. But I'm still petrified about showing my stuff to the real journalists next week. I wonder if this is something a writer ever gets over? I mean, with news stories it isn't too bad, but something I've put my all into, something that's a product of my personality - how will I take criticism then?

I guess that to deal with that very issue was the original purpose of this blog. Just one step on the way to becoming a writer, forcing myself to get my thoughts out there and open them up to criticism...

...anyone?

Alice's First Adventure in Londonland

Firstly, I have discovered there is nothing like turning up to a very trendy and exclusive party in London with a badge that says 'Journalist and freelance author' to make you feel way more important than you actually are. Aside from the free bar (which was in hindsight, probably not so good), there was just so much free STUFF (I haven't done so much squealing with delight since I saw the Spice Girls). Clearly, although it's a tough world out there in the media world of "selling yourself" (in a literary sense), I feel that the freebies go part of the way, or indeed sometimes a lot of the way, towards making you smile in periods of muchly-diminished cash flow. Like now. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this will all get incredibly tedious after a while, like it seemed to be for all the important people I saw standing around in designer suits not talking to anyone, their facial expressions emanating clear "I'm only here because I'm very important" vibes.

Or, maybe, just maybe, I'm still very much in the 'university student survival' mindset that loves everything that's free simply because it's free, no matter what it might be (ginormous posters, tiny ice cream samplers, mini cans of coke, new celebrity-endorsed pasta sauces, little pots of hummus on a tasting counter in Sainsbury's...).

Anyway. Yes. Very trendy party in Camden. Open bar. Free cosmetics (yay!). . Meeting very cool people working for painfully cool companies... Am I milking this a little too much? Okay, I know. But of course, all of this leads to the rather tremendous perk of being able to write and talk as my JOB and (eventually, hopefully) get paid for doing what I love most.... ahem... did that sound a little too much like a MasterCard advert?

Of course, I'm under no delusions, everything I've done in the last six years that relates in any way to my career has been done for free (but I've loved it) or I've physically paid for it (like my degree, like this course I'm doing now...) And I'm guessing that for a good time yet everything I do in this crazy world of the meed-yah will be for free. I'm just relying on having as much fun as possible (for free also) along the way to keep me going. That, and of course working my arse off as I do it.