education, Fashion, Student House Stories, university

Our Winter Coats

Recently, our house was astounded and in awe when one of our roommates came home with a snuggly, soft-to-the-touch-and-everything BEAR ONESIE. She bought it fairly cheaply, from where she works at Dunelm Mill, the posh department store. I have never been there, so therefore it must be quite posh, I assume. She works within the curtain department so I don’t know how she got to wandering down the snuggly bear onesie aisles.

Maybe they sell those as curtains. I don’t know. They would certainly keep the heat in. Although they’re so warm and cuddlesome I may have to resort to climbing up the windows, with people coming home and having to detach me from the vertical position of sleeping upon the said shut curtains. …

I digress.

We loved her onesie so very much, that immediately, we started pestering (demanding, more like) that next time she was working SHE BUY ALL OF US ONE EACH. We paid her, of course. Now, in the house we have:

1) A dark chocolate female bear
2) A light brown chocolate coloured male bear
3) A deep, rich purple also male bear
4) A white chocolate female bear – which is me!

For better visual imagination, here’s a photo of the bear clan:

Don’t we just look awesome?

They’re so toasty that you barely even need the heating on – and being students – we don’t like to spend money on heating and gas when we don’t have to. It’s brilliant. The hot water bottle can go out the window too … figuratively speaking.

It’s great. I honestly never knew being a bear could be so much fun.

education, Hobbies, Poetry, university, Writing

Poetry

In a seminar class today, we were asked to write no more – and no less – than 30 words to describe an object that was placed in front of us. We were, in turn, allowed to touch, feel, see, hear – and if we were brave enough – taste our object and see what images and words our minds could conjure up and make appear on our blank pieces of paper. After this, we were asked to write a poem, picking 8 words from our list to put into verse form.

Here, is my poem:

D E A D

Ached, splintered

Rough hard mud

Murky, broken

Feel free to leave a comment and guess what my object was.
Looking forward to reading them!

TTFN. x

education, university, Writing

Constructive?? Criticism

Yesterday was my first day of getting a uni coursework back date. I admit I wasn’t fussed as I knew that the grade I would get would be the grade I would get. I wasn’t looking to fail, like a lot of people were. People were so nervous, their hands were shaking and they kept feigning a ‘not bothered’ attitude towards the grade they were getting.

“Wheey for getting a fail!”

“It’s only first year. It doesn’t matter at all.”

“If we fail – PUB!”

These are the loud mutterings I heard from across the room, in the long line for the queue.

When I finally received mine I will admit my heart did a nervous tremor, as if gearing up to do a somersault – but then deciding not to. Upon reading my results, I was pleased! I got a 2:1 in a cultural theory module essay and another 2:1 for my creative writing piece – which was the one I was looking most forward to hearing back from.
My face flushed with modest excitement. But what I saw on the comments page made me falter and, yes, get a little bit sad.

That very morning, I had yabbered on to my friend in a shower cubicle at the local swimming pool how I simply loved our Creative Writing lecturer. I yabbered on for some while, eventually telling her how I wished I could wrap him and just cuddle him, cook him eggs or something. He’s like a teddy bear, I told her. She only laughed back at me.

I take it back.

Like Mike, I was desperately unhappy.

Instead of being constructive, how he is supposed to be, he bluntly told me in the first sentence on the page that my work was:

  • strange
  • self-obsessed
  • almost claustrophobic
  • cliche
  • predictable

I peeked across at my friends’ papers, and he was at least a little constructive towards their stories; however he did refer to my friend’s discourse as ‘mopey’. I know this is being what a writer is, and you have to take criticism. This is what people are like towards your work after college and school; there is no cushioning.

I know that. It was just a little disconcerting.

This is what happened in my mind.

But I know I can write better. I wasn’t sure of the story myself. I shaped it into something I didn’t know, and didn’t want. I recognise that myself. But I know lots of good things can come of this incredibly negative, disheartening feedback. After 24 dull hours of contemplating, I have come through with an energetic mind and so many ideas for new stories and projects, I was even buzzing in work, so when it was quiet, I pulled up a few blank receipts and scribbled story ideas on that.

My supervisor asked what I was doing, and I mumbled something unintelligible about story writing, embarrassed.

And so, I rise triumphant, defiantly writing vague ideas for new stories and new beginnings.
WHEY.

Hobbies, Poetry, Writing

This Love Was Ours

Recently, I wrote a poem and submitted it to a local broadcast radio show. I JUST got an email back saying they will broadcast my poem!
It’s about loving something, or someone, so much and so dear, when suddenly you find they’re not your own anymore and you’re having to struggle against the tide to hold onto them. And when you are holding on to them, they don’t love you anymore and everything just turns bitter. Love has gone wrong and love is now empty.

NOTE: I wrote this not about anyone I know personally, but about a singer-songwriter who I adored for some intense few years. Now, they’re a complete sellout and it makes me sad to see them like this now, all contemporary, cheap and fake compared to the beauty and richness of how they used to be. At least, that’s how I remember them to be.
Try and work out who the poem addresses if you wish.
Sadly, I can guarantee you will have heard of them.

This Love Was Ours

i loved you, back then
but now the love tastes bitter and scalded
i still think of you, all the time
of the days back when you were Mine

because there was a time,
when i used to run around Fearless,
knowing what we had was a perfect little
Love Story

your Starlight shined to me
and although i still remain Invisible to you
i’ll still forever adore you,
although your State of Grace has now fallen

i wanted you to stay forever sixteen,
i wanted you to Never Grow Up
i wanted you to Stay
Stay, Stay

The Way I Loved You was intense,
and so, so easy; Untouchable,
but jealousy has spiralled in and out,
and out of my control

you comforted a girl whose world had been shattered
around her by divorce, depression
and instability
you allowed her to Breathe

now i’m stuck, stuck on The Outside
where it’s bitter and cold
Treacherous, even
Everything Has Changed

so Long Live
those times I used to share with you
because they’re not my own anymore
and they were truly The Best Day(s)

And when I think Tim McGraw,
yes
of course
do think of you

It’s personal, it’s deep, and it’s cutting. I was in rather a melacholy state of sadness when I wrote it. I just wish they could read it too and see how much they mean to people when they change.

Hobbies, Writing

To Die, Or Not To Die?

I’m a writer who has a basic outline of a plan which I follow through as much as I can. But I’m a writer who never knows where her end is going. Eventually, I find it. But right now, I’m writing a story with the theme of alienation, about a man who  is gossiped about by his neighbours, whilst strange things are happening in his house. Truthfully, the house wants him dead. Odd, I know.

Right now, it’s nearing the end and he’s almost at the other end of sanity. But I don’t know whether to have him resolve the ordeal peacefully and have a somewhat happy ending, or whether to let the house ultimately get its wish so he can once again be reunited with his late wife. See, there is a happy ending in there somewhere.

Then there’s his dog too. One of the neighbours have resolved that when the man goes, the dog shall too. But killing off a dog seems too sensitive a topic to write in a short story? Surely? Especially if the man himself commits them both to suicide inside his dingy old dark living room.

I imagine him to be somewhat similar to Filch, just a little less tragic.

I’m struggling to find my ending. Have you ever stumbled over this too?
If you did, what did you do?

Hobbies, Writing

A Feeble Writer

My self confidence is shaking enough on its own as it is. I fret over the notion of somebody standing over my shoulder, reading intently, scrutinising what I am about to commit to page from the bleak cave of my mind. I am a nervous writer, and with that inevitably comes a nervous disposition towards criticism. Criticism is part of it, but hopefully not from the ones I love. I want a critic to be faceless and unknown to me; that way, he cannot hurt me. But words are like knives, piercing and seizing up your muscles until you can no longer breathe. I’m forgetting why I wanted to be a writer in the first place: I used to write for me, but I fear I no longer can. I want my writing to be critiqued brilliantly, or softly at least. Maybe whispered at least on the small scale. Not brutally, with force enough to whip me in the face.

It is, to say the least, powerful what words can do. One day, I want to be the writer behind the words with power invested in them. But for now, I can only feel so feeble.