But do I sign up for a university accredited 10 week screenwriting course in September, at a (tax deductible) cost of £147
Do I do it
I do, don’t I
I can smell fried chicken
That’s not actually relevant to the decision process, but I thought you should know
Reading a John Green book is like giving someone a really vigorous and time-consuming handjob, and when they’ve finally come, instead of returning the favour, they just immediately get another erection and start wanking themselves off again.
Today I went to get a cup of tea with my dad and I told him about how I’m stuck in a rut with my life and my job and my failure to write anything and we talked for literally 2 hours and the consensus was that I need to stop being terrified of not being good enough and just fucking write something and take control of my damn life
I came home and was like YEAH I’M GONNA WRITE A THING
and I didn’t
because I’m still terrified of fucking up
I’m still terrified of not being good enough
and I miss uni, where I got the top mark in my dissertation, because then I had other people to measure my success and ability against. Now, the only measurement of my success and my ability is myself, and I just don’t have the faith in my work that I once did. Every time I sit down to write, I bash out a few lines and I hate it. The idea germinates and flowers, but the genesis is entirely internal. It never grows anywhere, and I hate it. I hate it.
I just gave my dad my university creative writing dissertation to read
My university dissertation was a 6,000 word short story about the homosexual love affair between two survivors of the Holocaust, sentenced under Paragraph 175, and the subsequent reveal of a rape which led to a murder and eventually culminates in the protagonist’s rejection of his lover which leads to his lover’s suicide
I’m not convinced that my dad is going to like reading my university dissertation
Ommgmmgmg look at the skirt my sister made me, it is the best skirt that ever there was and it has overlocked seams and everything
I was so excited that the camera kept moving and I had to stand funny to relocate my centre of gravity so that the picture wasn’t blurred
I have strong feelings about new clothes, could you tell
I just got pooed on by a bird. Who do I write to about this because honestly someone must pay
We’re in the village with the longest name in europe
Here’s a ~fact~ for you - this village used to be named ‘Llanfair Pwllgwyngyll, and for all intents and purposes, this is still its name. No-one refers to it as Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, presumably because no-one is willing to spend 4 years of their life just telling people where they live.
HOWEVER, in the 1860s, some dude was like ‘oh hang on, no-one ever comes to our town, and I’m 98% sure it’s not because all that’s here is a train station and some hills. Clearly, the name is the issue. We must rectify this’. He probably said this in Welsh, but you get my drift. Anyway, they then came up with the new name for the town; an intentionally ridiculous name, so that the town would be home to the train station with the longest name in Britain. Lofty goals, these locals. Lofty as shit.
Basically, it’s sort of a fake name - although obviously towns can change names, in this case, it was a name intentionally picked to attract tourists. And hey, it worked - there’s still absolutely fuck-all in this town (although now I can see that there is apparently a garage here), but at least there are tourists having their pictures taken with sweet fuck-all.
I was taking my usual optimistic walk through the graveyard when I stumbled across a really unusual tombstone that genuinely made me smile.
The sunlight has rendered it a bit unreadable, but the inscription reads ‘Hilda Mary, the much beloved wife and chum of William Robert Mitchem’.
In a graveyard full of ‘thy will be done’, ‘gone to rest with Jesus’ and ‘his end was peace’, it’s so heartening to see a genuine expression of love. I really hope that these two chums had the happiest years together. Somehow, I think they did.
Anwen’s adventures in the Prose Edda, part 1:
- please tell me that I’m not the only one who didn’t know that this is where Tolkien got his names for the dwarves
- Loki Loki no Loki stop Loki there are ways to make people laugh that don’t impede your ability to have children (although looking at your nightmare spawn, maybe this way is better)
It’s been uncharacteristically sunny the past few days, so I’ve been walking through the graveyard on my way to and from work. There’s a path that goes right the way through the cemetery, and for the past few months I’ve taken that, but for the past couple of days I’ve been traipsing through the long grass instead. I think that one of the most exhilarating choices you can make, upon seeing a path, is to choose to ignore it completely. That doesn’t only go for graveyards, either.
The cemetery has a policy that they only cut the grass ever so often and they leave it to grow wild and untamed for the rest of the year, so some of the grass goes right up to my knees. In the mornings, it’s still dew-damp and sometimes it seeps right through my shoes. Sometimes I walk through the cemetery gates to find seeds and pollen clinging to my shins. I’ve found butterflies in my hair and petals on my skirt, and it’s all life. It’s life in all its wildness and uncontrolled growth, and it doesn’t pale in the face of the reminders of death in which it blooms.
I’ve always liked how life gives no wide berth to death here; I think that people forget that there’s more to a graveyard than skeletons and old lilies. I think that people forget that a cemetery is more than just a boneyard. Here, there are stories; there is the tombstone that just reads ‘our son, lost at sea’ and there is the headstone with four names and one date. There is the one grave where primroses grow, and there are the unmarked tombs that make themselves known by the mounds in the earth. There are narratives and this gives life where there is none; there are memories in the very atoms that make the place, and this gives it breath. There is my uncle’s grave, a tiny hollow cathedral for a life never lived but long mourned, and there are a thousand more hallowed cradles like it.
There’s a great weeping tree, green all season but with one branch of red leaves that withered long ago and never fell, and I think that this is the cemetery. It’s the dead among the living, and it doesn’t make the living any less alive. It just is. The red leaves are red and the green leaves are green, and this is how they are. The dead are here and the living come and go, and neither belongs more than the other. It’s a place for both, and for that, it’s worth a pair of dew-sodden shoes.
The beauteous Nay tagged me to post 6 photos of myself that I like, so without much further ado, here are 6 photos of myself that I like.
For information, the fourth one was taken as a joke, but I love the composition of it, so let’s ignore my ‘totes not a model’ expression and focus on the ceaseless azure of the yawning Aberystwyth dusk.
I tag anyone who wants to inject a bit of self admiration into their lives.
Do you ever just think about Iphis and Ianthe and get really emotional because I definitely don’t do that ever