time has flown at a speed i cannot control. these 365 days are almost over.
best friend. high heels. falling over. being picked up. sober heart to hearts. drunken heart to hearts. pepperoni pizza. birthdays. time away. lanzarote. ash clouds. going slightly insane. rushing around. writing. reading. realising the truth about certain people. new friends. faces. bitching in the toilets. serious chats in the takeaway. a dark fairy. tinie tempah. kisses. hugs. those 'i shouldn't have done that' moments. severing ties. finding old friends again. train journeys. ripped tights. lecturers and lectures. blue note. cocktails. babylon. two b's and two c's. isolation. him, and him and him and him and him. live music. glowsticks. uv paint. blackberry 3g. cheeseburgers at 3am. little sister. two jobs in three months. confidence. lyrics. inspiration. tequila sunrise. silly photos. facebook messages. texts. cinema trips. coursework and racking my brains. hand in day. promises that didn't amount. grand plans. twilight parodies. cold nights. foggy mornings. snow. sheffield. leeds. manchester. scarborough. derby. ticket stubs and wristbands. fresh early morning air. books and libraries. shot glasses. communal lipgloss and fancy underwear. city lights. holding hands. drunken sing a longs at six in the morning. the night i spilled those secrets. bonds that won't ever be broken. that feeling of complete contentment.
looking back, i've loved every second.
Tuesday 28 December 2010
Wednesday 15 December 2010
Light the fire and walk away.
It's strange how one tiny thing can really change your perspective on people, and the bigger picture those people make.
When I was off university because of the snow, our short fictions lecturer declared presentations galore. So people drifted into the usual sort of groups, only two guys were left alone. Those two also happen to be fabulous friends. Two of us were absent that day, and so assigned to their group. I only found out about all of this a week later, and we arranged a meeting to figure out what we were actually going to present.
Our group consisted of myself, Ben - who I've believed to be one of the funniest people in our class, Alex who I always figured was Ben's sidekick and Lewis who I've worked with a couple of times. It was like the most unlikely group in the entire world, but it worked. We spent a couple of hours trying to decide on what to do for the subject of character, and after so much deliberation we came up with a total piss take of Twilight with relevant character profiles woven in for revision. So I re-wrote the four books, and we practised a few times, and promised to have our lines learned for this past Monday. So, Monday came. I was just on the train arriving in Derby and Alex phoned. Ben, our Jacob Black, had broken his ankle at American football training. Honestly, I thought it was all a joke to get us panicked up. But on arrival at uni, Alex wasn't lying at all. So the three of us spent our practice time trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do. We couldn't draft in another Jacob, knowing no one would quite do it the justice Ben did it. We couldn't write Jacob out of it, I mean, he's a hugeeee part of the whole thing. So we had no other option. Lewis was adamant about going to their house and begging Ben to come in and do it, so off we went, Alex drove us all the way to their house, only to find, Ben had gone home.
By this point, the three of us were in total despair. Our presentation that we'd been so confident and excited about was ruined. We headed back to uni, Radio 1 rubbing more salt in the wound by playing us one of Oasis' more depressing songs. We sat in total silence. That was before heading straight for the SU and drinking on empty stomachs. Wonderfully giddy, we headed up to short fictions. Moy forced us to work with what we had, after we told her we didn't want anyone else to be Jacob. We played on the sob story and tried, only to recieve rather uncalled for comments from the rest of the class. Cheers, guys.
But, my point is, I think my cut throat attitude to university is slowly dissolving. Back in September I was going to head in there all guns blazing, taking no shit off anyone, and getting my head down. But now, after being thrown in the deep end, I've found out the class dynamics, I know who's really friends with who and what goes on underneath those friendly exteriors everyone attempts to keep up. I'm talking to more people. Granted, I don't consider any of them my bff's or anything like that, it's just nice. It's nice to have a foot in the door that I can remove any time I wish. I can talk to people and have a laugh with them. I can get subtle revenge on those who've ripped my work to shreds and dented my confidence.
Shocker, Laura might actually be getting attached to her classmates.
When I was off university because of the snow, our short fictions lecturer declared presentations galore. So people drifted into the usual sort of groups, only two guys were left alone. Those two also happen to be fabulous friends. Two of us were absent that day, and so assigned to their group. I only found out about all of this a week later, and we arranged a meeting to figure out what we were actually going to present.
Our group consisted of myself, Ben - who I've believed to be one of the funniest people in our class, Alex who I always figured was Ben's sidekick and Lewis who I've worked with a couple of times. It was like the most unlikely group in the entire world, but it worked. We spent a couple of hours trying to decide on what to do for the subject of character, and after so much deliberation we came up with a total piss take of Twilight with relevant character profiles woven in for revision. So I re-wrote the four books, and we practised a few times, and promised to have our lines learned for this past Monday. So, Monday came. I was just on the train arriving in Derby and Alex phoned. Ben, our Jacob Black, had broken his ankle at American football training. Honestly, I thought it was all a joke to get us panicked up. But on arrival at uni, Alex wasn't lying at all. So the three of us spent our practice time trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do. We couldn't draft in another Jacob, knowing no one would quite do it the justice Ben did it. We couldn't write Jacob out of it, I mean, he's a hugeeee part of the whole thing. So we had no other option. Lewis was adamant about going to their house and begging Ben to come in and do it, so off we went, Alex drove us all the way to their house, only to find, Ben had gone home.
By this point, the three of us were in total despair. Our presentation that we'd been so confident and excited about was ruined. We headed back to uni, Radio 1 rubbing more salt in the wound by playing us one of Oasis' more depressing songs. We sat in total silence. That was before heading straight for the SU and drinking on empty stomachs. Wonderfully giddy, we headed up to short fictions. Moy forced us to work with what we had, after we told her we didn't want anyone else to be Jacob. We played on the sob story and tried, only to recieve rather uncalled for comments from the rest of the class. Cheers, guys.
But, my point is, I think my cut throat attitude to university is slowly dissolving. Back in September I was going to head in there all guns blazing, taking no shit off anyone, and getting my head down. But now, after being thrown in the deep end, I've found out the class dynamics, I know who's really friends with who and what goes on underneath those friendly exteriors everyone attempts to keep up. I'm talking to more people. Granted, I don't consider any of them my bff's or anything like that, it's just nice. It's nice to have a foot in the door that I can remove any time I wish. I can talk to people and have a laugh with them. I can get subtle revenge on those who've ripped my work to shreds and dented my confidence.
Shocker, Laura might actually be getting attached to her classmates.
Thursday 2 December 2010
I can't write.
Just seen a guy in my classes status on Facebook. He can't either. That makes me feel a tiny bit better.
This week has been such a waste. I sit in my bedroom, all these ideas whirling around in my head. Give me a pen and paper or a keyboard and a blank document and it comes out like trash. Maybe I'm trying to hard. Thinking too much. Being far too self concious. The words usually flow out of me. Now I'm confused by tenses, first person or third person, trying to make things sound profound, terrified of tripping on cliches. I'm trying too hard to impress people that don't need impressing. I know deep down who's important and who isn't, yet I'm stuck with those non-important ones, dictating what I ought to do with my words. That's just it. They're my words, my ideas, my characters. I care too much.
I'm sorry that I don't call London St Pancras, 'St Pancras'. That I write in a Sheffield accent. That you don't know where my story's set. That you don't understand what's happening. For using the odd cliche. For wording things in ways you couldn't ever understand. For having crazy ideas. For not changing character names. I'm not splitting Meredith and Jeremy up. I'm sorry my murderers aren't sinister enough. I'm sorry I don't reckon much to Raymond Carver. That the situations are complex. That the characters have more about them. That I write about things I haven't experienced first hand. That I'm jumping out of my comfort zone. That I don't really care all that much for poetry. That I write about more than my mundane nineteen year old life. I'm so fucking sorry that you're so small minded, you don't want to even try and understand.
This week has been such a waste. I sit in my bedroom, all these ideas whirling around in my head. Give me a pen and paper or a keyboard and a blank document and it comes out like trash. Maybe I'm trying to hard. Thinking too much. Being far too self concious. The words usually flow out of me. Now I'm confused by tenses, first person or third person, trying to make things sound profound, terrified of tripping on cliches. I'm trying too hard to impress people that don't need impressing. I know deep down who's important and who isn't, yet I'm stuck with those non-important ones, dictating what I ought to do with my words. That's just it. They're my words, my ideas, my characters. I care too much.
I'm sorry that I don't call London St Pancras, 'St Pancras'. That I write in a Sheffield accent. That you don't know where my story's set. That you don't understand what's happening. For using the odd cliche. For wording things in ways you couldn't ever understand. For having crazy ideas. For not changing character names. I'm not splitting Meredith and Jeremy up. I'm sorry my murderers aren't sinister enough. I'm sorry I don't reckon much to Raymond Carver. That the situations are complex. That the characters have more about them. That I write about things I haven't experienced first hand. That I'm jumping out of my comfort zone. That I don't really care all that much for poetry. That I write about more than my mundane nineteen year old life. I'm so fucking sorry that you're so small minded, you don't want to even try and understand.
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