Dear Someone Revamped

To whom it may concern,

The package in your possession, is resilient.
It has been dropped, slapped, thrown, gripped and beaten
Yet it still stands and does its chores.
It might shake for a while but it will eventually smile.

It doesn’t need to be called beautiful,
Or any of that bullshit,
A slap on the ass will do.
If it’s good, kiss its cheek.

You can do whatever you want with it,
Everyone else has.
Honestly, it’s just like plasticine,
Bend it, roll it, squeeze it, mould it.

It’s too naive,
To think for itself,
Tell it whatever you want.
It will listen attentively.

It’s used to this kind of treatment, honest.
Just take your pleasure and leave.
Sure she’ll cry, but that’s not your problem,
They’re probably fake tears to get you to stay.

Sincerely,
Smith

Before I Die by Jenny Downham

Occasionally I had to put down this book and scream “SHE’S SIXTEEN!” but other than that it was an enjoyable read. Tessa is brilliant, she admirable. She pushes the limits, not because she can but because she wants to. Which I completely respect even though sometimes it drove me crazy sometimes. She did good I think. The end couldn’t have been anymore perfect. It was beautiful. I enjoyed the book, I enjoyed her (minus the bits I thought I wouldn’t mind giving her a slap). She was sweet and innocent (regardless of her actions) and I think she would definitely find a place in my Top Twenty Female Characters list.

PUSH by Sapphire

Reading the book made me feel wrong and dirty. And feeling those things made me feel guilty. I kept reading because I felt that doing anything else would equate to turning my back or plugging my ears on Precious and the countless other other people (male and female) who went through any combination of the things she did and I am not enough of a hypocrite to do that. So I kept reading. Even when I wanted to throw the book in anger, when I wanted to rip the pages out in disgust, when I could barely read the words because they were blurred by sadness.

I do truly believe it was worth it to keep reading. I wanted to hug Precious at the end. I wanted to dance. To sing. To clap. I think I did clap. But I truly felt like I was on her journey with her. In good times and bad and in the end I was proud of her.

Goal Six: Compete Thrice

I want to enter three literary competitions, with no set time frame.

Goal Five: New Converses

I don’t know when I first saw converses but I immediately fell in love with them. I nagged and nagged and finally after years of saying no, my mom caved and bought me a pair. And then another pair. It was like Christmas and my birthday both came a few months early.

The first pair were classic black with white stitching and I wore them everywhere, in every season, in every weather. To show my love for them I even replaced the white laces with pink ones. Eventually the shoes couldn’t take the constant wear and began to tear and I wore them until they were barely hanging on and then I reluctantly and very sadly retired them to my closet.

The second pair were blue and to bond with them faster I immediately replaced the white laces with black ones and like the other pair, I wrote along the soles. This pair has served me well, there’s a few minor in comparison rips but nothing I can’t claim is somehow fashionable. I’ve also drawn flowers onto the rubber toes and now I can truly say I am comfortable with this pair but I terribly miss my old pair and so I want to buy another black with white stitching pair.

Goal Four: Finish A Story

Even if it’s a short story, I just want to finish a story. Just one story that I show off and say “Look! This is proof of what I do! I don’t just tap away at the keyboard or write until it’s hurts to hold my pen for no reason.”

 

Goal Three: Craption

I’ve decided to write the worse novel my subconscious will let me. I’m talking no plot, grammatical errors, one-dimensional characters, the whole hog!

Side Note: According to Urban Dictionary “Craption” is not a word, so I hereby coin it!

Craption

noun

Pronunciation: Crap-shun

Definition: Crap fiction.

Writer Abroad: A Letter To My Truth Or Dare Ex

Dear Truth Or Dare Ex,

I haven’t thought of you much beyond feelings of guilt since I dumped you on Valentine’s Day. Just to clarify, I kept the teddy bear because I genuinely liked you, not just because it was a gift.

I don’t know why I miss you, especially now. There’s no reason for it. But I do. I genuinely miss how easy it was to talk to you and how you texted me just because and just to ask me how I was. It did freak me out, but you’ve got to understand that constant attention freaks me out. I’m not used to it, I hate it, it terrifies me.

When we were a we, I was still incapable of thinking that someone could care about me and honestly I still am. I didn’t explain that to you and I should have. I’m really sorry. I don’t know if you’ve forgiven me or if you ever will and I don’t think you should.

In case you didn’t know, I wasn’t hung over when I said yes, I would love to cook you dinner, I would give us another chance, I’m not giving you back the teddy bear, I do miss you and I hate that we’ve lost touch.

Love always,

Shan

Writer Abroad: My First Crime

Whenever I spend time with both of my grandparents they always bring up my criminal past as a shoplifter. Or rather they bring up the one event of shoplifting that they know about , being as it was the first and only time I was ever caught.

(I am in no way condoning shoplifting, it’s not an honest thing to do; even if the things are ridiculously over priced and not even worth half of what you pay; especially for those on minimum wage.)

But carrying on, the story goes that my grandparents were out shopping with me and at 9 months old I was sitting in a stroller that was facing outward, you know one of those old strollers that was popular in the 90s. You may be thinking I was a bit young to be sitting in such a contraption like I did before remembering that I was a big baby. Not chubby big, big as in at 6 weeks old, I was the size of a 6 months old baby, that big. So, I’m sitting there and my grandparents see a vegetable stall and stop and take a look and  talked to the man. They’ve never mentioned buying anything but when they got a little way down the road, they took a look at me and saw me eating a tomato. Neither of them had given me it and they had no idea where I could have gotten it until they remembered the vegetable stall. I’d stolen a tomato and was in the process of eating the evidence.

Even now, they still tell this story punctuated by belly laughs. I do feel guilty but beneath all that guilt I’m curious as to how I did it. It would’ve taken a lot of stretching, I was confined and buckled into a stroller; and how did I not collapse the other tomatoes. How does a baby steal a tomato without three adults seeing? Didn’t the stroller move even a little?

And that’s just one of the mysteries of the nightmare baby that was me.

Goal Two: Surfing

Ideally I would love to learn to surf in Hawaii or California but because I’m a realist, I’ve set my heart on surf lessons in Cornwall.

Writer Abroad: Taylor Swift Mode

If you went back to that house and sat in the same chair you were sitting in the moment he said he liked you; if you sat next to the same window, at the same desk, would those feelings come rushing back? Would you revert back to the sixteen year old girl who shrieked and whose nose started to sweat? Would your heart begin to race, would blood rush to your head? Would you smile and look at your feet? Would you shyly tuck your hair behind your ear as if he could see? Would you go on Facebook and stare at his photo and notice that he’s lost the cheeks you wanted to pinch so much? Would you mourn the missing braces? Would you wonder what changed, what happened since that summer? Would you blame yourself? Would you mentally write him a long and rambling text? Would tears threaten at the corners of your eyes?

What would you do if you went back to that house and sat in the same chair, at the same desk, next to the same window feeling all the same feelings you did the moment he said he liked you?

Goal One: Kindle

I have given myself the deadline of December 31st  2012 23:59 to publish a story on Kindle.

You clever clogs reading this, you’re probably thinking: “But the world ends on the December 21st!” And to you I say “Sod it! The world is not ending before I get published! I rebuke such thoughts! Nuh uh!”

 

Writer Abroad (The plans)

What exactly do I plan to write?

I’m going to work on a piece I handed in for homework called ‘Jack Costa’. I mashed a story into 2,500 words and completely devalued it so I’m going to do it justice and write it properly and with love and care. It’ll be worth it and it’ll give the characters the attention they deserve. If you’re wondering Jack Costa isn’t the main character although he is very prominent. And he wasn’t named after the coffee chain; he was actually named after Billy Costa from Northern Lights, Lyra’s friend-ish person. He was originally nameless but then I tweaked the story and he then he had to be named andJack was the first name that came to my mind. Well Jack Dawson (as in Jack Dawson from Titanic) but I liked Costa too much to ditch it.

I’ll also be working on my poetry. I’ve set my task of sending off poems to magazines when I get back so I need to work on them and polish them til they shine like the top of the Chrysler building! (Little Annie reference there.)

But yes, those are my plans regarding writing in paradise.

Writer Abroad (The Packing Dilemma)

I convinced myself that I will write when I land in Barbados. That suddenly being home again will fill me with emotions and inspiration and I will end up running out of paper so to combat this imaginary threat, I have seven notebooks waiting to be packed into my suitcase. Also, I figure I won’t know how to handle the enormity of being filled with such a need to write and so I’ve packed the following writing books: How Not To Write A Novel, Writing Fiction For Dummies, Your Writing Coach and The five-minute writer. the first two are library books (fingers crossed no one wants them while I’m across The Atlantic) and the latter two were Christmas presents from a few years ago.

And because no one in there right mind goes on vacation without a book, even I who will be spending every waking moment transcribing my thoughts; I have also packed One Day by David Nichols, I’ve been meaning to read it for just over a year and have owned it for nearly a month now, yikes. I’ll finish it before I return. That’s not a promise, that’s hope talking. I’ve also packed The Amber Spyglass because I’ve completely been neglecting it. It started to bug me a bit so I just shoved it in a corner and I’ve silenced that nagging voice that wants to know what happens next. I figure I’ll want to read it after I’ve gone through airport security and need to be soothed. The third and final reading book is Alice Walker’s Collected Poems. Her poems speak to me and I really can’t think of a book I’d rather take with me.

Flash Fiction

The Newspaper in the Museum: a story in 75 words:

The newspaper was from 1902 and was entitled The Thames Times. He’d found it in his grandmother’s house after her funeral. He’d known instantly that despite its yellowed pages and partial ink, it belonged in a museum. So he’d wrapped it in bubble wrap and Tesco bags and brought it to where it now hung in The Museum of Natural History. The newspaper was his inheritance and he visited it often with his mother and daughter.