Out of My Hands

I just submitted my final assignment for my foundation year at The Open University.  Did I do my best?  I don't know.  I am happy with what I wrote but I am sure there could have been improvements.  If I left it any longer I would have ripped the whole thing to shreds, so I took the leap and pressed the button.

I am one step closer to my BA in English Language & Literature.  I scored 5 B's and 2 C's but the final result won't be ready until at least July.  So I wait...

This year has been a tough one.  Learning how to learn again; how to study; how to focus myself; and how to do all that on my own.  Distance learning is a challenge.  Having to motivate myself with no one around me to share any of the struggle.  Yes, there are the online forums but they can only be supportive to a point.  I have to admit I am a bit useless.  I leave everything to the last minute then cram.  This last assignment was submitted three hours before deadline!  It is the way I do things, in study and in life.

I long to attend a university full-time.  To be immersed in that life, but for now, it is just me at my desk in my living room, surrounded by books and photographs of people who inspire me.  Most significantly my college literature teacher, Jon who has been an immeasurable motivator, whether he is in the room or in my mind.  His mantra "Language, form and structure!" echoes around my head in everything I write.  I wish he was standing here now.

I feel a bit lost.  With no studying until October, what do I do with my time?!  I might finally get some reading done.  Since starting my course in October I have not managed to read anything but a textbook or assigned reading material.  Looking at my bookshelf there is a lot of catching up to do!  Where do I start?

Ambition?

What is ambition? I have been asking myself this question repeatedly over the past few days. Ambition is aiming at something and striving to reach it right? Does it matter what that is? Is there a bar at which something stops being a simple whimsey or idea and turns to ambition?

I have been telling myself I want to be a librarian. I have been telling everyone I want to be a librarian. What I really want to do is play with books and paper. Having spoken to a librarian, this is something that, in fact, librarians do not do. It is a dying profession. It is becoming an archaic idea. Why do people need books when they have the internet and e-books? This upsets me but it is the way the world is heading.

No, what I really want to do is archiving. Paper. Lots and lots of paper. I much prefer paper to people. Paper makes sense. So to do this I need a degree right? Which is why I'm studying with the Open University. I am coming to the end of my foundation year and I have really been enjoying the learning process again. Structured learning.

So, near future, my ambition is a degree. Simple. Only I am now finding my final assignment a struggle. All this sudden fascination with 'ambition' has taken my eye off my target. I am finally working towards the very thing I am aiming for and ironically the idea of ambition is getting in my way.

I just have to keep reminding myself why I am studying. So I can reach my goal. So I can wear the cap and gown and prove to myself that I can do it. I CAN do it, can't I? I just need to do it one assignment at a time. So start with this one...

"Leisure is a Time for Relaxation'. Do I agree or disagree with this statement?

Dunno.

Lyrics

"I quote others only to better express myself" - Montaigne

I have a playlist on my iPod of songs that express things I have been thinking. I hear lyrics and think "yes, that is relevant to me today!" (and none of them are love-songs, but we won't go into that)

I sometimes play a game with a friend in which we pick a 'song for the day'. Either a song about how we feel, or how we would like to feel that day. It is an interesting exercise in introspection and it is also comforting to know that others are thinking and feeling the same (obviously, or they would not have written songs about it)!

I need to play that game regularly. It helps me to focus. Today's song I think is "Every Day is Exactly the Same" by Nine Inch Nails. That says it all really. I seem to be swinging between over-enthusiasm and lethargy at present. I am angry at myself for wasting time.

Mondays and Tuesdays are my free evenings. What do I do with them? I have no idea! I get home from work at 6pm... suddenly it's 11pm! What do I do in those five hours?! Am I really lacking that much focus that I can lose five hours in a blink? It terrifies me.

"And we'll collect the moments one by one. I guess that's how the future's done" - Mushaboom

Pens and Lines

My necessary tools for writing have always been a blank notebook and a pencil. This has always been the way. In the past I have been given notebooks for birthday or Christmas - beautiful notebooks, but I have put them away on a shelf because the pages are lined.

A couple of days ago I found myself writing fervently... with a Bic biro in a lined, spiral-bound notebook taken from work.

Why is this so odd?

I have always shut out the possibility of using anything but blank paper and an HP pencil because I thought anything else would quell my creativity. I built up this wall hoping to protect what I thought was my creative mind. Breaking through seems to have released something. Apparently not poetry, but certainly prose.

It seems my friend was right. I am now looking at the world from a different creative direction. Having this blog in mind I try to make everything interesting so I can write about it. Okay, sometimes I fail on the 'interesting' scale, but for me this feels creative. And this makes me feel good.

I even attempted opening a blank MS Word document to see if this encouraged anything more than a blog entry. Not yet, but perhaps I will keep trying. I can't limit myself and still expect great things to happen. I need to be open to anything, as long as it allows me to express myself.

Perhaps I shouldn't limit myself to the label of 'poet'? After all, poets write poetry... what I am is a creative mind. I just need to find my direction.

Books in the Basement

Today in town I ventured into another Waterstones bookshop – one I do not often think about. This one has a basement. Not a ‘downstairs’ with windows and a revolving door – this place has no windows. No doors. Just a creaky staircase leading to the outside world.

The muffled pressure of thousands of voices bearing down on my from every direction… the smell… the rows upon rows of colourfully bound words screaming silently… I feel strangely overwhelmed. There is non-descript music droning in the background which drowns out the beautiful hush of the books.

It is interesting to see the people climbing down the creaking staircase; the students heading for the academic guides; the suited businessman towards ‘business management’; the grungy boy in glasses drawn to the sci-fi section (this may seem stereotypical but it is simply a current observation - I myself enjoy this genre). There is a tanned man in shorts (despite the rain) perusing the travel section, undoubtedly planning his next adventure.

All the while shadows in Waterstones uniforms move quietly between the shelves, their trolleys piled with lone copies of books gone awry. They pass unnoticed by shoppers consumed in their chosen pages. I feel a pang of jealousy for these ghosts in black.

And then there is me. Sitting, neutrally in the centre, not belonging to any section, any genre, in a slightly uncomfortable cushioned and for some reason animal-print armchair. I must look out of place, but I feel like I belong.

Spinning

I love spinning at salsa - it feels so natural to me, coming from a ballet background. Other dancers have to be taught to 'spot-turn' (to focus on one point to stop you getting dizzy) when it never occurred to me to spin otherwise. It is one thing I am known for at salsa - I am Spin Girl!

I also laugh a lot which puts a lot of people off. But this is why I love dancing so much. I laugh constantly and everything melts away but the beat and there is no time to think which, much of the time, is exactly what I need. My friends outside salsa do not understand why I throw myself into it.

The reason is impossible to put into words (at least for my mind at present) - not through lack of trying! Some kind of temporary catharsis occurs when I don my dance shoes.

Two, three, even four nights a week I can fall into bed feeling genuinely happy, even with aching feet.

No alcohol, no drugs... just dancing to the beat of the cowbell.

Bliss.

Broken Pencil

I was on the bus tonight and had the somewhat unfamiliar urge to write. I have unfortunately fallen out of the habit of carrying a proper notebook, however I always have a pencil - I find pens rather uninspiring. I did have a small, lined 'shopping list' pad with me and the urge to at least hold the pencil over the paper, if nothing else.

My pencil broke.

I have misplaced my pencil case, including my pencil sharpener. This realisation was strangely affecting. The first night in a long while I suddenly have the urge to do something remotely artistic and all I have is a small lined pad and a broken pencil.

My heart sank.

What would I have written had I the right implements?

I always find it strange travelling by bus at night - windows turn to mirrors. I try to look outside and all I see is myself. This has always fascinated me in a creative sense - trying to create some sort of metaphorical insight from this concept but I have no idea how to use it.

One night inspiration might strike, hopefully when I have remembered my pencil sharpener...

Bookmark

How many books am I reading? How many have I started and bookmarked? I have a compulsion that leads me into Oxfam bookshop whenever possible, I find an amazing book, start reading, then put it down. That's it. That's as far as it goes.

I need a new bookshelf. I have actually run out of space. Mum asked if I buy the classics because I want to look intelligent. I want to buy the classics because I want to find out why they have survived so long. Ok so some of them are really quite dull (not mentioning any names, Bronte and Dickens - sorry!) but I want to say I have read them.

I do love the ultimate classics by Homer, Socrates, Euripides etc. because they are the basis for all modern literature. They are beautiful, usually in a violent, bloodthirsty way but the stories have survived through the ages, from word-of-mouth all the way through to the printed word.

I find that incredible.

Blank

I was told this blogging thing would help my writers block. The word 'blog' is forever spinning around my head but nothing comes from it. I keep thinking "no one will want to read about that" but I need to get it into my head not to write for other people. This is about me. If other people are interested that is just a bonus.

I have told people to burn my notebooks when I die. No one can ever read the rubbish I have written over the years. How can I be embarrassed or ashamed to read MY OWN work? I have written a couple of pieces I am proud of but most of it is just painfully desperate.

"every answer that I find is the basis of brand new cliche" - Tim Minchin

People have told me that many famous artists did not find fame until after death. How is this comforting? Fame is not really what I want - I just want to be happy with my writing. If other people think it is worthy of note then I would be happy with that.

I like the idea that poets don't really achieve 'fame' in the way other writers do. The idea of fame scares me. I am ridiculously shy and the idea that anyone would want their life to be open to strangers blows my mind. At least as a writer people would only know a name and whatever might be written on the dust jacket of a book.

Why am I talking about the possibility of a book? Really?

Stupid.

Fridge Door

One thing that creates a crack in the locked door of my creative mind is magnetic poetry. It has provided much-needed inspiration, even if it leads to nothing more than a few lines of... anything.

My fridge stands next to my kitchen window. I can spend hours standing or sitting in front of it. It must seem very strange to onlookers, a girl (usually in her pajamas) staring intently at a kitchen appliance.

Hundreds of little magnets to move around to make 'poetry'. It is a great creative exercise. I make space on the door, stand back and look. I don't look for anything, I just look. Soon random words will start to stand out and I will attempt to use these as a basis for something.

My Dad came around once and read a poem I had assembled, about war. He always complains that my writing is too dark - why can't I write about happy things? I tried to explain to him that I don't have a choice. If inspiration strikes, no matter what the subject, I have to grasp it before it disappears.

I keep all my pieces on another blog: www.thefifthline.blogspot.com and I will sometimes revisit them to see if anything will evolve...

I can hope.

Labels

Pencil to paper. Surely that's all you need to be a writer? But even the act of making that connection now feels alien to me. I had no idea as a child just innocently putting ideas down on paper would come to anything - writing so hard I couldn't get it all down.

I wasn't a writer then. Children can't be labelled as 'writers' - they just have a delightfully active imagination. Just like a child who can play the piano is not a pianist, just a child who can play an instrument. At what point do we attach labels to talents? When do hobbies become something more? When do they become a part of who we are, not just what we (think we can) do?