September, September.

Wellll, it's 31st August 2009. I'm officially 16 days away from my awesome new life! Between now and moving back to Chester, however, I've got the dissertation to contend with. It's progressing quite nicely. I've got second drafts of all 3 chapters, which are *pretty much* down to the word count I wanted, I've nearly finished my introduction, and I have the majority of my bibliography and referencing done. Wooo. I've got to write my conclusion tomorrow, which is being attached to the end of my third chapter. This is good news: I hate conclusions, I think they're a waste of time and words. I think that if you've done your job properly in the essay/dissertation, then you shouldn't really have to summarise what you've done and what it's shown. Ho hum.

Had a look at the events list for Chester Literature Festival in October: it looks ace!! I'm excited about several of the events: there's a 'life writing' workshop that I'm going to go to, an open mic session, a book swap, and one of the Chester lecturer's reading his poetry. Should be really cool! The life writing one looks particularly interesting. I think I mentioned in a previous post that I like the whole cathartic writing thing. This opinion's been greatly reinforced by my reading some real life memoirs of depressed people: ie. Susanna Kaysen and Elizabeth Wurtzel. The link between mental disorders and writing is incredible. Not that I'm saying I have mental disorders. Not at all. Purely that everyone's got issues and, for me, writing poetry helps me figure them out in my head. It all comes down to organising disordered thoughts. I decided a few months ago that I'd try to write a haiku sequence. This is as far as I've got:

Fading in pastels:
guest-room shades remove life. I
apply foundation:

pale out tear marks.
The uneven carpet shakes:
Too much brushed beneath.

And yes, I know I went overboard with the colons. This is really, really personal to me. It's based on my parents' decorating 'my room' in their new house: I wanted to recreate my old bedroom with bright yellow walls and tiger print bedding, but they refused. The room was being used as a spare room, and therefore 'had' to be decorated in guest-room pastels. It now has kinda magnolia walls, a tulip border, daffodil print curtains, and white bedding. Anyone who knows me reasonably well will know that this is really not a style I'd have chosen. Anyhow, this sequence is basically about what I think may be a typical family situation: not addressing problems, just trying to cope with other things and get along. I quite like it so far, I think it's got something.

I think that having a really personal element in poetry or writing in general helps to distinguish it a bit. A lot of my poems are based on something I know, or I've thought about, rather than just random objects or whatever. It's cheaper than therapy! Joke. I think this life writing workshop will be really interesting, and will hopefully give me ideas on how to incorporate 'my stuff' into my poems without fears for crypticness or reader distancing. I'm looking forward to it :)

'Girls don't like boys' ...

Last week I was ‘invited’ to take a quiz on Facebook: ‘how happy are you?’. I was in one of those procrastinating kinda moods so I went with it. The questions were all like: ‘are you single?’, ‘are you in full time employment?’, ‘do you own a house?’. Easy to see how they classify happiness. I got a 50% happy result. This is balls. I’m actually incredibly happy at the moment, perhaps the happiest I’ve ever been! My dissertation’s on track, I’ve worked my last shift at that horrible, horrible job, I’m starting a PhD in just over a month, I’m moving back to my favourite place in the world in a few weeks ... You see where I’m going with this. I’m feeling very content with my life right now. And what annoys me is the fact that people assume singleness constitutes unhappiness. In my (albeit limited) experience it’s more often the other way round!

My ex best mate, who I mentioned in a previous post, was always utterly boy crazy: if she didn’t have a fella on the go then she wasn’t happy. She’d have been the right kind of person to take that quiz. She’s still like that now: our sporadic phone calls used to centre on which lad text her, which lad smiled at her, which lad breathed in her half of the hemisphere … I never really got this. She had a string, and I mean a string, of wanker boyfriends: one that hit her, one that cheated on her then dumped her by text, one that ignored her, one that continually put her down … Every time she met one of these guys she launched into this spiel of ‘I’ve never met anyone like him’, ‘I’ve never fallen for a bloke this fast’, ‘I’ve never felt this way before’. It got a bit predictable. Growing up with someone like this eventually put pressure on me to think more about blokes. I’ve never really been the type of girl that chases after men, maybe that’s why I’ve never had a serious relationship, hey ho. My first boyfriend was a lad called Danny: we went rabbiting together, went to the Auction Mart together, went riding together … It was a lot of fun. Then he dumped me after I put the phone down on him for cancelling our plans. He grovelled over text a few weeks later with the immortal line: ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch, it was the middle of the sheep season and I was knackered’. My parents found this hilarious! But yeah. There were a few candidates after ‘ferret-boy’, as my cousin named him, but nothing serious. They always said or did something that I (rightly) took exception to and told them where to go. THEN there was Ryan. We worked together in a pub in Chester, he was pretty, South African, funny, good cook … Everything was funky dory until we went for a drink after the gorgeous meal he cooked. I did my usual trick of getting pissed and going on about Shakespeare, to which he said ‘Shakespeare … He wrote the Great Gatsby didn’t he?’. OH. DEAR. GOD. I sobered up in an instant and said ‘what?!’. ‘Yeah! Yeah! He definitely wrote the Great Gatsby!!’. Argh. That relationship was over shortly afterwards. I don’t think I’m a snob, but anyone who thinks that Shakespeare wrote the Great Gatsby is definitely NOT upto scratch.

Being Sarah’s best mate meant being there for all the family occasions to which the three eldest girls would bring out their newest man flesh and Anita (her mum) could get to know them. Anita loved this, and seemed to take real pride in the fact that all three of her eldest daughters had attachments. I started feeling a bit guilty, probably a few years ago now. I worried that my mum was missing out on something that other mums would get: a daughter bringing boyfriends home. I brought Danny up to our canal boat to meet them for ten minutes, but that was it. She told me I was being silly, but it still preyed on my mind for a while. Last year I had a couple of months where I felt like I really wanted a bloke. Any bloke. A lad who I knew had liked me for ages who I really wasn’t interested in rang and asked me out, and I said yes. It was when I described him to my parents that I realised what I was doing: ‘he’s not the best looking bloke ever, but he’s a nice guy’. I was settling. When this prick stood me up on this date that he’d been pestering me about for years, I came back to reality. For a short period of my life, I thought that it would be better to be with a nice, reliable, maybe not that attractive guy than to be single. I was very wrong. I refuse to settle. I’m not the best looking person ever, I don’t claim to be perfect, and I probably annoy people sometimes, but I think that I deserve better than a relationship for the sake of a relationship. Fair enough, I don’t have the kind of lifestyle where I go out on boozy nights every weekend and meet some random guys, but I don’t want that. I met a bloke a few months back who I really thought things would work out with, but he was in the same position as me in terms of workload and busy times. And thinking about it, I really wouldn’t have been able to commit to anything at that time anyway. But who knows. Maybe he’ll ‘come to his senses’ and spare me an hour :)

I think there’s a lot of pressure on people to be in relationships: I know a lot of older people who are with men/women they don’t want to be with, but they just don’t want to be alone. I can kinda see the logic in that, but I’d hate it. I really don’t think I’ve met anyone so far in my life that I could contemplate spending a whole year with, living with, buying a dog with. When I was going through my ‘I need a bloke’ phase, I kept thinking ‘I’m 22, single, and have never had a long-term relationship. Sarah’s had loads of serious boyfriends’. But that’s the point. Sarah HAD loads of serious boyfriends, none of them stuck around. A relationship doesn’t guarantee longevity. Fuck me, I’m cynical. My parents met at university, fell in love, married, and are still disgustingly soppy. Maybe that’s had an influence on me? Maybe not?

As? Bs? Cs?

A close friend's daughter, who has turned into a close friend herself, got her AS levels today: she got two As, a B and a C. I thought these were really good grades, and can be built upon in her A2 year; she's got her heart set on Cambridge though and is rather disheartened by these results. She's one of the cleverest, most dilligent people I've ever met: she's only just turned eighteen, but is *so* mature, sorts out all her revision herself, swots constantly, has been swotting through all of the summer 'holiday' for preparation for this next year. She got all A*s and As at GCSE, goes to a private school on a music scholarship, and is just incredibly dedicated. She's got an outstanding extra-curricular profile: head of Chester cathedral choir, music coach, multiple prize-winner, charity helper. And she's worried that she won't get into Cambridge. I'm utterly amazed.

I was similarly astounded when I read the university league tables for 2009. Personally, I think this is a really shit idea. It encourages elitism and rests purely on grades. For example: Chester, where I took my undergraduate degree, and also where I will be taking my PhD at, is ranked only 90th in the table. If you said to me that I could go back 4 years and choose ANY university to study English at, I'd choose Chester every time. Sod Oxford and Cambridge. The University of Liverpool's only ranked 40th, and that's considered to be a much 'bigger' and better known university than Chester. In fairness, when I choosing where to study, I had only a cursory look at the league tables because my Dad was interested to see where Chester ranked. This was after we'd been there for an open day and I'd decided that Chester was the only place I wanted to go.

In the recent RAE thing, Liverpool apparently got the highest grade possible, signifying that their research is fab, internationally acclaimed, that kind of jazz. I can categorically state, however, that my time at Chester was many, many times better than what I have had at Liverpool. It's been a good experience to study in a larger department and a larger university, but if anything, it's helped to reinforce my already high opinion of the quality of teaching/learning at Chester. I think there's a very fine line between the facets of the academic: of course research is a huge thing, I don't deny that, but it must be balanced successfully with the teaching role. At Chester, all of the lecturers had this absolutely perfect. At Liverpool, there are certain members of the academic staff who make it clear that they would rather be off researching whatever obscure topic/author they're focused on. 'Bigger' is not always better. In an interview before my place on the PhD was confirmed, the head of department asked whether I thought I'd be at a disadvantage in future for job-seeking with a BA and PhD 'only' from Chester. I replied that if places are all that prospective employers are interested in, then I have absolutely no interest in working with them. I stand by this. Elitism does my head in, and I think people, research, and personalities are MUCH more important than where their degrees came from. I'd like to think that I'd be judged more on what I've written and disseminated than a name on the top of my BA certificate.

I don't really know how universities *should* be judged, because obviously results are important, but I think that the general state of England at the moment will shortly make university-level education a highly elitist thing. (That sentence was going so well before I wrote 'thing'. Hmm). I mean, consider the economics at the moment. They've hiked tuition fees up already by more than half (in 2006), and now the government want to increase it by 2 or 3% before forcing a move through to double them again. This will, obviously, encourage only wealthy families to put their children through university. At the opposite end of the scale, families with less than however much annual income and/or whose children will be staying at home will either have greater non-repayable grants, or no tuition fees. This is good, I grant you, but there's a middle class of people. My parents' income is too much for me to be considered for grants, everything is 'means-tested'. This bugs me: just because my parents earn 'x' amount does NOT mean that I get it!! The general financial state of education is fairly shaky and needs some serious thinking about, if the government want to encourage young people to go to university, like they were trying to last year. I remember a lot of news reports about uni drop-outs and lower intake rates.

To conclude, I think there's a huge amount of pressure put upon these young people. If my friend doesn't make it to Cambridge then I'm going to try my hardest to help her see that it isn't the end of the world, and she can still have a fantastic experience at one of the other 'top' British universities. I didn't go to one of these 'huge' universities, but I had the most amazing time at Chester. One of my reasons for trying to make it into academia and get published a lot is for this brilliant university to gain more recognition. Without the superb staff there, I seriously doubt I'd be in the position I am now: finishing off an MA and about to start a PhD. I owe the University of Chester an awful lot.

Friends, friends, friends.

Just over a month ago, my best friend of 11 years and I parted ways. I’ve just thought about this now, sitting at the computer desk in the library, and I’m surprised by how much this hasn’t really affected me. That sounds really bad but, oh dear God, I think I’m maturing. We met in Year 7 of secondary school (Roman Catholic co-ed) and pretty much stayed glued together since then. It was a kind of you-don’t-see-one-without-the-other thing. That’s putting a bit of a shine on it, and reducing it to its absolute basics, though. Looking back, it was never the friendship that I’d really wanted. There was one incident in I think it was Year 8, where we’d fallen out and the boys on our bus (2 of which Sarah and her sister Claire had on/off things with) made a bet that we would be mates again by the end of the week. Anyhow, we did make up by Friday, but Sarah said we had to stay quiet so she could win her bet. After I left for Chester, and she left for Manchester, we very rarely saw each other. There was one occasion a couple of months ago where I was going to Manchester for the day and she didn’t want to get out of bed an hour early to come to see me. That sounds really bitter, and I guess I am a bit. I threw a lot into our friendship, and I did expect some kind of return treatment.

For the last couple of times we’d met up, I felt on edge. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be, back in the days where we used to watch One Tree Hill all day and eat Ben and Jerry’s. I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. Thinking now, I reckon it was simply a case of ‘growing apart’ (growingus apartus in its Latinate term). We’d taken very different paths from school: she’d chosen to go to the Grammar sixth form so she wouldn’t have to get up early for a bus, whereas I’d gone to the Catholic college twinned with our school. We were studying in a vaguely similar area at Uni, she was taking Classics and I was taking English, but we had very different feelings about our courses. I’m certainly not saying that best friends have to be very similar, but we always were, and I think it was when we changed that the friendship changed. Sarah was very boy-orientated, which I never have been, and an ex was the reason for her getting a 2:2 at Uni when she was clever enough to get a First. It was her 22nd birthday in the middle of July, and there was a family meal which she’d invited me to. We had a major argument the day after, during which a lot of unresolved issues were (loudly) aired, and it became clear that our friendship was beyond repair. We had very different priorities and views on friendship, and it would be better to leave it now.

We went to see Nickelback together last September (I bought us tickets for her 21st), and their songs always reminded me of our friendship. There’s one in particular, ‘Photograph’, which when I hear, I can almost see us driving down some pitch black country lane in my car, smoking, and singing as loudly as we possibly can. This song came on the radio a couple of weeks ago, and it made me get a bit emotional. I sent her a message saying that I didn’t want to leave our friendship on such a low note, and that I wish her luck in her life, etc. She replied saying that we don’t have to lose touch all together, and we could still be friends. I thought about this for a while, but realised that I shouldn’t cling onto the past just for the hell of it, just because that’s what I’ve done before, and I (politely) refused her offer.

One of my ‘facebook friends’ wrote the other day that you lose friends when you get older because you’re finding out who the proper ones are, and I think that’s true, but I think growing up also has a lot to do with it. I’ve had a lot of friends in relationships that aren’t happy, and I just don’t see the point in holding onto something just because it’s there. There’s that saying: ‘you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family’. That seems like a fairly poignant note to end on.

'Little words'

At the beginning of my final undergraduate year, I had my initial meeting with my dissertation supervisor – who is also, by an immense stroke of luck, to be my PhD supervisor from October onwards. I think we had a brief conversation about university in general, and I mentioned an autobiographical piece I had written for a creative writing module in 2nd year, and she said she’d be interested to see it. I gave her a copy, and a while later she returned it remarking, with her usual wisdomocity and profoundness, that she found it interesting that I see my life through books. I hadn’t thought of it this way. In the piece (supposed to be a first chapter of an autobiography) I’d talked about this photo that my mother used to bring out at Christmases, with me on my bed, in a My Little Pony nightie, with a pile of books at the end of my bed. This used to happen a lot - I was a short-arse until I got to about 11, and couldn’t reach the end of my bed. I was, apparently, obsessed with my parents reading me a story every night, which was fine when they were Fireman Sam short stories, or chapters from such ace books as ‘The tiger who came to tea’ or ‘Orlando the marmalade cat’. Then I discovered Goosebumps and (shudder) Sweet Valley High. The reading agreement was broken due to the extended length of the expected texts.

As a by-product of four years of studying university-level English and reading books for the sole purpose of extracting something essay-worthy, I have lost my ability to read anything, *anything* uncritically. I’ve had an immense stack of texts to read for the MA, which have been really interesting and have broadened both my academic and reading horizons – but as a result of having to read on average 4 books and several extracts a week, reading became more about timing. I pride myself on having read a 468 page novel in a day. In the midst of Shakespeare, travel writing extracts, and eighteenth-century women poets searching for an authorially-inclined identity, I managed to read 2 non-course books between September and July: ‘Atonement’ and yet another re-read of ‘Little Women’. I also read about 6 chapters of Bill Bryson’s book on Shakespeare, but I didn’t finish that. I was quite amazed about how easily I slipped into the critical mindset: I wasn’t reading ‘Atonement’ for sheer pleasure (though I do love it), I was picking out interesting things about narrator function, representing authorship, depictions of women, etc. The same thing has happened in the last week or so. For some reason, I have developed this urge to read about depressed, suicidal, generally messed-up people. I attended a film screening of ‘Girl, Interrupted’ a few months ago, and I think it was that that set me on this track. I can’t even pinpoint why I’m interested in this. Is interested the right word? It seems fairly masochistic and morbid to be ‘interested’ in suicidal memoirs. Intrigued? I’ve never been even close to depression etc myself, so it may be that. Anyhow, I paid to a visit to the almighty John Rylands university library in Manchester a couple of weeks ago: I took out one dissertation-related book, and three pleasure reading books, one of which was ‘Prozac Nation’ by Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read this in about a week, evenings and work breaks only. I found it fascinating, and strangely perverse to be reading about someone’s *actual* mental breakdown, rather than a fictional depiction. I took some books out from Chester library last week, including ‘The Bell Jar’ by Sylvia Plath. I’d heard it mentioned a lot, but had never read it. I’ve literally just finished it. I enjoyed it: I love Plath’s style of writing. One phrase particularly stuck in my mind: ‘I am, I am, I am’. I love this. It’s going on my list of cool quotations for possible tattooage. But, of course, the critical thinking starts. There are a lot of contrasts to be made between these two books: I’m really interested in the relationship between mental health (or lack of it) and space. In both of these works, the depressed protagonist searches out different physical places (Cambridge MA, New York, London, etc) for various, essentially subconscious, reasons. Another thing that struck me was the role that sex plays: in Wurtzel’s text, the character is a compulsive shagger before she’s integrated into the whole mental health/therapy malarkey. In Plath’s however, ‘Esther’ appears a staunch defender of her right to virginity, and only has sex right at the end, incidentally before she leaves Belsize, the institution masquerading as a country club. Yet another intriguing factor is how both authors begin. Wurtzel depicts herself as sprawled on a bathroom floor, drugged up to block out the depression, while a party booms in her front room. Plath’s Esther is presented to the reader as a highly successful scholarship girl, 15 years of straight As, living the dream in New York with a flight of fashion entrepreneurs eating caviar and downing champers. And one more (finally) cool thing is how depression (Wurtzel ironically dismisses ‘mad’) is related with writing. Both women are writers, and Susanna, in ‘Girl, Interrupted’ is also a writer (I gleaned this from a film screening only, it may not be utterly correct). These are all trains of thought that I’d really like to investigate in the future. ‘Girl, Interrupted’, the text, should be on its way now to the porters lodge for my block of halls, and I’ve also bought the autobiography that the film ‘Patch Adams’ is based on. I thought it would be interesting to see how differently men and women either deal with, or represent, mental disorders. Thank God for Amazon.

Oi, lippy

I got my lip pierced a few months ago. It was, essentially, a spur of the moment thing. I surprised myself by actually getting it done, and I absolutely love it!! I was forced to tell the parents a month later when they announced their intentions for a visit to Scouse-ville. My Mother told me I was a ‘stupid child’, and I think my Dad just swore quietly. I didn’t really expect them to be pleased about it: my parents are pretty much as conservative as you can get. I was the archetypal ‘rich kid’: I had a pony, my parents have a boat… Anyway, I met my Mother at the train station when she came up from visiting my grandparents, and she more or less refused to look at it. Even though I’d had the ring replaced with a stud in preparation for an impending school placement, and I thought that it would be better for her to see a small stud than a fairly sizeable ring with a ball in the middle. Considerate, I thought! She didn’t really say much about it, so I was quite thankful for that. The interesting part came when my little cousin (16) decided to tell my Nan in an effort to become ‘favourite grand-daughter’. My Nan immediately rang my Mother to ask whether I had ‘fallen in with a bad crowd’. This made me giggle. It also started me off thinking: when, and why, did piercings get such a bad rep? Aversion to tattoos, I can probably understand more: it’s irreversible; any stupid decision to get tattooed when pissed (see recent Metro article about girl with 50 odd stars on her face) can haunt you for life. I thought about getting a tattoo for 3 years before actually getting it. But piercings? They can be taken out if/when the piercee gets bored. This is the logic I posed to my Grandma who had previously threatened me with disownment if I got my nose pierced. I had to tell her ‘Anna now comes with the lip ring’. It was a softer version of ‘like it or lump it’ which, of course, I would never say to any of my grandparents.

Then there’s the question of ‘why get pierced’? For me, it was basically an identity thing. I see it as kind of an outward manifestation of an inner self; expression of a voyage of discovery, if you will. I know that may be a fairly cliché thing to say: ‘I’m only expressing myself!!’ but hey. I had my ear lobes pierced when I was 13, then got a second set done a year later. This was followed by a naval and two upper ear piercings, on separate occasions across a span of, around, six years. I then had my tragus pierced in January this year, which looks fab but hurt (and still isn’t completely healed) like shit!!! I think a facial piercing is a bigger step, and the lip piercing followed a year where I really feel like I’ve got to know myself, and figure out where I want to go, much more than I ever have. In Shakespeare’s words I had ‘ever but slenderly known [my]self’. This was instigated by my decision to take an MA which would lead onto a PhD. I’d finally found a path in life that I was utterly passionate about, and couldn’t imagine my life if I didn’t get there. I’ve always quite admired the bloke in Chester who shouts out about religion all day, and believing in Jesus, ‘your soul will be saved’ etc. I always thought it must be just amazing to have something that you’re that passionate about that you will talk to complete strangers and shout out in a crowded city centre. And I think I’ve found my one. I’ll talk to absolutely anyone about how excited I am about the PhD, the future, ideas for books and all that. I’ve never talked about myself more, which makes me feel guilty and hope that I don’t come across as self-obsessed or whatever, but I am just genuinely buzzing about the prospect of the next four years at least.

I’ve always experimented with my appearance. I had brown hair, brown hair with red streaks, red hair, brown hair with blonde chunks, black/blue hair, brown hair with light brown and blonde highlights … I have this thing where I always want whatever I haven’t got with regards my hair: when it’s long I want it short and vice versa, when it’s my natural colour I want it dyed and vice versa. For the first time in my life I’m actually content with my appearance: the black/blue hair colour has made a comeback (albeit a bit faded at the moment), I’ve got my lip piercing (stud at the moment as the ball for the ring fell off), I’ve rekindled my love for the heavy eyeliner, and I’ve found a dress style that I think suits me (shirt/jumper combos and boyfriend jeans, or smart pants and a t-shirt). I feel like I’ve finally found what other people would term a ‘signature style’. I even feel now that when I had average brown hair, wore average clothes, used average make-up, that back then I was kind of a faded version of what I am now. Everything is accentuated. And I like it.

The first time I went home after I dyed my hair (about a month and a half ago) my Dad asked ‘Anna, are you a goth?’. I said ‘no’. ‘Have you got gothic tendencies?’. Nope. It’s weird: I’ve had black hair in the past, I’ve used heavy eyeliner in the past, I’ve just had my lip pierced. It’s like, only when all these things are combined then I apparently need to be pigeonholed. My friend from Chester came to visit last week, and she asked if I was an emo? A goth? A rock chick? I couldn’t answer ‘yes’ to any of those! Yeah, I like being on my own sometimes, yeah I like rock music but not to the isolation of other genres … My cousin and Auntie came up shopping to Chester when I still lived there, and my cousin announced that she wanted to be an emo, and therefore had to buy Converse trainers, black skinnies, eyeliner, and a big cap. I don’t think individuality is something you can just turn on like that. It’s taken me a long time to finally figure out who I am (I had a slight identity crisis last year and still, to this day, am intrigued about peoples’ first impressions of me) and I’m happy now I’m there.

Stacking shelves

It's 6.24 pm, and Anna is sat in the library writing a blog. Most of the other occupants appear to be asleep. It had been a productive day for the dark-haired one, with 1802 words being written on her third chapter of the dissertation: Charlotte Smith's use of a 'mother-writer author function'. It is shortly time for a trip to the pub.


... Definitely enough with the 'Big Brother' commentary thing.


It has, however, been a good day. Amazingly enough I slept straight through from 11pm ish to 8.15 this morning. This never happens - I've had sleep issues on and off for about 2 and a half years now, sometimes I can't get to sleep, and I never EVER stay asleep all night. It was impressive. Anyhow, I got to Chester around 10.30 and migrated straight to la bibliotheque. Ran into a friend from the year below, so have had quite a pleasant afternoon discussing how shite men are, the literary canon, and pasta pots. Have made a decent start with the 3rd chapter - it's divided into 3 sections, and I've started each of them off, and have also written my introduction.

I was just reading over my first blog entry, and was really struck by how I introduce myself. I appear to define myself by university. This was an unconscious thing, and it really made me realise just how much my academic aspirations have taken over my life. For example: when I move back to Chester, I have two weeks before the PhD starts. Am I spending this time getting pissed and sleeping? Well, partly: it is Fresher's Week. But mainly I'm intending to spend that time sorting out my job (to enable sufficient income so that I don't have to waste precious reading time worrying about lack of cash) and writing an article for a journal. It's only a short article (1500-2000), but still. I seem to have this disease at the moment where I just can't stop. This has been happening all year (Sept 08 - Sept 09): I'm constantly searching out things to do that will look fab on my academic CV, but don't really help me right here and right now. It's weird: I'm utterly obsessed about getting my name in print (it is once, already, in a poetry magazine called Anon :D) and doing all the things that will (hopefully) get me noticed when I apply for jobs in the future. I was never particularly dedicated in school (5 x A Grade, 3 x C Grade, 2 x D grade GCSEs) or college (1 x B Grade, 2 x C Grade A-levels and 1 x C Grade GCSE). I mean, these are *alright* results, but I should and could have done much better. I preferred to hang around the stables in checked shirts and chaps than sit at the dining room table with my revision timetable designed by my Dad, and the door shut.

I started worrying a while ago about not getting on the PhD. This prompted some long and hard thinking about what I'd do if, for whatever reason, I couldn't see it through and get a job as a lecturer. I came to the conclusion that I'd train up as a counsellor, like psychology type thangs. I'm not sure why this appeals to me. I had counselling when I was 20 and it helped me with a lot of stuff, and I figured that this would be a rewarding career. Of course, I'd have to face my Science demons, but this is a back-up plan that I sincerely hope I do not have to turn to. Hopefully, though, things will turn out just peachy: it certainly won't be for lack of trying if I fail!!

Welcome-age!!

OK, I have created a blog! The depths of my procrastination know no limits. Here's the quickest of quick whistle-stop tours to me, myself, and I. 22 year old MA student studying Renaissance and 18th Century Literature at the University of Liverpool, I gained a First Class degree in English from the University of Chester in 2008, and am going back there to start a PhD in October. I've got blacky blue hair, green eyes, and a penchant for 'body disfiguration' if my mother's to be believed (9 piercings, 1 tattoo). I'm living in Liverpool at the moment in what I like to call a cell (about 8 feet by 6, with a built in desk, wardrobe, and a randomly placed chair). Right now I'm sipping on a well-earned Zubrowka and apple juice, finding another way to waste time that should be spent on my dissertation. Incidentally, for the dissertation, I'm writing about how an 18th century writer Charlotte Smith exerts textual authority: I'm really enjoying it, she's a fascinating woman. She puts my life in a lot of perspective. She had a twat of a husband who left her for some French tottie, 10 kids, and no cash: she wrote poems, novels, and a play in order to sustain her family. Makes me feel rather guilty for complaining about faded hair colour.
I've got a soul-destroying part-time job at a local kids' playcentre where I make coffees, wait on, take orders, and get spoken down to like I'm a 12 year old retard. Example: the boss is the most picky, ridiculous man I have ever met, who hates the way that EVERYONE makes his coffees. Even though they're made correctly. I made him a latte a while ago, he came out and spoke verrrrry slowwwlly to me explaining that 'a cappucino is the one with the froth. A latte is a milky coffee'. I used up a lot of self-control that day.
When I'm not pandering to his and the rest of the place's patheticness, I can usually be found in the university library (solar-powerered, bright couches, coffee machine, shit loads of books = my idea of heaven). My dissertation's on track, I'm about to start my 3rd chapter which will keep me on course to have it all drafted by the end of the month. I'm also working on a conference paper that I'll be giving on the 9th September, a short story that may or may not be finished for a competition deadline on the 1st September, and an abstract for a publication which is due on Saturday. I'm dying for a career in academia, and am trying desperately hard to get a leg up at this early stage. I've spoken at two conferences so far: the one next month will make it 3. I've got fingers in 2 pies for possible publications; one which I'm sending in an abstract for, and the other I just have to send in a completed article. Exciting stuff! I'm on a constant overload at the moment, but that's just the way my year's been. If I stop I think I may collapse! Whenever I have free time, I also write poetry (have only written 4 poems since September, due to lack of time!!). I'm a big big fan of cathartic writing: I was introduced to this concept by some woman I randomly started talking to on facebook, and immediately fell for it. It helps me a lot: I think it's something about the organising of disorganised thoughts that just works.
Rightio, I think that's the tour over and done with! I'll be around and about soon to start writing about proper things!!