I actually did it!

Well, I've been busy.

As of 15th July 2015, I became a fully fledged graduate. I now have a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. I got the 2:1 I was dying for, and although I was my usual stress self, the day went incredibly well. Putting on my gown, I glowed with pride. I somehow managed to bag EIGHT guest tickets for my ceremony, allowing all of my special people to see me graduate, which meant the world to me. My parents, my grandparents, my sister, my auntie, and not forgetting my wonderful boyfriend Lukas, without whom all of this would be just a pipedream. I don't know if any of them cried that day, looking up at me on stage, as I shook the chancellor's hand, smiled into the camera and walked off stage again, this time, WITH A DEGREE! But I felt myself buzz as I sat back in my seat, alongside my friend Laura. We looked at each other, and laughed: 'WE DIDN'T FALL!'

I probably could've cried, I just felt so overwhelmed. Admittedly, I did have a *few* diva moments throughout the day, when my gown irritated me, when my stomach rumbled and my head cried out for coffee. But luckily, I was met with helping hands, 16 to be precise. I can't even put it into words how much it meant to me that all my family got to see me awarded the degree I've been moaning on about for the past three years.

I won't sit here and lie and say those three years were easy. In fact, at times, I could've thrown down my books and packed it all in. I am sitting cross-legged on my bed, drinking coffee and reminiscing, calmly and happily, but that wasn't always the way. I was never very sure about going to Uni in the first place. I was shy. I didn't jump at the chance of making new friends, and being thrown into new situations. I worked my arse off for my A-levels, because basically, everyone at my school was encouraged to go to Uni, if you could get in. So I did. I sort of came around to the idea by the time I was in Year 13, while crippled under resit forms, I just decided I had to grin and bare it.

I got in. I was accepted into Uni and it all unfolded from there. Second week in, I was terrified. Thrown into my first real seminar, made to voice my opinions on novels I hadn't quite managed to finish, never mind form said opinion, but I bluffed my way through. I made friends, I gained confidence, I wrote an essay, I referenced correctly, I met new tutors, I began to adapt. I chose a Creative Writing course as my double honours alongside Literature, as I really loved writing. Little did I know, that would be my strength. I struggled in my lit essays. I didn't get the marks I was expected. The workload got on top of me. When my CW tutor sat us down and said we had 60 minutes to write a poem, I actually had a meltdown. Sorry, I'm rambling.

Basically, what I'm saying is, I may have a degree. I'm surrounded by those congratulating me and telling me how proud they are of me. I feel the pride too, but I also know, I struggled. I didn't sail through Uni with a book in one hand and a pint of lager in the other. The past three years of my life have been eventful to say the least... I went on three holidays, lost my confidence, began writing a blog, read a hell of a lot, drank so much I was physically sick, cried so much my head hurt, lost friends and gained others, established a love/hate relationship with Sambuca, celebrated, grieved, partied, gained a boyfriend, joined the gym, put on weight, grown my hair and got my confidence back. And now it's done. I can take a breather.

I haven't got a clue what I'm going to do with my life. But I have a degree, so I'm not panicking too much.

Stressed: take two.

The first semester of final year is quickly coming to an-all-too-frightening end. I have two more seminars and one more lecture to go, before the Christmas holidays begin. As of December 5th, I'm free for six weeks or so, to panic and ponder next semester's modules and the finality that comes with finishing your degree, a prospect I was never sure I'd ever arrive at. 

I'm proud, worried and anxious. The assignments are mounting up, along with the pressure, and the looming deadlines appear to taunt me. The uncertainty of my life after May 2015 is scaring me stiff. I'm absolutely bricking it. The outside world. I've never been into the proper outside world before. At the age of 21, my feet have been firmly rooted in education since the age of 3. It's all I've ever known, passed from pillar to post, nursery to school to university, from institution to institution, without a care in the world. I've sat countless exams, cried unbelievable amounts of tears, and written a hell of a lot of words in that time, but maybe I'm about to make it. If only I can make it through these next few weeks of deadlines, I'll be able to breathe again properly without a tight chest and a worried, pallid face expression. 

Here's to hoping. Holding on tight, 2014 is coming to an end. Better go out with a bang. 

Mass of negatives.

Lately, I seem to have given up with regards to my degree. I don't know what I'm doing with it, and I'm struggling. The assignments get me stressed and get me down. I cry. I honestly am not ashamed to say it. My writing is dwindling, my skill isn't even really there, and I feel like I'm totally lost. Whatever I started out to do seems to have vanished from my view. My friends are making plans for after this (final) year and I don't know where to start. The passion once in my eyes seems to have fizzled out. I'm passive, apathetic and maybe, just maybe I want to want something simple. 

I sometimes sit and curse the fact I've aimed for something better in life. I look at my family and want to make them proud. But at the same time, I have a lot of respect for them. I see what hard work does, but in turn, what it does to people. I want to make something of myself, for my family, as well as for me. But what? Writing is a stupid aim, I curse myself saying. What can I write? A journalistic article? I don't know enough. I'm too opinionated on things nobody wants to read about. I don't have the concentration or the skill to write a novel, and even then, that's hardly a livelihood to sit on. I need to get my act together and my arse into gear. 

But lately, I have my home ties more than ever. I want to stay close, my family are everything to me, and things at the minute need praying for. My 'career' or whatever that is/may come to be, is on the  back bench. I'm sick of everyone telling me to plunge myself into a career. WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'D WANT TO BE A TEACHER?! 

Stressed, bored, apathetic, lost drive. No enthusiasm. Winter blues, we meet again. 

Plan B.

Wrongly, I've always been one of those all-my-eggs-in-one-basket kinda person. I throw every inch of myself into something if it's what I really want, in the same way I won't make the slightest bit of effort if my heart isn't in it. All my choices are based on what I really want, but there's always a little voice in the back of my head whispering something about a Plan B, a second choice, a back-up. 

"Or you could always go into teaching?" I hear one of my relatives say when I tell them for the millionth time (vaguely) that I want to write when they ask about my career prospects and "what are you really going to do with a Literature degree?" My face expression goes blank. I don't even have enough self-restraint to hold the bored, unimpressed grimace back. It's too close to home. My face scrumples as if someone has just spat on the pavement in front of me, as I wonder how I can explain to the people who I love that the only thing I will ever consider doing and happily, is writing. It's unrealistic, ambitious, dreamy, naive, whatever. I've heard it all. It's arty, risky, "a tricky field to get your name known in" it's "not great money" and "not a steady wage" and "you'll never get a mortgage" and "how will you support yourself on that?" SHUT UP.

How I see it is this; I'm not choosing, even unwillingly, to get myself into 30 grand's worth of debt (bearing in mind I'm a normal person from a normal working-class background) and I can't even envisage how much money that actually is.. To then settle for something that doesn't make me happy. Something that makes my blood race and my veins pulse and my brain explode in ecstasy. It's what I want. Simple as. Back up plans maybe aren't for me. 

Call me Duffy Moon.

"you can do it, duffy moon." -JJ.

The girl with the wry smile that creeps slowly across her face when no one is looking. The one who just disappears for hours with no explanation and returns later, expressing too many emotions to put your finger on. She spends her time reading and writing. It's not only her passion, but it's her escape. When life in the real world gets too much, that's what she does, and it's kind of perfect. Shut the doors, shut everyone out, and indulge in a passion that will continue long after she's gone. It's hopeful and endearing and dangerous all at once. Those pages hide so many secrets, so many lies, so many passions. Those words aren't just dreamed up, they are her dreams. What she writes, is what she envisages in her own future. That's her way of putting her dreams into reality. Making it physical. Putting it down on paper. Maybe it's not everyone's idea of dreaming, but it's hers. It's all she's wanted for as long as she can remember, and if she doesn't get it, she doesn't know what she'll do. She never stops writing. There's always something to write about. It doesn't matter that every piece she writes isn't up to publishing scratch. It's not for them, she writes because she needs to. Approval isn't necessary, from them, from you, from anyone. But if you do, even better. That girl will always be a dreamer. She's destined for big things. Huge things. That notebook by her bedside harbours her deepest desires and her biggest secrets, and some of the greatest 3am ideas anyone has ever had. All you need to do is remember this name, you'll see it in flashing lights one day. Duffy Moon.

It's not always rainbows and butterflies, it's compromise.

Yes, I'm quoting Maroon 5, and yes, I really did love them before the days that Adam Levine and Wiz Khalifa joined forces to flash their tatts and collaborate with Payphone. This line of lyrics from one of my (and probably a lot of others) all-time favourite songs, She will be loved, has been stuck in my head all morning. Well, all morning would actually imply something false, as I've only been conscious for about ninety minutes. Alcohol-related, obviously. So, in true Carrie Bradshaw style, I got to thinking. (hey, that's topical and I haven't even meant to do what I'm about to do.)

I got to thinking about compromise. From a young age, our generation has been encouraged to express our passions and follow our dreams, yet at the grand almost-old-age of twenty, I'm now being told I need the very clichéd "back-up plan", y'know, just in case all this Dreaming Big may be, in fact, too big. What am I supposed to do, when I'm torn between following my passions, and actually being realistic? There aren't many people surrounding me who actually truly, hand-on-heart, believe that I'm going to make it as some big, hot-shot writer, and earn millions and live such a lux lifestyle that I'll never have to worry about being crippled with my fourty grand of student debt. I know I'm a dreamer, I always have been. But if I don't try, I'll spend my entire life wondering. Like your uncle, who after a few-too-many pints, tells everyone "I could've been the next Beckham" and wonders why the dinner table is filled with an awkward combination of laughs and knowing glances. Unfulfilled passions are, it seems, as taboo as following your dreams sometimes. I've seen the way my grandparents sometimes look at me when I talk about University life. I'm waiting for my grandad to say "that would never happen in my day" or something equally as stereotypical. Sometimes, I'm made to feel like a pariah, a disappointment, because I chose a degree I'm passionate about over something that will get me a steady job at the end of the three years. 

"Teaching, what about teaching?!" If I had a pound for every time I'd been asked that from a relative, friend or mere acquaintance when talking about that foreign territory, after university. I'm not entirely sure what they're waiting for me to say. I mean, there's nothing wrong with being a teacher, don't get me wrong, I'm not sitting here, slagging off someone else's choice of career path, I just know it's not for me. I had the most amazing group of English teachers at school, and one or two of them in particular probably inspired me to write, rather than to teach. Maybe that's backwards, I don't know, but however good they were at their job, I knew that while everyone else was discussing the significance of the green light in Gatsby, it wasn't the exam I was thinking of. I was sitting, less-than-comfortably in those hard, ugly, plastic school chairs, thinking "this is what I want to do. I want to write something like this." It just hit me. Like a train. I wanted to write, I wanted, in sixty years time, for students to be sitting down, at what are hopefully more comfortable chairs, in what I'll assume will be more developed classrooms, discussing my book. 

Ambitious? Of course, but I'd be lying if I said I was willing to compromise. Even though, it seems to be banded about all over the place. It seems such a dirty word. Every time I hear it, I want to scream and throw a four-year-old style temper tantrum. It's like "this is what I want, and I'm sure as hell going to get it." I just shrugged my shoulders writing this, because I don't know if it's possible that I can be any more true. 

But maybe, life is just one big compromise. That's a shocker. Tell me your face isn't really super straight now. Or are you wearing a downturned smile? Yes. That one. Perched huffily on your mouth. I understand that. I get what you feel right now. You don't want to hear it any more than I want to write it, but compromise is a big part of life, and we all, at some point, need to learn how to do it. Sometimes, it might not turn out so bad after all. Just because life doesn't turn out exactly like you expected, it doesn't mean it's wrong. I mean, didn't you see Sex and the City? Charlotte spends almost the entire series pin-pointing her ideal man; tall, dark, handsome, ambitious. Someone she can raise a family with. Someone polite, kind and very much like her. However, we see something miraculous happen. Our lovely, prim-and-proper Charlotte, ends up with Harry. Harry is short and bald and sarcastic, and bad-mannered and lazy and not at all what Charlotte set out to, I suppose, "achieve." Oh, and the last worm in the woodwork, he's Jewish. See, at this point, viewers are kind of torn. Is Charlotte going to run for the hills, because Harry isn't who she thought she'd end up with, or, against all odds, is she going to find happiness with someone other than her dreamed-up ideal? Well, I don't want to spoil it, but if you haven't seen it, where the hell have you been hiding?! You must live under a very large rock, because everyone knows what happens in Sex and the City. So, our lovely Charlotte ends up with Harry. Every glitch she encounters, she shrugs her shoulders at, and deals with it. Even if that means simply converting to Judaism.

Things don't always work out how you expected. Sometimes, compromise can be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Charlotte: I'm seeing someone . . . sort of. It's ridiculous—he's soooo not my type. He's bald. And short. And he talks with his mouth full, and . . . it's the best sex of my life.

The last 9 months.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but in hindsight, I've had the most incredible, life-changing nine months. To think back, the day I received my A-level results was a big deal for anyone, but also, personally to me. The day that seemed to explain what I'd been working for for seven years. The recognition, the proof that actually I hadn't been wasting my time pursuing an unreachable aim. Minus my dreadful failure of a French A-level, but we just laugh about that one. I think that was the start of my terrible decision making (something I've never looked back on since!)

 So, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't absolutely bricking it to start Uni when September arrived. The idea of not knowing a single person, studying something I absolutely loved and having to come out of my shell, terrified me to the core. I'm secretly quite shy, but my friends don't see that side of me. I get loud and bolshy and brash and giggly in the company I'm used to, and that's when I'm happiest. So, Uni was definitely a culture shock. I forced myself into meeting people and was of course, pleasantly surprised. Cue another special mention for three girls who have changed my life for the better over the last nine months, Jenny, Laura and Sarah. I love you girls! My drinking partners, my confidantes- no matter the hour, pub lunches that turn into drinking sprees, my fellow Literature and Creative writers. We share our love for the subject and passionate hatred for 9am starts, even if it is with Richy, a crowd favourite among many.

From spending Freshers Week, which at Northumbria, translates to eleven days or something equally as mad, my best friend Steph and I (also previously mentioned) became closer than ever. Shouting down the phone to a taxi service at five in the morning when we were soaked, going to a foam party and ending up with see-through shirts and horrendously wet hair and meeting so many people at one of the most incredible events I've ever been to, the headphone disco. For anyone that doesn't know, or hasn't experienced this, you enter a room, are given a set of huge headphones, and there are two channels being broadcast at once, which you can choose between and keep switching. There's nothing like it, taking your headphones off mid Summer of 69 and watching half of the room shout "the summer seemed to last forever" and the other half attempting to rap to Eminem and Rihanna, when in reality, the room is silent. It's hilarious. I suggest, if you ever get the chance, you go to one. It's such an enjoyable night, so grab some friends and put on your dancing shoes, because that will be a night to remember!

A little piece of advice to anyone going to start Uni in September. Don't worry! You'll love it! Include yourself, even if it means putting up with one or two infuriating people, before you meet the people who will quickly become your greatest friends. I actually live at home and travel to Uni, I don't miss out! I might fork out a stupid amount of money for taxis at crazy times in the morning, but surely I can justify my student loan expenses. Deal with the fact you're going to be in debt til you're fifty-something. It's all okay. If you pursue something you're passionate about, nothing else will matter. Have your end goal in sight, and don't take anything too seriously. And most of all, smile. Even if you're having a bad day, just remember, it's another step in the right direction. You'll get there eventually, so might as well enjoy your £27,000 worth of debt.

I've come out of my shell so much since starting Uni. It changed my life for the better. I love it. I can't tell anyone enough. I think I'm finally deciding what I'd like to do with my life. (Despite the fact I had a heart-to-heart with my taxi driver last night, and he told me to write a better 50 Shades of Grey!) I want to write. I want someone to pick up my novel and for it to change their life, in the way that so many of my favourite books have done for me. It's scary and ambitious, but I think it's truly the only thing I'd ever get a kick out of, so I'll do my utmost to get where I want to be.

A crazy 9 months. A Uni acceptance email; achieving BBC at A-level, and then spending the summer with my favourite people. A very drunk and emotional time at our Sixth Form leavers ball; I have so much to thank my teachers for, and I really did love (most of) them. An extended, mad Freshers week. The very scary first assignment. Receiving results. Reading one of my best pieces of creative writing to a room full of relative strangers, and having their faces all change and the positive responses flooding in. A piece for theatre, a screenplay and probably what I'm most proud of, 60 lines of poetry (yes Sarah, we did it!) Two exams, degree level, shocking enough to say, never mind sit.

So, that's Uni. What else did I get up to in the last 9 months? Too many parties, drunk nights and bank holidays for my liver to appreciate. I've taken an uncountable amount of photographs. I've seen The Script for the second time, Olly Murs and Michael McIntyre (for the third time!) I celebrated my 19th Birthday, and more recently, my sister's 18th. Lost someone really special to me, and heard my fair share of bad news,  all so heartbreaking and still hard to get your head round. But, most of all, I've met some brilliant people and my life has changed for the better, in the most part.

This isn't my most academic piece of writing, but probably one of the most truthful. The highlights of the time? Receiving my uni acceptance confirmation, breaking into hysterical tears, ringing my grandma Juney, the one person who believes in me, even on days where I can't even believe in myself, and told her the best news ever. She cried down the phone with me, and that, then, told me how much I really wanted it. I realised then, I had to be proud of what I'd achieved. Also, celebrating my sister's 18th, very recently. Funnily enough, although she's been renting my ID for the past six months or so, we're probably closer now she's a fully fledged legalised drinker like moi. Bonding over alcohol, I guess there are worst things.

My family, obviously, specifically my grandma, my best friends; Betty, Steph and Tasha. My Uni friends; Sarah, Laura and Jenny. My A-level English teachers, the countless bus and taxi drivers, aiding my hilarious escapades, the man who knows my Starbucks order before I get through the door, my Uni lecturers for pushing me to my limits, and a girl I don't know, yet feel like we've been friends for years. Gracie. A friend from the Twitterspere, if that's actually a concept, a girl who inspired me and taught me so much, as well as encouraged me to create this blog in the first place. I've read every single one of her blog posts, and every day I think with utmost disdain that I don't have the pleasure of knowing her in person, as we are in fact, hundreds of miles apart. I owe you an awful lot Gracie, and it's weird to be thanking someone you've never caught a glimpse of in person, but this is definitely down to you. If I hadn't made this blog, I'd be hiding behind my words, not expressing myself to the world, and not taking  risks. I really look up to you, and I know you'll achieve big things in the future.

These people deserve a huge thank you. I couldn't have done this without you, and words can never describe how grateful I am. I love you all. You witnessed my life change, and didn't run from my crazy side.

Cheers guys. I love you all. Even when I'm THIS drunk. 

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

I want to be a real-life Carrie Bradshaw meets Bridget Jones. With a bank balance like J.K. Rowling's, a fan-base like John Green and the infamy of Oscar Wilde. That's probably ambitious, but who cares? Maybe I'll get lucky.

Who I really am.

I've been up and down lately, for reasons that I won't list, otherwise i'll be on for pages. Anyway, I got to thinking about what I deserve, as well as who I really am. After talks with friends, I've come to realise a few things, mostly, that I shouldn't ever let someone make me feel small, instead, shrug it off, and don't give someone the satisfaction.

I've changed a lot this year, and I've finally decided who I want to be, as a person. This isn't, unfortunately, a massive, let's-confess-our-true-passions whirl, instead, just a little note to say I'm a better person, in spite of some of the horrible people I've come across lately.

Maybe I am the girl who drinks too much and ends up mouthing off from time to time. The girl who can't walk in her six inch heels but still won't go out without them. The girl who will spend a lot of money on an outfit that will lose any classiness it ever had by 3 am, when I'm drunk and either euphoric, tired or upset, because sometimes you don't need to always plaster a smile on your darkened visage. The girl who drinks industrial strength coffee, loves to write and is passionate about reading. I stay up all night and am no good during early mornings (before my third cuppa!) I bite my nails, and I get obscenely stressed out over stupid things. I hardly ever cry in public, because I don't know how other people would react. I'm a bit of a big spender when it comes to clothes, but I don't think that'll ever change. I've got a group of close friends, but seem to be expanding it, willingly. I'm happily impatient, and a very hard-worker. I hate Mondays and love Made In Chelsea. I never ever stop tweeting. I'm addicted to crime dramas, 90210, Grey's Anatomy and Pretty Little Liars. I touch-text and type, and my parents are always telling me that I'm wasted by just typing nonsense into a vacuum, and my typing skills would actually benefit someone. I can quote Friends, Mean Girls, When Harry Met Sally and  know all the words to Peter Kay's The Tour that Didn't Tour Tour. I go through stages when I just want to be alone and stroppy, I love closing my bedroom door and disappearing for a few hours, or even a day or two. (I swear I don't lock the door for days on end.) I love marmite. I have a short attention span, unless it's something I really am interested in. I have a gawky obsession with The Great Gatsby, and could gladly eat rubbishy foods until I was fifty stone.

I want to make it. Sounds, well, big, doesn't it? MAKE IT. Ambitious, probably. But who cares? I recently thought, why am I not taking Uni seriously? I should have more confidence in myself, as a person, a female, and a Literature and Creative Writing student. After all, why can't I be the one that makes it Big. Why have I got this blasé, half-hearted attitude that my writing isn't up to scratch. For a while after I started my Uni course, people kept saying to me "So, what do you want to do? Be the next J.K. Rowling?" It was as if it was one big joke to some people. I still get that impression. People ask what I study, and when I respond, the divide is infinitely clear. The nice half of the human race, with more than one brain cell to share between them, and a less than narrow mind, replies in an embellished sort of way, intrigued, happy, impressed. I like that. I get a kick out of the fact I do a "proper subject" at University. The other half, well, we've all experienced them, the bored looks, their eyes glaze over. The people that believe we should all go into vocational courses, that leave us with "actual career prospects" and "a steady pay" in our "less than stable" economic climate. I want to jump up and down on the spot, scream in their faces and then thrust a piece of my Best Work into their less than welcoming hands, just to prove I'm not a good-for-nothing, layabout student. Then one day, it just struck me. A eureka moment, as it were. Why can't I be the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King? Get a piece of my maddest work on the best sellers list, or reviewed in The Times. 

I get screwed over, kicked and brought down, but I'm ready to pick myself up and get a pint of confidence down my neck. (Not just Dutch Courage.) I want to be able to have something to show for my crippling student debts, late nights, early mornings and tonnes of hard work and inspiration. I want to be able to show all of those people who've turned me down, screwed me over or to made me feel about six inches high, that I'm worth a hell of a lot more than they ever gave me credit for. Whether they like it or not, I'm going to be able to say "I told you so!" with the biggest grin sitting on my face.

So, Who am I? 
Hopefully, in ten years, you'll not have to ask.