Therapeutic ramblings.

Writing is therapeutic. I've just wrote about 300 words in my iPhone's 'Notes' section sounding off about my moany day, when it hits me, maybe I just need to write my thoughts down. Maybe the so-called writer myself needs to just get things out of my head to get a smile settling on my face. I feel a lot happier already. In a matter of minutes. It's relief. It's more than that though. Writing is innate to me. I was dreaming up stories before I was old enough to write them down. I've always wanted to write. Whether it was doodling my name multiple times in my notebook, compulsive list making or even just a document of my feelings, I've always had a notebook with me. Admittedly, I've never wrote a novel or a collection of poetry. At 21, I've not accomplished anything official writing-wise, but I think that's okay. It's the industry. I love picking up a book in Waterstones and smelling the fresh paper and examining the first page of printed ink. I love buying a book on my kindle and watching the money get debited from my account and then waiting while it appears magically on my screen. I love reading book reviews; gushing or scathing, appreciatory or negative. I love the bit where a writer dedicates their work to a specific person, a time or a place, a memory, a quote or something close to their heart. I love the words on a page and how they resonate with something I've felt, or experienced, or even just said aloud. Sometimes there's nothing more therapeutic than writing. 

'And your favourite is...?'

In case you don't know already, I'm a Literature student. About to embark (ha!) on my third and final year of my degree. I may have learnt a lot so far, and have more still to come, but there's always one question that will stump me when it's directed my way. 

"What is your favourite book/novel?" 

I sit, my expression blank, my hands going clammy. My eyes darting around the room, and really, exploring the darkest crevices in my imagination. I've read hundreds of books, that's a given. I don't ever tend to read a novel more than once, unless it's for revision purposes, i.e. By force rather than choice. So when someone asks me which is my preferred book of all time, I don't know what to say. 

It's problematic. I could be literary and cliché and slump for Fitzgerald's Gatsby, or Pride and Prejudice because okay, it's kind of brilliant. I could drift back to Joanna Nadin's brilliant series I've been following for about six years: Rachel Riley, although then I can't pick one. I could voice my appreciation for Bram Stoker's Dracula and watch people's eyes devour my hint: the dark stuff excites me. So, maybe I can't pick one. Or two, or even three. But here are aome books, off the top of my head, that I will continue to recommend to others; 

Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë

the End of Alice- A.M Homes, 

We Need to Talk About Kevin- Lionel Shriver, 

100 Reasons Why- Jay Asher, 

Looking For Alaska- John Green, Revolutionary Road- Richard Yates, Lolita- Vladamir Nabokov, 

JUNK- Melvin Burgess, 

Candy- Kevin Brooks, 

Just Listen- Sarah Dessen,

Jekyll and Hyde- R. L Stephenson,

The Dinner- Herman Koch,

One Day- David Nicholls,

Summer House with Swimming Pool- Herman Koch,

The Fault in Our Stars- John Green, 

The Post-Birthday World- Lionel Shriver,

The Shock of The Fall- Nathan Filer,

Black Rabbit Summer- Kevin Brooks,

Paper Towns- John Green,

Nine Uses For An Ex-Boyfriend- Sarra Manning,

Room- Emma Donoghue,

and one I'm currently reading; 

Follow Me Down by Tanya Byrne.

Any book recommendations I welcome with open arms and wide eyes, the stranger, darker, weirder, the better. Also, total black comedic elements are my favourite. Moody novels, good conversations and tension. 

Book #9: Room by Emma Donoghue.

(Okay, reminder, this is a week ago in writing, sorry guys.)

It's 12:53 Ibiza time, my head is pulsating with the intensity of the heat, and also, at what I've just finished reading. I feel like I've been deprived of words on this holiday so far, so I'm writing this in my notes and will publish it when I get home on Monday/Tuesday. Tuesday probably, considering our flight lands in Newcastle at around 10pm Monday and I'll have other things to do than rewrite my inner thoughts that are three days stale. So with my up and coming tan lines I've worked many a tiring day to afford, here goes. 

This isn't a book recommendation, I really must say this from the off. This book is like nothing I've ever read before or am unlikely to read again. Gritty is one thing, but this is unbelievable. Emma Donoghue's 'room' has won awards, rightfully so. More so, I imagine, recognised for the content of the narrative than the writing itself, which is kinda sad, but it makes sense. A novel in it's own right, Room is more than that, it's a journey. The writing is exquisitely fresh and unbelievably well thought-out. The perspective in which it is told is comforting and yet makes Emma's writing more perverse than you can ever really comprehend. This story is none other than an art-form frankly. It is so well written that it made me cry, made me sick, and made me laugh. Donoghue combines the naivety of the narration with a sudden realness you absolutely must bring to a story about kidnap. Oh, didn't you know that? I didn't either. I had no idea what Room was about until I opened it on my kindle a few days ago, surrounded by an Ibiza coastline and lots of suntan lotion. So now, as I'm basking in the rays, room is on my mind. I honestly had no idea what this book was about, never mind that it was a piece of fiction so harrowingly considered when it comes to abduction.

A subject matter I would shy away from usually, but I can't say this enough, this book is BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN. It's riveting and shocking and at times, surprisingly it's very funny. I want to rave about it and thrust it into the hands of those around me, just so I can have someone to discuss it with. I felt drained as I finished this book, and understandably so. It kind of breaks your heart and then pieces it back together again. It doesn't need recommending, it doesn't need praise or advertisement, because the writing speaks for itself. 

Book #8: The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver.

To sum this book up in a word, bittersweet. That would hit the metaphorical nail on the head exactly. Lionel Shriver, award-winning author best known for her weird masterpiece that is We Need To Talk About Kevin, has this time, written something totally different, so far removed from her other works that you actually stop and question whether these two novels were dreamt up from the same mind. Poles apart, and yet her striking writing style is evident throughout both. 

The Post-Birthday world focuses on protagonist Irina, and her struggle to decide on a concrete path in which to develop her life. The narrative splits almost immediately after the introduction, into two parallel plot lines, in which Irina proceeds to make decisions that will shape, not only her future, but those individuals closest to her. A crusade of morals, life choices and loyalties, The Post-Birthday World tugged at my heart strings and made me question the very foundations between right and wrong. Skewed ideals are at the forefront of this novel, and while at first, my emotions were drained by the protagonist, the ride through the pages is nothing if not tumultuous. 

A brilliantly-written novel, one I've taken my time to read, like savouring a fabulous meal, if only to feel too full afterwards. Shriver writes with such conviction that once or twice, I even shed a tear for the most pompous or infuriating characters. My sympathies were all over the place, constantly switching between head and heart like Irina does. Her dual-journey is full of emotion, heartache and excitement, and not one I took lightly. I struggled to read certain parts of this book, out of sheer denial at what I was reading. Just when you think you've cracked Shriver's secret, you're spun in an entirely different direction, left with nothing but an expression of disbelief.

You'd do well to read this book. 

Monday blues.

Ever get the feeling that the universe is just set against you? Well, if there's such a thing, it's working particularly awkwardly today with regards to me. I'll give you a little insight into my tormented day so far (btw: it's only 12:29 now!) My day started with a very unwelcoming awakening, the sound of rain hammering off my bedroom window. I sighed, heavily, turned off the shrill call of my phone alarm and physically forced myself to abandon the lovely comfort of my bed, departing my love until later in the day. I almost shed a tear, the separation is almost too much. It's 8am, and it's still grey and dark out. The street lights are struggling to break through the thick misty morning. It's not exactly a motivational start to the day. I have breakfast, (not enough coffee) and just manage to catch my first bus, after multiple people testing my patience (and my poker-face.) 

I end up just on time for my next bus, and because I'm a nice person, I let the elderly woman in the queue get on the bus in front of me. Turns out, everyone behind said woman got transferred to a bus due ten minutes later. Cue me ignoring every impulse I had not to swear and scream at my damned bad luck. Eveything this morning just seemed to be set against me, it went on and on, and now, I find myself on a bus homeward bound, funnily. Boycotting my last film studies lecture because I'm a mess, it's rainy and I'm in need of lots of coffee. Oh, and I have an unbelievable amount of reading to do for tomorrow morning. Really, today is a day for sitting at home with piping-hot food and lots of caffeine, maybe a duvet, a film, a good book or in my case, probably Sky+ planner. I have 2 hours of Downton to catch up on, and that's just in the last week. 

Ps. I need fish finger sandwiches, or soup as a matter of urgency. ✋

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.

100 books in the making.

Okay, for months now, I've moaned about how boring it is, only being restricted to reading Course Books for my Literature and Creative Writing degree. So, now that I'm finally free for four whole months, as well as getting wasted, I have a very carefully adapted list of books I want to read. Some are randomly added, some are recommended by others- friends, people from the twittersphere, my cousin Sophie (canny little mention there, hey Sophs!) who has a very keen eye for a great book, so we're always swapping our latest finds and fawning over them together over the dinner table on a Sunday afternoon.

So, what does my list consist of? I'll probably add to this, (okay, who am I kidding, of course I will) and some will probably be found, flicked through, then discarded, but for this moment in time, this is my list, as follows:

1. Paper Towns- John Green
2. An Abundance of Katherines- John Green
3. Will Grayson, Will Grayson- John Green
4. Reckless- Allison Brennan
5. Safe Haven- Nicholas Sparks
6. Pygmalion- George Bernard Shaw
7. Lily's Mistake- Pamela Ann
8. Silver Linings Playbook- Matthew Quick
9. Never Too Far- Abbi Glines
10. Fallen Too Far- Abbi Glines
11. Gone Girl- Gillian Flynn
12. The Story-Teller- Maud Lindsay
13. Wait For You- J. Lynn
14. The Book Thief- Markus Zusak
15. Vanity Fair- William Makepeace Thackeray
16. The Picture Of Dorian Grey- Oscar Wilde
17. Inferno- Dan Brown
18. The Dice Man- Luke Rhinehart
19. Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend- Jenny Colgan
20. The Beautiful And The Damned- F. Scott Fitzgerald
21. This Side Of Paradise- F. Scott Fitzgerald
22. Why We Broke Up- Daniel Handler
23. Sense And Sensibility- Jane Austen
24. Little Women- Louisa May Alcott
25. A Streetcar Named Desire- Tennessee Williams
26. 1984- George Orwell
27. Mrs Dalloway- Virginia Woolf
28. Lolita- Vladimir Nabokov
29. The Sky Is Everywhere- Jandy Nelson
30. Dash And Lily's Book Of Dares- David Levithan and Rachel Cohn
31. Identical- Ellen Hopkins
32. Someday, Someday, Maybe- Lauren Graham
33. Kissing The Rain- Kevin Brooks
34. Nine Uses For An Ex Boyfriend- Sarra Manning 
35. A Day At The Office- Matt Dunn
36. You Had Me At Hello- Mhairi McFarlane
37. Mistakes In The Background- Laura Dockrill
38. On The Road- Jack Kerouac
39. Starter For Ten- David Nicholls
40. The Rosie Project- Graeme Simsion
41. One Night That Changes Everything- Lauren Barnholdt
42. Revenge Wears Prada- Lauren Weisberger 
43. The Post-Birthday World- Lionel Shriver
44. Room- Emma Donoghue
45. Waking Up Married- Lyn Mira Kelly
46. Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore- Robin Sloan
47. About A Boy- Nick Hornby
48. The End Of Alice- A.M Homes
49. Me Before You- Jojo Moyes
50. Engelby- Sebastian Faulkes
51. Whale Talk- Chris Crutcher 
52. How To Save A Life- Sara Zarr
53. The Knife Of Never Letting Go- Patrick Ness
54. Hold Still- Nina LaCour
55. Wintergirls- Laurie Halse Anderson
56. Please Ignore Vera Dietz- A.S King
57. Ask The Passengers- A.S King
58. Afterwards- Rosamund Lupton
59. Breathe My Name- R.A Nelson
60. A Thousand Cuts- Simon Lelic
61. Attachments- Rainbow Rowell
62. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
63. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
64. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
65. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
66. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
67. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
68. Harry Potter The Deathly Hallows
69. Whiskey Beach- Nora Roberts
70. Beautiful Ruins- Jess Walter
71. Defending Jacob- William Landay
72. Hunting And Gathering- Anna Gavalda
73. Stay- Deb Caletti
74. Such A Pretty Girl- Laura Weiss
75. Kez- Barry Hines
76. Gone With The Wind- Margaret Mitchell
77. The Lucky One- Nicholas Sparks
78. A Bend In The Road- Nicholas Sparks
79. So Much For That- Lionel Shriver
80. Big Brother- Lionel Shriver
81. Lace- Shirley Conran
82. Rachel's Holiday- Marian Keyes
83. Catch 22- Joseph Heller
84. Hate List- Jennifer Brown
85. Monster Love- Carol Topolski
86. The Rules of Disappearing- Ashley Elston
87. The Hunger Games- Suzanne Collins
88. Catching Fire- Suzanne Collins
89. Mockingjay- Suzanne Collins
90. Speak-  Laurie Halse Anderson
91. Umbrella- Will Self
92. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon
93. Fahrenheit 451- Ray Bradbury
94. The Bell Jar- Sylvia Plath
95. The Unknowns- Gabriel Roth
96. Follow Me Down- Tanya Byrne
97. Close My Eyes- Sophie Mckenzie
98. Tigers In Red Weather- Liza Klaussman
99. Cloud Atlas- David Mitchell
100. Visitation Street- Ivy Pochoda

I'm not setting a deadline for these books to be read by, because life is unpredictable and I just know I'd end up resenting a task that should be nothing other than relaxing. For every book I read on this list, I will write a blog post, on what I think, what others think that have read it, and over all, my verdict on each piece of literature. Some are just for fun, some are deep and meaningful (well, the blurbs say so) and some are just sarcastic and witty words all thrown together. I'm looking forward to this. I love reading more than I can say, so this is not an effort for me in the slightest. So, I'm ready..Are you?

Pass me the chicken soup.

So, the sun is shining, the birds are singing and on the surface, this can only mean one thing. A recipe for a successful day, in the north east. As anyone will know, it's a very rare occurrence that we get a visit from that big yellow thing in the sky, so when said holy day arrives, everyone is out in full-swing; happy smiling faces, sparsely dressed people, donning sandles and shorts and very occasionally, sunglasses. But, for me, that recipe just isn't hitting the spot. Why? I'm not feeling myself. In more sense than one.

I'll not give you an unnecessarily dull somewhat-psychological analysis of my state of mind, or any sort of morbid list of my medical symptoms of illness, as that's also pretty boring to read (I presume, I don't mean to insult anyone who may actually find my illness interesting, you total sadists.) Kidding, obviously. Cold-like symptoms in June. You're thinking WHAT? So am I. I am never usually unwell, so when I am, it really gets me down. As for the last few days, exhaustion has set in. I've been even more miserable and intolerant than usual, and increasingly anti-social (and I hate myself for that.) I'm bored to tears. I feel like I have had such high hopes for 'Summer 2013' for so long (hence the inverted commas for entitling!) that it was likely it would fall short of my expectations, and it hasn't even started yet. Not, completely, anyway. I know, this sounds dreadfully pessimistic, but as I have said on many occasions, I am a negative person by default, although I kind of hate that. I just don't think I'm making the most of the time I have, and hardly ever see my friends, due to their prior commitments or my refusal to appear second best or even last resort. I've been so moody lately, I'm sick of being in my own company, yet am somewhat comforted by it.

On a more positive note, I invested in my own Kindle the other day and have fell head-over-heels in love with it. I already have a few dozen titles on there, just sat on their literary haunches, waiting to be read. I can now proudly say I've not only just finished reading my first book on my Kindle, but one of the first books I actually couldn't put down, for first time in months. I love that. Discovering a book, or an author who writes such pure genius, with such wit, that you connect in a way that makes you grin. The said book is The Dinner by Herman Koch. I won't give much away, as spoilers are hideous and I'd hate to be reading a blog and the ending to be revealed in three short, quipping lines, like a comedy act gone wrong. Originally written in Dutch and then translated into English, The Dinner follows the story of two couples and their families, revolving around a dinner at a restaurant, one night. It's obviously, so much more than that. An international bestseller. Read it. You must. It's one of the most brilliant, witty, sarcastic pieces of literature I've ever feasted my eyes on, and will undoubtedly spend weeks spouting off about Koch's wonderful writing style.

So, I guess I best actually try and pull myself together. Sick of feeling sickly and blue. I think it's about time I loaded up on chicken soup, miracle cures and whacked on my best smile, even if it is false for a while. Because, eventually, I won't need the chicken soup. In time (hopefully soon) I'll feel better, and I'll be back to my old (well, nineteen year-old) self, happily pessimistic and a lot more sociable than I have been lately. Promise.

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. 

from the creator of Jack and Algy: