Catching my breath

Monday has come round, met with a combination of relief and despair. After the last few days, it feels like it's bound to disappoint. Maybe I'm being cynical, but more so, realistic. 

Thursday was our usual evening, spent at the pub quiz, where we usually avert our gaze from those teams who wrongly assume that because we are the youngest competitors, we must cheat our way into the league. To our shock this week, after going for what must be months, we won. Most of the teams clapped and cheered for us, Agatha Quiztee, the winners at last, if only for one week. Some stared resentfully in our direction as we celebrated with raised glasses and big grins. 

Friday began, and it was hell. Waiting frantically for results of my final degree grade was torture. Results were supposed to be released 12pm, on the dot. Little did we know, that meant everyone. Every single individual graduating from Northumbria university in 2015 got their final degree classification posted online on the same day. Later, obviously, this proved that the planning had failed dramatically, as five and a half hours later, I was one of the first to receive my classification, with others left to wait for an email instead that would arrive by 7pm. However, I couldn't complain. Three years of intensely hard work, tears, anger, stress, headaches and laughter, I got a 2.1 classification for English Literature and Creative Writing. All I could've hoped for. I was ecstatic. 

And what a way to end a weekend, than a Saturday spent in York, shopping, eating and drinking cocktails with my boyfriend. I feel like I'm just taking it all in now. With just over two weeks until I graduate, and no real career path in sight. I'm trying to be optimistic, trying to enjoy the lead up, trying to catch my breath and take it all in. 

The Dissertation nightmare

It has just occurred to me that it's been ages since I posted anything here, and not that I am under the impression that my (ha!) readers are eagerly awaiting the next update in my boring life with bated breath, but still, I like the fact that someone may be reading my chaotic ramblings, and getting something out of them. I've been busy to say the least. I should be busy right now, but I'm nursing a massive tequila fuelled hangover, and am lying on my bed, feeling bloated from a massive Nandos feast, so yep, I am not being the constructive person I need to be. My final uni assignments are due in 7th May. After that, it's game over. I will officially be out of the education system after years of school, sixth form and university. As of July, I will be awarded my DEGREE!!! What! I know, I can't believe it either. Still a few hurdles to go, but the one suggested in the title is settled at least. 

My dissertation. The thing I was dreading the most. 8,000 words of prose. I pride myself in being able to write prose at ease, and yet I underestimated the workload. I took on a massive challenge in my piece's structure, and it's taken me months of drafting, reading, redrafting, moaning, swearing and sending passive-aggressive stressy emails to my tutor, but finally, it's done. I need it binding and handing in to the office, and then that's a weight off my shoulders. With a Shakespeare essay, and an Eastenders portfolio still to tackle though, I can't relax just yet. With the aim to finish my work almost a week early, I am stressy! I'm uninspired, bored and just ready for a break. I have absolutely no career path in mind. I have no future prospects that are practical or in any way probable. I want to write. It is my passion. It runs through my veins and it is the only thing that has ever come naturally to me. To pursue a career in it, would be life changing. I'm a bit lost though, as I am a student and I need the money, as I'll soon have over £30,000 of student debt (HAHAHAHA WHAT.) and I have no idea how much money that is, and I'll never know. But still, I hope I get somewhere after three gruelling years of hard work, stress and tears. I've met some lovely people at uni, had some genuinely brilliant laughs, learned things I wouldn't even imagine, and yet, given my time over, I'm not sure I would make the same choices again. For me, uni, even from living at home, has been hard. I am not a naturally gifted person. I work hard for my marks, I've had three 1st marks in as many years, and I honestly felt like framing them, because I was shocked and proud to get those marks. I've never ever not put work in and fluked something. I'm the kind of person who has to read the novels, revise the plays, recite the poems, turn up with annotated copies of things, make notes in lectures and pay attention to what I'm told. Nothing about these last three years has been easy. There were times I've been ready to chuck the towel in, ups and downs like you'd never believe, and not just in my uni life, but it's been an experience all the same. 

there will be a certain amount of nostalgia when we raise a glass to the last three years, say a fond farewell to our fellow students and step out into the cruel wide world as graduates, as adults with degrees who are supposed to have their shit together. I'll miss it, maybe not for the reasons I should, but God, there will be a teary moment somewhere down the line. I'm leaving what I've always known, because it's time, I guess. It's time to be the person I've become. 

Don't walk away.

There's nothing like it. 

You scream "That's it! You walk away from me and it's over." 

The tears burn and something makes you test the waters and see what happens. It's the stubbornness inside you. The stubbornness you always claim to never own, nor recognise in your own reflection. The pride you so vainly possess. The need for reassurance. Your feet make your legs move, but there's some reluctance in each step. Your wounded face expression fades as I disappear, slamming the door behind me. Tears roll down my cheeks. My stomach plummets and my heart lodges in my windpipe uncomfortably. I can't breathe properly. I choke back the tears and try to prevent my eye make up from cascading down my cheeks. My attempt fails. My head and my heart fight silently with each other. My back to the door, I suddenly move. I peel myself up from my crouched position. Something makes me do it. I walk on autopilot. Out of the door, along the corridor, and pray with every ounce of strength I have that you're where I left you standing. Your head in your hands. You look distraught. You look crumpled. You look gutted. You don't see me coming. Or hear my gentle footsteps. And then the pull kicks in. I run towards you, and wrap my arms around you, and my tears begin once more. 

"I'm sorry. I love you." 

You look up at me, your eyes look sad, but behind that, there's a sort of relief. A thank-god-she-came-back sort of look. I gulp hard. 

"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean it, any of it." 

You wrap your arms around me so tight. I finally exhale properly. Relieved. Reassured. You kiss the top of my head, before leaning into my lips. 

"You don't get to walk away like that," you tell me. 

Beneath the tears and the smudged make up, I grin. Massively. My tears subside, as you take my hand. 

"Let's go. Looks like we both need a drink." 

I nod, and a secure smile settles on my face once more. 

There's something wonderful, beautiful, and utterly terrifying about having someone you can't live without. There's something even more beautiful, wonderful and terrifying in finding out they feel exactly the same way.

'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. 

Channeling avoidance.

July breezes and inane sneezes. The sun is out already. I'm gallantly attempting a tan. Or a top-up, that is. There's nothing I love more than a good ol' vitamin D binge, hence why summer is my favourite time of year. So, the sun worshipper is optimistically donning an outfit not too suitable for northern summertime, but who cares. Im writing because, well, I'm slacking. It's been a fair few days since I've written anything, and that's not just on my blog. I haven't written so much as a list, or a note, or a reminder in recent days. I'm being lazy. Avoiding the inevitable. Savouring my summer holidays before the dreaded, important final year stress sets in. I don't have a clue what to do with my life. I need help. I need opportunities. I'm scared. I'm excited. I'm ready for a challenge! 

Something more.

The way to my heart is through a really strong brewed coffee. The fresh comfortable silences that two people share. Being able to blurt out anything to someone and knowing they'll react well. Being seen as predictable. Knowing what the other person will say next, the side of the bed they sleep on and where their heart really lies. Their guilty pleasures, deepest secrets, their past regrets and future endeavours. The sacrifices you'll make for them, and they'll make for you. Hands down. Removing inhibitions, banishing worries and knowing there's no one you'd rather walk over broken glass for. I'm ridiculously happy. The kind of happiness that overly consumes you. It makes your chest tight and your face ache and your pulse race. The sleepless nights and the good morning texts. Having someone in your life that makes everything easier, better, more worthwhile. Being shamelessly soppy and hopelessly happy, and constantly having the biggest grin on your face. 

Firsts, lasts and always.

The rain taps ever so slightly on my window pane, traffic gliding past once in a while. I hear puddles being disturbed, silence being temporarily broken. It's almost April 2014. I know right? Where did the time go? Where did the beginning of the year creep off to? I honestly have no idea. I've become lazier than ever, at home, at uni, just generally I'm in hibernation-mode. I feel like I've not read or wrote anything substantial in months. I probably haven't done enough work for uni, and my energy is just drained by the cold northern weather, the long, sleepless drunken nights and the few boringly jagged days separating the time between vodkas. 

Somehow in the midst of the laziness I've pursued, I've managed to maintain something wonderful. A relationship with someone who is like my best friend. Yes, I'm a soppy bitch as of late, forever gushing about no longer being single, and my friends watch as the sides of my mouth turn ever so slightly upwards everytime I mention I start name-dropping or utter "boyfriend." You'd think I was 12 again, cringe. So the cramming must commence, I suppose. Seems like one thing starts and a hundred things end at once lately. I get caught up in the silly little things and zone out on big decision-making, important assignments and revision timetables. 

This time next week, I will officially no longer be a second year uni student (minus the fact I have an end of year exam to sit in May, but y'know, basically.) This scares the hell out of me. Module deadlines. Word counts looming. The days are being crossed off, counted down, reminisced over. I want to bury my head under my pillows and leave all the important decisions to someone who doesn't drink 62% proof rum on a Wednesday afternoon, or tweet thirty times a minute. Perhaps. Then again, I've made a couple of really good decisions to outweigh the bad. 

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. 

Blind Panic.

I'm typing this on my brand-spanking-new laptop, (let's hear a cheer of relief, excitement, whatever) because it's taken me days to fully work out even its navigation system. Who knew, Windows 8 is really confusing, especially with a touch-screen. Armed with industrial strength coffee, I am attempting to steady myself. Sleep deprived, on the edge of a nasty hangover, I'm procrastinating like never before. With an assignment due on Thursday, all I really want to do is hide under my bed covers and channel my avoidance for the foreseeable future. I'm too tired to function, so let's all forget the work and bask in the laziness that goes hand-in-hand with Sunday evenings. 

#blindpanic.

Happy days: #2

Sunny days when you've got nothing to do but take advantage of the good weather. Taking too many photos just so you can document your silly nights out (or piece them back together the morning after.) Having someone you genuinely could tell anything and everything to, and not worry. Being so comfortable with where your life is going that you have a chance to breathe, (oh and potentially book a holiday, yay.) Anticipating summer 2014 to be the best yet. Grinning so much your cheeks ache and your jaw begins to seize up. Laughing so much that your stomach muscles feel like you've done three hours at the gym. Counting your blessings every single day that you have the most incredible people in your life, and they're happy to be there. 

Unauthorised absence.

Well, I've been AWOL for eleven whole days, so I think I've got some explaining, or at least writing, to do. So, where have I been? What have I achieved in that week and a bit I haven't been blogging for? 

Sorry to disappoint, but not a lot. It's like the last eleven days are one surreal blur just leaving me with fragmented memories of smiles, laughter and laziness. So, it's February now, and it's threatening to snow up north, yes we do exist, even though we may not be under water like our capital. I've spent my weekends, as usual, out drinking, making new friends and reigniting others. In absolute honesty, nothing life-changing has happened in my absence. I'm increasingly burried in a stack of uni work that keeps mounting, and I keep actively ignoring in a desperate bid for it to disappear. Unlucky for me, I'm falling behind. I've felt rubbish for a few days, totally run down, and yet again, my immune system refused to pick up the slack once more after another weekend of bingeing, eating and staying up too late, hence why I spent the remainder of the weekend tucked up in bed, doped up, feeling utterly sorry for my miserable self. 

Recovering now, I'm greeted unwelcomingly with looming uni deadlines. Anyone who underestimates second year's difficulties, like me, will be sadly mistaken when it rears it's ugly head. Part of me feels like I'm stifled, it's like I can't breathe. I have too much reading to do, too much writing to delay, and too much sleep to catch up on. So, as well as this, I have something else that conjures up a feeling of dread deep inside my chest. I have six days left to settle on my module options for third year. I'm very indecisive anyway, but this is like torture. I kind of feel like I'm writing my own death warrant, carving out my own failure or something. It's important, and yet, there's no telling what will happen. Maybe I can hide from reality for one more day at least? Yes, that sounds very tempting. 

Duffy Moon did it!

Okay it's 5 to five, I've been up about twelve hours already. Exhausted, stressed to death, totally and utterly worn out. My heels are trailing, my eyelids are dropping and all I want is a massive Chinese and a strong drink, and a spooning partner. Sounds blissful to me. Today was one of the most stressful days of my life so far. My first real degree-level (if you actually call it that) exam that counts towards my final grade, and the last day of my first semester as a second-year student at Northumbria uni. Don't get me wrong, I can't fault it, it's just I'm so stressy that it's got me really down lately, but that's more of a personal problem than something to do with my degree itself. 

So today is, as many, if not all of you know, Friday 13th and as of yet, *touch wood* I haven't experienced anything other than extremely good luck. My exam went well, to my utmost relief, I calmed myself down and did what I believed was my best. I collected my two assignments and got 2:1s in both, which I'm so happy about. I'm finally, it seems, able to breathe again. I've felt so suffocated as of late, and it had got to the point of total utter misery. With some wonderful people to cheer me up, encourage me, and hand me the occasional drink (or revision notes) I got through it. I made it. I did what I was stressing so much about. Panic stations weren't necessary. My phone has been inundated with "good luck" followed by "well done" and "I knew you could do it!" And of course, the special one off my grandma Juney, which reads "hope the exam went ok. You CAN do it Duffy Moon!" so, I guess she's right, I can and hopefully, I have. 

Eventually home, after exams, assignment collection and a few too many intense hours of Christmas shopping, I'm now lying sprawled lazily on my bed, staring at the ceiling feeling happy and dazed.  I have no plans for tonight even though I've spent all week striving to make some involving a disgusting amount of alcohol, but I'm kinda okay with that. I'm tired and hungry, and chilling may seem like the perfect way to end a very stressful, important day for me. Tomorrow, that means, I'm getting drunk and stupid, with some lush people, so if you are reading this and not planning to be out getting messy with me tomorrow, I'd really like you to. Certain people definitely are who I have in mind. So, lazy time today and celebrations tomorrow. I can't wait to just sit back and enjoy Christmas festivities surrounded by people I know and love (my dad says I'm soppy, he's so right isn't he?) I'm so happy right now, I feel like I'm spaced out, but in a good way. I haven't really come to terms with the fact that I have the next seven weeks off, to do what I like, socialise and just see the new year in in style. Plus, there's someone who could really potentially make me very happy (soppy alert again) so I'm feeling overly optimistic, and yes, I promise I'm not under the influence narcotics of any kind, I just am genuinely happy. 

Let's be dramatic.

I've come to the conclusion that my writing is sparked by drama. Not the methodical act of drama, or drama in a worrying, chaotic kind of sense, but as in something dramatic. I write when I'm feeling, well, passionate. Yes, that's it. My blog is full of posts full of happy thoughts and gushing enthusiasm, as well as those on the other end of the spectrum. Those sad, tear-soaked posts. The pieces I write at 3am when I'm feeling upset or angry or distraught or just totally numb. Passion helps me write. None of these neither-here-nor-there feelings; the days that I'm "just okay" that are of no consequence, and just a week later will blur into the background and become a forgotten memory. My writing seems to, I've noticed, flares during emotional times. I write to illustrate my life, document an event or just to simply get a thought off my chest. My happiest pieces are usually written when I'm wearing my best smile, while my negative, upset pieces are composed when I'm wearing a deep frown and even maybe shedding the occasional bitter tear. It's took me a while to realise, but I'm just not one of these people who can write something brilliant on cue. (That's probably not a good thing to admit when I'm studying a creative writing degree, but y'know!) I feel like because I tell people "I want to write" they immediately think I should be able to whack out a bestseller in my lunch hour or during the adverts of Jeremy Kyle, but quite the opposite. It takes time, inspiration and patience (something my mam keeps telling me I need more of, and yes she's very right.) So, my ever-increasing dramatic life may actually give me some content for my "novel" but whether my personal life thrives or fails, well, it remains to be seen. 

September sunshine.

Yes, we're all staring at that big yellow thing in the sky with a mixture of delight and disbelief. It's four days into what is usually known as an autumnal month, and yet, the sun is burning hotter and shining brighter than ever. Much to my amazement and happiness, I admit, as the prospect of winter coming has made me prematurely miserable for weeks. I hate it. The cold, dark, rainy nights, the need for a coat, and gloves, and even sometimes wellies. The freezing mornings that make you want to stay in bed for all eternity. The impractically-chunky-knit jumpers. Leaving the house looking half-normal, and getting to your destination looking like a horror movie extra with an under-achieving make-up artist. The need for copious hot drinks and the longing for soups, and hot dinners. The need for slippers, and dressing gowns and a thick duvet, not a summer-weight one we've all grown so accustomed to as of late. Waking up to a ground covered in white dust, and wishing you were a burrowing animal, just so you had an excuse to hibernate throughout the long, cold, winter months.

Usually, I'm hating on September. A lonely, darkened, moody month. A month of Fresh Starts, except this year, it's not. Well, not for me, anyway. Every year, I've greeted September with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The knowing. The foresight of school days, new beginnings, or even that big one, University. However, this year, that dreaded sense of misery has vanished, to my utmost pleasure. As I am ready to start my second year at Uni, I feel somewhat prepared. I have made my way, reluctantly, through many of the texts on my reading list for Semester 1, I've made plans with friends for birthday celebrations in the coming weeks, and I'm even missing the bustling campus vibe. The city streets, the sea of people carrying overly-huge textbooks like me. The student daze. I'm thriving on it right now. Relaxed, yet stressful. Peaceful, yet loud. I'm happier now, than I have been for a while, every time this time of year comes around. My worries are being thrust under the nearest rug, because, frankly, I'm not ready to give up my summer smile yet, even if the big yellow ball in the sky does a fateful disappearing act on me. This time, I'm ready.

Texts that changed my life.

I've actually just realised that for a Literature student, I don't blog an awful lot about novels/books/scripts/plays, and I think I probably should, considering that some of my major influences are writers, novelists and authors. There isn't a feeling like it, opening a new book, carefully folding it's spine as not to damage it's insides, and revealing something spectacular. Ever read something that you believe changed your life? I have. I'm always reading things I think change me, for the best or the worst, but still affect me. I truly believe that a book that doesn't change or affect you in some way, isn't worth reading. There's only a handful of books I've ever started to read, and suddenly put down, thrown to the other side of the room, and not finished, ever. Not that these books weren't good pieces of literature in their own right, because of course they probably were, it's just, to me, they weren't what I look for in a book. I look for escapism, the ability to become so enthralled in a novel, that everything else goes out of focus. You can't think about anything else, you can't sleep or function until you find out what the pages are going to reveal. 

So, what are my favourite books you may wonder? I have quite a few, for obvious different reasons. I really do not have a genre I lean towards, well, not usually. I'm a bit of a sucker for a romance, but it has to be deep, capturing every one of your senses, nothing superficial or dull or overly lovey-dovey. I also tend to read what most people would consider very strange books. Anything with a weird storyline, something different, unusual, uncanny (to quote my supposed reading material for uni.) If someone asks me what my favourite book is, I tend to become cagey and weird. It's like I'm giving up a part of my soul, as some people will hear a title and either roll their eyes or begin gushing, and that may be fine, in one sense, but I don't like it. I don't like the fact that there are already made assumptions behind the identity of a novel or a particular writer. The judgements that no text can ever fully escape. Despite this, when I tell someone the names of my favourite novels, I want to grab them by their wrist before they have chance to walk away, and explain my reasons behind my choices. Slightly OCD, probably, but at least someone walks away knowing that I love a book for one particular quote, or a characters' identity, or the full circle of the narrative.

Let's reveal all. My ultimate favourites are as follows. Of course, F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby is probably one of the few novels I could read a million times and not get sick of it. It's 1920's glam lifestyle, wrapped in debauchery, riches and extravagance, including a very messy love triangle over a decade, some very questionable morals and a true, and perhaps, tainted, insight into what Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald's life was really like. The bright lights, the prohibition and the scarily-real underworld in the Roaring Twenties in America. Also, a must read for anyone and everyone. A novel to change your life. Discard any former judgements you have around J.K Rowling, all the stereotypical bullshit surrounding her ability to "only write for children" because, in fact, she may have been cleverly hiding behind such a persona for years. The release of her first adult novel, The Casual Vacancy, specifically intended for an older readership, excited me probably more than it should have. I was very intrigued to see how daring and bloody and brilliant this woman was, when it came to writing gritty novels. I won't include a horrific amount of spoilers, because I always kind of hate that, I'll just say, Ms Rowling did not disappoint. A book I bought on my Dad's kindle, and literally didn't leave my room until I'd finished every single page of it. It's blindingly wrapped in deception, but it's so painfully true it kind of broke my heart. A novel not for anyone looking for a sequel to the Harry Potter phase, because, I cannot stress enough, this book is certainly NOT for children. It's an eye-opener, so pick it up. 

Thirdly, another very different novel. Sarra Manning's Unsticky. A girly book if there ever was such a thing. A fabulously apt-named novel, probably aimed at adults, but I think I read it first when I was about 16. One young woman's journey from a job she hates to one she never ever thought she'd do, for reasons that become very obviously clear as you read on. A hilariously funny, heart-wrenching, sexy, brilliant novel, by a writer I have so much admiration for. Her best work, in my eyes. Girls, this is a definite one for you. Fourth would be a masterpiece, by the very well-known John Green. Actually sod it, it's two-in-one. You all need to read these. They are so different, yet have some tell-tale Green traits in them, secretly, buried in their crisp pages, strong topics and powerful characters. Between Looking for Alaska and The Fault In Our Stars (frequently stylized as TFIOS) I think I cried enough tears to put my house under water. Full of real emotion, with some brilliant characters and very carefully structured narratives. If you love a good cry, pick one (or both) of these up at your nearest Waterstones. Immediately.

Some other brilliant reads, are as follows;

Kevin Brooks' Candy and Black Rabbit Summer. Very gritty, very real, very very Brooks' style.

Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk about Kevin. Witty, pure brilliance meets pure evil. Life-changing. My A-level Literature teacher introduced me to this, and I was even allowed to abandon my coursework to finish it!

Sarah Dessen's Just Listen. Echoing the importance of love, life and sticking together like glue. Fabulous.

David Nicholls' One Day. The film was good, but the novel is the most wonderful thing ever. Em and Dex!

Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road. Classic. Passionate. Violent. Everything you could ever want. Wow.

Bram Stoker's Dracula. A novel I have just recently read for my Uni course, and to my surprise, was one of the wittiest, well-thought out book I've ever had the pleasure of feasting my eyes on. Slash your first impressions, it's an awful lot more than an eerie version of the Twilight series. It's deep stuff. (Check out my fave, Van Helsing!)

Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? One of the first plays I'd ever read, and was not disappointed. Albee's most famous and most recognised work in his entire life. Wonderfully hilarious, the fun and games hide a thousand dirty secrets, and some fabulous one-liners. One to make you cry with laughter. Also, I never say this, but the film starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor is epic. A piece of theatre that you'd think was wrote with Richard and Elizabeth in mind. It's their tumultuous relationship on paper.

Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest- a piece of theatre I loved from the moment I set eyes on it. The witty title, the overly extravagant characters, the exquisitely brilliant dialogue. You couldn't ever ask for more from a play. Wilde at his most hilarious and most astounding.

So, these are a few of my major inspirations.

What are yours? I'd really love to know. Any recommendations are obviously welcome.

Now, I really have to go and get ready. I'm off to see, (I can't believe I'm saying this!) finally! The Great Gatsby. Cue lots of grins, and even more tears. 

FLAPPER DRESSES AT THE READY.

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.