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. 

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. 

'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. 

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. 

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. 

"When are you going to... Write something?"

The infamous cry of my close-knit family echoes through the hallway. I sigh. I bite my nails so they look all stubby and raw. I sit with a downturned expression and doubt my capabilities as an even-just-aspiring writer until my knees feel like they may collapse under the weight of my negativity. I've completed 2/3rds of my degree now, and for what? It's a literature and creative writing degree and I've got nothing really at all to show for my shining ambition to be a writer. 

"What do you want to write?" People keep asking me and watch the vacant expression appear on my plain face. My eyes widen in desperation. My shoulders slump somewhere around my ankles. My mind goes blank, I'm absent from this. It's all so distant in my mind. It is my want, my ambition, my dream, oh so cliché! But it is, what I want to do with my life I suppose. That's what the answer is. I want to write: words. Strings of sentences and phrases and dialogue and action. Tears, tantrums, desires and opinions. I want to write... Something, anything to get my voice heard and my persona out there. Although I've kind of come to the end of the road, inspiration-wise. I'm surrounded by people at uni who have different aspirations, more concrete goals and agendas, and I see promise for them. But then, where's mine? I can't become a writer (however you even do that) without a lot of hard work and sleepless nights, stress and torment, and ultimately, dedication. I am that. But at the same time, I'm kind of lost. I don't feel like anyone really takes me seriously. I need pointing in the right direction. 

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. 

I'm a sentimentalist.

Okay so let's get one thing straight. I'm one of those sentimental people who has the ability to fall in love with something in about three seconds flat. Whether it be a person, a material object or more commonly, and brilliantly, a line of a book. I have just picked up, and when I say just, I mean, like, literally (see my Instagram @eleanorward_ for evidence!) Rainbow Rowell's widely acclaimed novel Eleanor and Park. I have had this book, along with about half a dozen others, sitting on the draws beside my bed since around Christmas. The titles visible when I open and close my eyes, there when I wake and when I drift heavily off to sleep. There is absolutely no denying that literature may be my one and only true love. (Sorry, to anyone this may offend, it's nothing personal.) 

But seriously, it's amazing. That feeling. I can't describe it in clearer terms. I just read half a page's worth; an inserted extract before the novel actually begins, and that's it. I'm in love. Properly. Like doe-eyed movie kinda love, intoxicated, overcome, totally and utterly seduced with the words on the page in front of me. If you know what this is like, you'll be pretty familiar with the feeling. My smile is happily escaping from my lips, as I get ready to discover a book that has been flung into my grasp too many times to even count. Plus, and this is the obvious bit (and I can't even explain why) I mean maybe I'm a narcissist, but I kind of like the fact I'm going to read a book entitled with my name (even partly so.) Vain or what? Who cares, let's do this. 

You can very obviously expect a blog post/review/babbling document as a follow up in time. Oh, while I'm at it, with books and everything.. I finished Nathan Filer's The Shock of the Fall today, and it's brilliant. I loved it. YOU MUST READ IT. Even @nathanfiler favourited my tweet about it, so y'know, he even knows how good his own work is. 

Happy days: #1

Okay so I've well and truly jumped on the #hashtagging happy days bandwagon and for that, I'm smiley yet also partly sorry for giving into it. It's kind of just too irresistible. I'm going to write happy posts every so often, in a list-like form, of things that make/ are making me, happy. Plus, as people know, I have a tendency to be cynical, negative and terribly pessimistic. Indeed. So, maybe, I think, this may help lift my mood, and focus on positives rather than negatives. Always a good idea, right? So here goes nothing. 

A kind of given, but Alex Turner's voice is just the soundtrack to my life at the minute. I'm unhealthily obsessed with Arctic Monkeys, and AM is, in my view, the best album yet. My favourite song, well, I have too many. I'm too indecisive for that. 

My "reading week" at uni: yes! It's finally here, shh, we're taking advantage of any time off possie. As of Monday coming, I'm off for the week (according to my own schedule anyway) so that means no uni, no stressy mornings and no boring as hell lectures at 9am. Happy days, I've needed time off for ages. Sleep time yes.

My latest read: as some of you may or may not know, Nathan Filer's debut novel The Shock of the Fall won Costa's book prize this year. Immediately, I almost sprinted to Waterstones to get my hands on a copy. As soon as my eyes feasted on the first few pass of this brand spanking new novel, I just knew I was going to love it. I'm about a third of the way through at the moment, and it's really addictive. The crisp pages are just engorged between my fingertips. It's one of the best pieces of writing I've read in ages. Read it. It's making me happy.

My old new-found obsession with My Family. We bought the boxset around Christmas time. If you haven't seen it already, I urge you to google it, or find one of the many sky channels that count on repeats to fund their viewings, because this programme will be lurking around I promise you. Originally a BBC sitcom, My Family follows the lives of the Harper family, their ups and downs, loves and losses, through chaos and celebration, turmoil and despair. I have seen every single episode multiple times, and now we've invested in the boxset (yes..boxsets are the way forward for a quick fix) I just need to watch them over and over again. Also, Miranda, yes, she's wonderful, and the sitcom is just painfully hilarious. Get watching.

Oh, and I can't forget this one. A spin off from the very well known Grey's Anatomy, Private Practise was discovered by me about a year ago, maybe less. I started watching just one or two episodes a week, and now it's five and a half seasons later and things are unwinding like never before. It's already finished, I might add. This programme doesn't run any more. It ended 13 episodes into six seasons, over nearly as many years. I have around 15 hours of it left to watch, ever, and I'm torn between savouring it and completely devouring it in one intense, bizarre, emotional sitting. The latter will probably occur very shortly. 

So, yes. Happy moments. Also, a tiny little shout out to Lukas. I'm not one for soppy exchanges and waaaaay OTT PDA's, but I don't care, this suffices, because, he makes me happy. So there you go. That's really all there is to it. 

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. 

Book #7: The End of Alice by A.M Homes.

I currently lie in my bed, staring at my bedroom walls, blank, expressionless. I have just finished this book, and now, I'm speechless. To look at the cover, examine it closely, it gives nothing away. Well, not to someone who hasn't read it, yet now, I've taken a second look, and this time, I get it. It's representative of what's inside the jacket, what the words are just dying to convey.

In all honesty, I had no idea what this book was about when I bought it. I just picked it up, liked the title and never even read the back of it. While the front cover reads 'this is everything fiction should be-wrenching, disturbing and emotive,' the inside is what really reveals more than I could have ever thought humanly possible. To state the absolute obvious if you've ever googled this book, or picked up a copy, it is not nice. In fact, I found it so horrific, so morally degrading, that I struggled to read it and actually get to the end.

Written in the 90's, this book got a really bitter reception, and with the subject matter, it's no surprise as to why. The story follows, and is narrated almost solely by a man, a convinced paedophile, who writes from the confines of his prison cell. In doing so, he exchanges letters with a young girl, manipulating and grooming her and all the while, tiny pieces, or in some places, large chunks of his criminal past are infiltrated into the reader's mind. 

I can't even begin to fully describe how I feel about this book. I actually dropped it when my eyes finished glossing over the last few lines, in a mixture of shock, disgust and relief. I can't even believe I'd read something like this. It's so chilling, so inhumane, so utterly perverse, that actually, I kind of wish I'd never layed eyes on it. My lungs feel exhausted, my heart is in my throat, my eyes are streaming, but whether these are tears of confusion, sadness or blinding fear, I don't know. This is not, I must stress, a book for the faint hearted. More brutal as it goes on, I can't even count how many times my gag reflex kicked in when my eyes began to feast on the monstrosity in front of me. Shocked to the core, disgusted beyond belief, I feel kind of numb now. 

It's full of manipulation, deceit and ruin; loss of innocence, brutality and mass disturbance. There's something about this book that gets under your skin. Grabs you by the throat and leaves you gasping for life. While I can sit and appreciate how skillfully it is written, I will never ever suggest anyone need/must read it. From it's vulgar, masochistic tones, to it's sheer, unadulterated courage, I can't even believe this was allowed to be published. Haunting from the first page to the very last, a book I will not forget in a hurry, no matter how hard I try. An eye-opener, a casualty you wish you'd never seen, a demon you'd never wish to discover. Read it or don't, that's not for me to say. I just know, personally, and I know most will agree, this may be a subject taken a bit too far. Maybe this novel should have been kept hidden in the dark, chilling depths of A.M Homes' mind, rather than a copy of it left discarded in disgust at my bedside. 

Breathe easy.

Well that's it. My poetry assignment has been handed in, a dreaded eighty lines that took me much longer than it should have. Eighty sodding lines that caused me a lot of aggro, stress and headaches, but now, I can breathe, if only temporarily. The real tester will be Friday. The dreaded unlucky 13th has, for some sick reason, been the day that our Early Modern Cultures exam has been assigned to. The joys, ey? I'm not at all prepared, and a little bit too tired to put in the right amount of effort. The sooner 11.30 on Friday morning arrives, the better, in my opinion. 

I keep saying it, but the tequila will be got in at the bar. I'm deadly serious. Even if it is before 12pm, I think it's someone's duty to have a little tipple waiting for me as a congratulations it's all over kinda thing. Yeah, we've established I do not hold up well under pressure, so you probably know, uni is making me a lb even more miserable version of myself. On the upside, I'm starting to get into the Christmas spirit. I've just purchased a few gifts to begin with, and still have quite a few more to go. The decorations are up, the fairy lights are shining and even the pubs have started playing Christmas songs at 2am amidst broken glass and dirty pints. I'm smiling and getting excited to spend time with my family and friends, and of course, the very amazing Christmas dinner prepared by one of my fave peoples on the planet, (MASSIVE SHOUTOUT TO THE LEGEND THAT IS MY GRANDMA JUNEY!) so, happy times are coming in full-force. Plus, I kinda think I'm about to be very happy indeed. Surrounded by people I really need and want in my life. I'm so lucky. I can breathe. 

Book #5: Why We Broke Up.

                 

Well well well, it's 23:23 and I have literally just finished this book. As you can probably tell, I couldn't wait to write about it. Even with every muscle in my body aching heavily and a throat that feels like it may close up at any moment, this book is all I can think about. Daniel Handler is certainly on to a winner here. 

But, I'm not smiling. I'm mulling it over, I suppose. I liked it. I didn't love it, because it's not one of those kinds of hooks, I guess. It isn't full of happiness and smiles and cheekiness and everything you may expect. Read the summary, the blurb or whatever people are calling the teaser on the back of novels these days. That will really provide you with a good insight into what this book is really like. It's deeply cynical, laugh-out-loud hilarious and very, vey uplifting. 

Minerva, or Min as we come to know our protagonist as, is just wonderful. Her dialogue never fails to shock or make me laugh, and there are certain traits of her I see in myself, as well as a few people I'm close to. Al, well he's like the partner in crime, the best friend we all want, the funny, happy, playful one we want to call at 3am and go and have coffee with and talk about old films until we can barely keep our eyes open, or at least that's what I think. Ed, hmm. This is tricky. I don't want to spoil it, but let's be honest, the title gives it away, but that isn't really the spoiler, the climax, the crescendo. That is very well hidden, so don't bother trying to guess, just read on, blinded and enjoy what you learn. Ed's character is pretty, as my old media teacher, and come to think of it, my Story module tutor would describe as a "2D character." Yes, he doesn't change as much as it appears from the outset. He has some brilliant lines but the best ones are preserved for our very own Min. 

The novel even is combined with some very handy illustrations that actually couldn't be done without, they're necessary for the story to proceed, but you'll realise it fully if you read it. I cried at this book, laughed at it, and at times, even cringed at it. One of the funniest break-up novels I've ever read, and it's even more interesting when you realise it's a young girl's perspective and it's actually written by a man. Daniel Handler's writing is undoubtedly funny, very moving and never fails to keep you hooked. Even as my eyes glossed over the last pages, I felt like I was disappearing further and further into the novel. Plus, I feel like the fourth person at the table at the end, with Al, Lauren and Min. I know her so well, from just a few hundred pages, and that, well, that takes skill. A very big applause for Daniel Handler, a wonderful book I will be suggesting all Autumn-long. 

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?

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. 

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.

A shot of caffeine and you can conquer the world.

As fancy as you try to say it, no matter whether you use an Italian tongue or an English twang, Black coffee is, and always will be, black coffee. My saviour, my ultimate pleasure, my serious obsession. I'm a coffee junkie. A 19-year-old caffeine junkie. Self-confessed, and proud as punch. I drink a serious amount of it, and rely on it to get me through difficult times, early mornings and later nights. A hangover kick, an early morning wake-up and the greatest refreshment in the world.

The man in my local Starbucks knows my name and exactly what I want as he sees me push open the door. A smile, slightly funny, and a recognised nod, and my thick, black, strong coffee is placed delicately in front of me. It opens me up to a myriad of possibilities. A coffee in tow, and I'm capable of anything. I feel accomplished, prepared, ready to face whatever the day may throw my way; good, bad or down-right horrendous.

This is a particularly suitable post today, after seven cups of industrial strength coffee, I still don't feel prepared to revise like hell for Monday. D-Day is approaching at a somewhat dangerous speed, and I'm not at all ready for what that might mean. I've done countless Literature exams, but I guess at degree level, it matters the most. Don't get me wrong, my course is everything I could want it to be, as well as a whole lot more, with a group of wonderful people, especially a little mention for my favourite girlies- Laura, Sarah and Jenny (who will probably be reading, hey girls!) who are just brilliant and hilarious, and the only kind of people you'd want to spend 9am lectures with and not want to commit a horrific kind of crime. The revision, however, never gets easier. Baracading my bedroom door, hiding my phone and arming myself with a heap of Literature-related quotations to memorize  I think I'm overestimating how much my brain can take in, but I'll try my damnest to pass this bloody exam. It will all be worth it, the late nights, the hard graft and the aching wrists, for the end results, and sooner, the mental celebrations that will occur Monday night, when we can jump up and down, scream and shout and discuss how the hell we managed to get through Year One.

So, for everyone who tolerates my bad moods around exam time, motivates me and believes in everything I can do, I love you all. A very special person always tells me I can achieve anything I set my mind to. Every time I'm about to sit an exam, I receive a text message from my grandma, simply saying:

"you can do it, Duffy Moon!"

It means more than I can ever say.

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. 

Gatsby, the greatest love of all.

Words cannot describe how excited I am that, in a mere month or so, I'll get to see something I've been waiting for for what seems like a lifetime, and is, in fact, almost two years. Studying The Great Gatsby at AS Level, I have a special place in my heart reserved for Fitzgerald's masterpiece. Since the day I opened the cover, it's words have never truly left me, and I can quote an awful lot of it. Revising it for my exam was anything but a bother, as everyone seemed to love it. 

My adoration for Gatsby comes from my undying love for the brilliance of the 1920's, as well as the sheer power of Fitzgerald's writing. His works are indescribable and unless you've read them, you will not know what I truly mean. A novel that is deemed 'coming of age' and I can honestly say that there are books that will never ever, tarnish my love for such a wonderful, wonderful piece of literature. 

My dog-eared copy is merely a lime-green, Penguin Popular Classics edition, although I love it immensely. I went through a phase where I seemed to tell everyone I knew and met, all about this extraordinary man, who lead an extravagant lifestyle in America, and threw the best parties in town. A legend, as it were. The Leonardo DiCaprio of the 21st Century. Charming, beautiful and very famous. There is, obviously, no accident, in Baz Luhrmann's casting of the newly produced, The Great Gatsby, as his wonderful lead, is none other than Leo himself. I couldn't have dreamed up a better cast in my wildest dreams, as I think Carey Mulligan will put on an Oscar-winning performance, like her previous tear-jerking roles in An Education and Never Let Me Go. (If you haven't seen them, really-do!) 

It's a constant fascination to me, as to why F. Scott Fitzgerald wasn't appreciated in his lifetime, as his works are beautifully written, extremely powerful and now, a huge success. There are various references to his own life, the one he actually lead with his wife, and only true love, Zelda, which is shown through his dedication at the opening leaf of the book. It reads:

"Once again, to Zelda."

I love that. It's so romantic. Imagine that, having a novel dedicated to you. Especially a one so thrilling as Gatsby. I don't want to include a great number of spoilers, in case anyone who comes across this just happens to haven't read it (which I find slanderous by the way...so please do read it.)  A life-changing novel, a one that truly expresses that money, can't, and never will, buy happiness, and the sheer importance of seizing the day, not putting someone you love on a pedestal, and the life-long lesson that there is no such thing as too many clothes. 

Jay Gatsby, Daisy and Tom Buchanan, Nick Carraway, Jordan Baker, Myrtle and George Wilson and Meyer Wolfsheim, to name just a few of the famous characters you'll see on your screens this May. I'm so excited, and a little nervous, as I hold this novel with such high regard, that I can't help be anxious about whether or not Mr Luhrmann will pull it off. The Robert Redford version is good, but Mia Farrow kind of got on my last nerve, and although Daisy is supposed, in a way, to infuriate and astonish readers, I always had an image in my head of who Daisy B really was, and Carey Mulligan was, in my mind, born for this role. I have every faith in the cast, the direction and the production team. One of my all-time favourites, a literary masterpiece, and one I'm sure, that Mrs Fitz would've been proud to put her name to.So fingers crossed that this is going to be the greatest Gatsby film ever. I have my '20's flapper outfit at the ready.