Anyone who followed the link in my last post will know that I have miserably failed at NaNoWriMo this year. It's not that I didn't have enough time, or that I couldn't think about what to write (I actually had a semi decent plot arc for Toby and friends). Truth be told I was just lazy. I'd forgotten how time consuming it was to write NaNo, how mentally and emotionally draining it was, how much sacrifice had to go into it, and when it came down to it I prioritised my social life (and to a certain (more acceptable extent, Uni work) over NaNo. I don't necessarily think that's a crime, but I am somewhat disappointed that I couldn't see it through - for Toby's sake as much as my own self pride etc.
Anyway, this post wasn't going to be long or rambling, but rather a memory.
I just spent the last five or so minutes battling with a Parker Pen - trying to release it from its packaging, to be precise - and all the time I kept wondering: "Why do these pens need to be vacuum-packed in plastic! It makes this so difficult! Ow, my hand!!"
Then I remembered my childhood, when I used to receive "Barbie" dolls as presents. One of the most fun parts of receiving the Barbe doll wasn't the clothes you could dress her up in, or if you could cut her hair or whatever, but the act of opening the packaging. Barbie came in a box - almost like a shoe box. Firstly you had to remove Barbie and her background from the box. Barbie was attached to her background by wire ties, and I would laboriously unwind each tie, carefully straighting it out in order to remove it without damaging the background. Them, much like the Parker Pen, I had to carefully remove the clothing and accessories from the vacuum-packed plastic containers. I would do this delicately, careful not to damage the precious items. I'd then lay out everything, and begin to play. Now, this might sound somewhat arduous for a 4, 5, 6, 7 year old girl, but I loved it. It just hit me, at 18, that the magic had vanished from opening a package. And that made me sad.
In other, less depressing news, I have taken to performing my poetry. I know. Considering that I only really started writing poetry in September, that's a bit of a risky move. But it seems to have gone ok so far. One of my poems (about rape) appears to go down really well when I perform it, but I think I'll post that another time, as I enjoy discussions around rape culture in our society. I say "enjoy", I really mean that I don't think it gets discussed enough - it tends to get hidden away when it should be fore fronted for all its issues.
This poem began as a song, but turned into a beat poem. It's called:
The Girl In The Corner Looking Nervous
She’s sipping spirits from a shot glass,
Praying the scummy boys won’t touch her arse
But, with a skirt down to her knees,
She’s not showing much arse to squeeze.
And she’s only got subtle make-up on,
Wondering how you can be comfy in a lacy thong.
She hasn’t got up to dance;
She thinks you’ve got to wait to be asked.
The decadence of the scene perturbs her;
The hedonists and perverts
Clamour all around and make her nervous,
The boys and girls offering service.
She doesn’t like the push and shove at the bar
Would much rather be relaxing in some fancy spa.
She’s wearing perfume by Chanel
As if anyone here could tell!
She doesn’t approve of promiscuity,
Although that might change after a drink or three,
But she won’t cause she’s counting her units
And she doesn’t approve of the music.
She thinks all her peers are disgusting
With all their making out and thrusting,
So she just stares at the debauchery with her doe eyes
Sat alone in the corner for the whole night.
And her tan’s not fake it’s from St. Tropez.
And she’s knows just what they say:
“You’re far too prim to be in here love,
Why don’t you take off those white gloves?
Take some bobby pins out of your up do,
Show the other girls how you can move!
I’m not saying you’ve gotta get down and dirty,
But it’s wouldn’t hurt just to be a little flirty,
And you never know you might quite like it
If only you had the balls to try it.”
Currently Reading: The Old Curiousity Shop by Charles Dickens
Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde
The Art of Writing Fiction by Andrew Cowan