So, about an hour of my weekend was spent cutting Steve's hair. It had gotten a bit long (read: it looked like a mushroom) and he begged, pleaded, demanded I do something about it. So I did.
I chopped, hacked, and generally did what I felt like. I had enough spare hair in my hands for an excellent toupe. I left him with a tiny bald spot at the back (easily hidden because his hair tends to be rakishly messy all the time), and no hair in front of his ears. You know, the really short sideburn bit boys have next to their ears? Yep. I kind of removed that. I didn't mean to. Hopefully, it will grow back speedily.
I write books better than I cut hair. I think.
I just want people to know that.
Tomorrow, I will be cutting nobody's hair. But I will, hopefully, be handing in my dissertation and washing my hands of it forever. And I will, hopefully, be immersing myself in writing more of CLOCKWORK. It's been so lonely and neglected this week.
Showing posts with label dissertation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dissertation. Show all posts
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Insomniac Chronicles
I suppose the title is shameless hyperbole. I'm not really an insomniac. Nevertheless, I think it probably says a fair bit about me if I tell you that it's nearly seven in the morning, it's gotten light outside, and I haven't yet been to bed. I write this with the heavy, tired yet wide awake eyes of somebody who has been having a very difficult time sleeping lately.
I've been doing a half-module on sleep this year. The Literature of Sleep. We've spent so many hours analysing novels that focus on sleep and dreams. We've spent hours discussing insomnia, narcolepsy, dreams, sleepwalking, metaphors, allegory, sleep as healing, and so forth. What I'd give for one of those seminars now. Talking so much about sleep always made me sleepy in spite of the fact that they were very interesting seminars. I could use that now. But, without a seminar, I'm left on my own, in a very pretty student bedroom the size of a matchbox, with a desk light and a lamp with a dull bulb because the old one fused. So, instead of pondering sleep or sleeping, why not use that time productively?
Blog posts are productive, me thinks.
I've been watching an awful lot of Grey's Anatomy. Am madly in love with Kevin McKidd, whose Owen Hunt and Poseidon are both properly edible, and who happens to be a fantastic actor to boot. So, I've been watching Grey's Anatomy when I can't sleep, or when I can't work. I was hoping to finish a dissertation chapter today, but I haven't done that; and I was hoping to finish the first chapter of Half today, but I haven't done that either. Instead, I've done absolutely nothing useful and will have a heck load to catch up on over the rest of the week. Must keep up with my weekly quotas of academic/book writing.
On the writing front, I've received two more rejections to my query for ECHOES. That brings the total up to 4 rejections out of 10 letters sent, of which only one was a request for a partial before that was rejected. Ah, well.
Have discovered a new song. Lenka - Trouble is a Friend. I love this song, and when I usually discover new songs I love, I normally listen to them constantly until I'm sick of them. Listen count of this song at the moment: six times. Joyful.
I might try to write more of Half. I wonder if I'll ever get to bed this morning, or if I'll have to stay up all day and go to bed really early tonight.
I blame Grey's Anatomy. All those doctors and those unearthly hours and those long shifts without sleep. It infects you.
Update at 8:09 AM. Have now listened to the song about 16 times. Might need sleep.
I've been doing a half-module on sleep this year. The Literature of Sleep. We've spent so many hours analysing novels that focus on sleep and dreams. We've spent hours discussing insomnia, narcolepsy, dreams, sleepwalking, metaphors, allegory, sleep as healing, and so forth. What I'd give for one of those seminars now. Talking so much about sleep always made me sleepy in spite of the fact that they were very interesting seminars. I could use that now. But, without a seminar, I'm left on my own, in a very pretty student bedroom the size of a matchbox, with a desk light and a lamp with a dull bulb because the old one fused. So, instead of pondering sleep or sleeping, why not use that time productively?
Blog posts are productive, me thinks.
I've been watching an awful lot of Grey's Anatomy. Am madly in love with Kevin McKidd, whose Owen Hunt and Poseidon are both properly edible, and who happens to be a fantastic actor to boot. So, I've been watching Grey's Anatomy when I can't sleep, or when I can't work. I was hoping to finish a dissertation chapter today, but I haven't done that; and I was hoping to finish the first chapter of Half today, but I haven't done that either. Instead, I've done absolutely nothing useful and will have a heck load to catch up on over the rest of the week. Must keep up with my weekly quotas of academic/book writing.
On the writing front, I've received two more rejections to my query for ECHOES. That brings the total up to 4 rejections out of 10 letters sent, of which only one was a request for a partial before that was rejected. Ah, well.
Have discovered a new song. Lenka - Trouble is a Friend. I love this song, and when I usually discover new songs I love, I normally listen to them constantly until I'm sick of them. Listen count of this song at the moment: six times. Joyful.
I might try to write more of Half. I wonder if I'll ever get to bed this morning, or if I'll have to stay up all day and go to bed really early tonight.
I blame Grey's Anatomy. All those doctors and those unearthly hours and those long shifts without sleep. It infects you.
Update at 8:09 AM. Have now listened to the song about 16 times. Might need sleep.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Snapshot of a university day
As I write this, I'm sitting in the Learning Zone, a new building designed so that students at Lancaster University can study, work, talk, eat and hang about, all twenty four hours a day. One end of it is covered with long, large windows, looking out into Alex Square, the centre and hub of the university. In the interest of putting off doing my work (I've written about 700 words of yet another dissertation chapter and think I can take a break), I thought I'd describe what I see and offer a snapshot of university life.
Across from me sits Lindsey, friend, flatmate, fellow student, slightly insane and not a little bit dopey either. She's more engrossed in her phone than in her work and occasionally looks up to offer me yet another update re. her job, her manager and the rota. I listen with one ear. Around us are various other erstwhile students, some diligently working, others sprawled out on the sofas with their iPods plugged firmly into their ears. Today, the windows are closed, so it's quite warm in here. So warm, in fact, that I've taken my hoody off. Gasp. In England, too.
Outside, in the Square, which is actually more of a very long rectangle surrounded by shops, banks, passageways and trees, it's still light, though the sun has vanished. Very English. Two girls sit on the steps, smoking. Two boys appear to be enjoying a couple of milkshakes. I'm tempted to ask them where they got theirs, because I tried getting a Diggles milkshake not fifteen minutes ago and was told they were closed. A girl dressed, apparently, for the Antarctic is passing by, her hood so dense it could probably shelter Lindsey, me and the rest of the Learning Zone, were we to feel the chill. Someone's getting money out at the cash machine. A group of first-years are laughing over sandwiches. I can tell they're first-years because only first-years wear skimpy clothes in the cold and laugh that loudly. Trust me. The rest of us have too much work to indulge ourselves. (Okay, I confess to mild sarcasm.)
As early as it is, I can give you a snapshot of the Square tonight, or on an average university night. Girls in short, pretty dresses and coats totter on high heels, already drunk, to get the bus or a taxi. Boys make sure they look steady and reliable, to prove they are men and can hold their drink. Occasionally, someone will try to climb a tree and break an arm. The buses will take them into town, where they'll dance for hours at Cuba or the Sugarhouse or one of the other clubs, and they'll drink till they're silly. I do this frequently, so I know.
Yes, that's university life. Work, drink, dance, play. Work some more. Work whilst nursing a hangover, whilst suffering stomach cramps, whilst being sick, whilst contemplating tomorrow's night out. Then go out. Then work some more. That's the final-year student's life, anyway.
Steve is driving up to see me tomorrow. Am very, very excited about that.
Across from me sits Lindsey, friend, flatmate, fellow student, slightly insane and not a little bit dopey either. She's more engrossed in her phone than in her work and occasionally looks up to offer me yet another update re. her job, her manager and the rota. I listen with one ear. Around us are various other erstwhile students, some diligently working, others sprawled out on the sofas with their iPods plugged firmly into their ears. Today, the windows are closed, so it's quite warm in here. So warm, in fact, that I've taken my hoody off. Gasp. In England, too.
Outside, in the Square, which is actually more of a very long rectangle surrounded by shops, banks, passageways and trees, it's still light, though the sun has vanished. Very English. Two girls sit on the steps, smoking. Two boys appear to be enjoying a couple of milkshakes. I'm tempted to ask them where they got theirs, because I tried getting a Diggles milkshake not fifteen minutes ago and was told they were closed. A girl dressed, apparently, for the Antarctic is passing by, her hood so dense it could probably shelter Lindsey, me and the rest of the Learning Zone, were we to feel the chill. Someone's getting money out at the cash machine. A group of first-years are laughing over sandwiches. I can tell they're first-years because only first-years wear skimpy clothes in the cold and laugh that loudly. Trust me. The rest of us have too much work to indulge ourselves. (Okay, I confess to mild sarcasm.)
As early as it is, I can give you a snapshot of the Square tonight, or on an average university night. Girls in short, pretty dresses and coats totter on high heels, already drunk, to get the bus or a taxi. Boys make sure they look steady and reliable, to prove they are men and can hold their drink. Occasionally, someone will try to climb a tree and break an arm. The buses will take them into town, where they'll dance for hours at Cuba or the Sugarhouse or one of the other clubs, and they'll drink till they're silly. I do this frequently, so I know.
Yes, that's university life. Work, drink, dance, play. Work some more. Work whilst nursing a hangover, whilst suffering stomach cramps, whilst being sick, whilst contemplating tomorrow's night out. Then go out. Then work some more. That's the final-year student's life, anyway.
Steve is driving up to see me tomorrow. Am very, very excited about that.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
So... Echoes?
It just occurred to me that in spite of posting my introductory post only a couple hours ago, I forgot completely to elaborate on the reasoning behind this. Writers should have blogs, as put forward by Eric of Pimp My Novel. So, that begs the question, doesn't it? Am I writer? Why is my blog called 'Echoes of a Wayward Mind'?
Yes, I'm a writer. Not an author, because that means you have to be published, and, apart from the time I had a short story published in a newspaper when I was fifteen, I am not. So, I'm a writer. This means I've written a (many, several, but only one that's worth much) novel and am concentrating pigheadedly on trying to get it somewhere. The novel's called ECHOES, and it's told from the point of view of a teenage echo** who is struggling to survive and live on her own terms in a world that really and truly and generally despises echoes. It's an urban fantasy, technically young adult, with a mixture of adventure, romance, tragedy and hopefully some humour. It's also quite lyrical, because I love words, though I do try not to use them superfluously. (Yes, I've always wanted to use the word 'superfluously'. I'm sorry. I'll try to be better.)
So, that's why the blog is called what it is. Echoes (pun intended) of a wayward mind. I wasn't trying to be witty or clever. Honest. I also think you'll find, if you stick around long enough, that my mind is very much of the wayward type. I really can't help it. Don't you ever find that you start to talk about something, then wander off on a hopefully scintillating tangent, then eventually come back to your original point an hour later? No? Oh, dear. You'll probably hate me. Sorry again.
More about the novel, story, characters, etc. in due course. For now, a few writing statistics, as I'm aiming to chart the long, painful road to (possible, maybe, unlikely, maybe) publication:
ECHOES word count: approximately 125,000.
Words written today: 0
Words written today on work that's not ECHOES: 2,034. Dissertation chapter. The joys of being a third-year English literature university student.
Number of queries sent out to agents in the last four weeks: 8
Number of replies (so far): 1
Partials requested and sent: 1
Rejections on partials: 1
Rejections on queries: 0
It doesn't look very good, does it? On the other hand, I think it's encouraging that the one reply I have thus far received to a query asked to see a partial. That must mean something's working. Of course, he then rejected me based on the partial, which means something else isn't working. I've tried working on that since, so fingers crossed. Still waiting to hear from the others. And yes, if you're wondering: rejection is ouch-I've-got-a-paper-cut, ooo-you-cut-my-heart-out-with-a-spoon painful. I sound optimistic and cheery now, but as my boyfriend Steve will testify, in the days following the rejection, I was ready to quit. I haven't.
So that's that, and now it's time for bed...
**echo (n.). Safety net for a loved one. Person stitched from mysterious materials by a Weaver. Designed to look exactly like a real person, their other. Must learn other's life and behave like them in every way. If other dies, the echo must replace them.
Yes, I'm a writer. Not an author, because that means you have to be published, and, apart from the time I had a short story published in a newspaper when I was fifteen, I am not. So, I'm a writer. This means I've written a (many, several, but only one that's worth much) novel and am concentrating pigheadedly on trying to get it somewhere. The novel's called ECHOES, and it's told from the point of view of a teenage echo** who is struggling to survive and live on her own terms in a world that really and truly and generally despises echoes. It's an urban fantasy, technically young adult, with a mixture of adventure, romance, tragedy and hopefully some humour. It's also quite lyrical, because I love words, though I do try not to use them superfluously. (Yes, I've always wanted to use the word 'superfluously'. I'm sorry. I'll try to be better.)
So, that's why the blog is called what it is. Echoes (pun intended) of a wayward mind. I wasn't trying to be witty or clever. Honest. I also think you'll find, if you stick around long enough, that my mind is very much of the wayward type. I really can't help it. Don't you ever find that you start to talk about something, then wander off on a hopefully scintillating tangent, then eventually come back to your original point an hour later? No? Oh, dear. You'll probably hate me. Sorry again.
More about the novel, story, characters, etc. in due course. For now, a few writing statistics, as I'm aiming to chart the long, painful road to (possible, maybe, unlikely, maybe) publication:
ECHOES word count: approximately 125,000.
Words written today: 0
Words written today on work that's not ECHOES: 2,034. Dissertation chapter. The joys of being a third-year English literature university student.
Number of queries sent out to agents in the last four weeks: 8
Number of replies (so far): 1
Partials requested and sent: 1
Rejections on partials: 1
Rejections on queries: 0
It doesn't look very good, does it? On the other hand, I think it's encouraging that the one reply I have thus far received to a query asked to see a partial. That must mean something's working. Of course, he then rejected me based on the partial, which means something else isn't working. I've tried working on that since, so fingers crossed. Still waiting to hear from the others. And yes, if you're wondering: rejection is ouch-I've-got-a-paper-cut, ooo-you-cut-my-heart-out-with-a-spoon painful. I sound optimistic and cheery now, but as my boyfriend Steve will testify, in the days following the rejection, I was ready to quit. I haven't.
So that's that, and now it's time for bed...
**echo (n.). Safety net for a loved one. Person stitched from mysterious materials by a Weaver. Designed to look exactly like a real person, their other. Must learn other's life and behave like them in every way. If other dies, the echo must replace them.
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