give me dancing

take me dancing before I trip over my own feet
I’m not sure if you’re ready for me, if I’m ready for you;
if I’m ready for two,
ready to rattle your cage like I know what I’m doing,
just play the music and you’ll see how I’m moving.

but let’s go dancing.

let’s suck salt and lime between our gums
let’s take it with us
all sweat and drums.

we don’t have to touch, but for our eyelashes,
our hands don’t have to brush,
just give me side glances; sly passes.

breath on my neck as I’m spinning,
deep in my chest – it’s beginning.

Drummer Girl

Popped collar. Rock solid. She walks in sunlight.

Back at the flat and she’s throwing away unopened letters that look like they could be bills. She longs for the ocean. She winces while she plucks her eyebrows. She paints all of her nails and then picks the polish off again, deciding ‘salmon dream’ isn’t her colour. The room feels different when he’s not here. She thinks about the last time they spoke.

Pluck-pick-pluck-pick.

“Can you just give me one second to get my thoughts together without jumping down my throat the entire time?”

Just-one-second-slam.

She remembers tears welling up in her eyes as the door slammed shut.

Slam-slam-roll-crash.

She splashes her face with cold water, freshens her lipstick and leaves.

Splash-fresh-lip-leave.

Men roll down their tinted windows at the traffic lights. She pulls her denim jacket tighter around her porcelain shoulders. The music oozes from her headphones and drips down her arms and her chest, swallowing their catcalls whole. In an instant, their sweaty kisses are engulfed, leaving her alone with thoughts of music and moonlight.

Finally she’s drumming. She is all hair and drums. And they’ve noticed her, they’re in awe of her. They’re recording her on their phones and not paying the singer any mind. A crowd has gathered now, she catches glimpses of them through tresses of bleach blonde hair. Coins and notes drop into the open guitar case.

It’s like they’ve never seen a drummer girl before.

Hopelessly Devoted by Kate Tempest

I’ve been trying to think of imaginative ways to greet you, but I’m going back to basics with the classic;

Hello there

I’m so classy. I hope everything is wonderful and you’re all as chirpy as a chirper. If you’re not, there’s no need to worry, I have a blogpost that will turn your frown upside down into a beautiful (albeit slightly crumpled smile). I don’t really know what I’m talking about either, just smile and nod and I’ll go to sleep soon.

So, it’s the first day of the last month of the year. This is incredibly exciting because it’s now socially acceptable to eat chocolate before breakfast. But remember folks, eating chocolate is not just for christmas, it’s a year-round lifestyle choice.

Because it’s Christmas, I am purposefully not going to talk about Christmas. This is because I’m so alternative and I don’t believe in bombarding you with festive boughs of merriment…yet. That’s a December 14th kind of blogpost, for sure.

Note: Is blogpost one word or two? No idea. Apologies if I have been wrong all this time – I am a menace to society.

No, I’m not going to talk about Christmas, because you’re most likely aware that Christmas is occurring and I’ll leave it to, you know, everyone else to coerce you into shaking your bellies like bowls full of jellies (eh, I tried).

Instead I am going to talk about a wonderful wonderful wonderful piece of theatre that I saw this week – ‘Hopelessly Devoted’ by Kate Tempest. If you aren’t aware of Kate Tempest – hang your head in shame. She’s a spoken word artist/rapper/Mercury prize nominee/poet/playwright/general goddess.

Bit o’ background: James Grieve (one of the co-artistic directors of Paines Plough) saw Kate Tempest performing live, and commissioned her to write her first play ‘Wasted’. Paines Plough is a touring theatre company (which I have had the pleasure and good fortune of working with), who work with playwrights all over the country to create amazing amazing work.

I saw this play on Tuesday, without even having to leave my house. That’s right, the entire cast came to my home and performed the show just for me. Well, actually that didn’t happen, as believable as it may have sounded. I really do toy with your emotions on this blog, don’t I? Don’t I understand that I’m a role model for young people everywhere? In the words of Lena Dunham:

I don’t want to freak you out, but I think that I may be the voice of my generation.

I will most definitely reflect on Lena Dunham’s sheer awesomeness in another episode of ‘Writing, Rewriting, Writing etc.’. I’m afraid we can only discuss one inspirational woman at a time. I know it’s sad, but we’ll make it through.

I’m wearing a necklace made from pearls of wisdom

Happy End of the Week, beautiful people!

I’m very happy to see all of your smiling faces again, and celebrate the glorious weekend with you. I use the word ‘see’ in a loose metaphorical way. I’m actually pretending to be a writer at the moment…had I mentioned that? I can’t see you, but I’m sure you’re all smiling, because, well, you’re reading my blog.

Welcome to my 15th post! This feels very momentous. It’s like my 15th birthday all over again, because, much like when I turned 15, I feel like I know everything there is to know about everything, and I’m wearing colourful hair extensions which I bought for £1.99 from Claire’s.

I don’t know everything there is to know about everything, I don’t even know everything about some things. What I do know is that the things I know have been passed onto me by various other people, who do know a lot more than I do. Today I wanted to share a few little nuggets with you this lovely winter’s eve.

Disclaimer: I’m afraid that the ‘nuggets’ to which I’m referring are made from advice, not chicken. I know, I was disappointed too. It’ll be okay.

These are some very wise words passed onto me by some very wise people, and some wise websites, which help me both in my writing and just being a day-to-day full-time human being.

Don’t get it right; get it writ

– Adam Barnard (a very talented writer and director who you should all be aware of). This is basically my new motto. When you’re in the early stages of something, like I am with my ‘play’ (15 pages in ah-woo-hoo), it’s very important not to edit yourself. And if you do edit yourself, don’t delete things permanently. When I’m cutting/rearranging, I like to open up another document and paste the thing I’m not too happy with in there, so I can still revisit/rework/rewrite it etc. Don’t think of your work as a magnum opus, think of it more as an evolving document that just is what it is. I don’t know, this might work. Try it and see.

Writing isn’t worth it, unless you can’t not do it. It’s an affliction

– This double negative was brought to you by No. 1 bestselling author, Simon Scarrow. I like to think of writing as an obsession. When you can’t envisage your life without writing, then that’s when you’re a writer. One of us, one of us.

The only reason that it’s scaring you is because you haven’t claimed it.

– My mother when I was freaking out about having a whole year without anything to fill it with. I think this advice is true with writing as well. The only reason why we writers are pathologically afraid of the blank page, is because we haven’t yet claimed it as our own. So claim it, baby. Fear is good.

De-frag. Regroup. The dream is not over.

– Great advice from my big brother when I was coping with rejection. This is an important view to take, because let’s face it, rejection is almost as much a part of life as blinking is. Because we cannot, and should not, expect everyone to have the same taste, and in the nicest possible way, some people think your work is shit. That doesn’t mean it is shit (well it might do sometimes). Most importantly though, without rejection we’d never learn anything new about being a writer or how to become a better one. And that would be #rubbish. I know, I should have my own TV show or something.

These are just a selection of the very best shining sparkles of loveliness that fill my life with magic and inspiration. It’s very early, I don’t know what I’m going on about.

And now, I thought it would be fun to talk about the very worst advice I’ve ever been given about being a writer. All of what you’re about to witness is a great load of trollop, and I’m going to tell you why.

Being Creative: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Bonjour mes petits chou-fleurs. Vous êtes tous fantastiques car vous lisez mon blog tous les jours. Je vous adore.

Just some slightly over-friendly amuse-bouches en français pour vous, because I like to make you feel special.

Today, I’m going to discuss the pros/cons to being ‘creative’. I put this in inverted commas, because I have no idea what constitutes being a ‘creative’ person. And this is coming from someone who is supposedly one of these ‘creative’-types. People always say to me ‘Oh, you and your family, they’re all just so…creative, aren’t they?’ I don’t really know what this means. I try to smile and nod, as if to congratulate them for coming up with such an apt description for my entire family unit.

But they’re right, my family are incredibly creative. They create very beautiful things. I’m from a big family which consists of:

2 x assorted writers/performers – 1 x wonderful blogger (Pssst: that’s me) / 1 x stand-up comic/teller of stories
1 x textile artist/savvy entrepeneur/all-round wonder woman
1 x filmmaker/editor/cinematographer/musician/cage fighter extraordinaire
1 x fine artist/sculptress/academic/goddess
1 x performer/singer/percussionist/beatbox champion

That’s right, I do live in an artistic cult – how could you tell? I’m very proud of my beautiful family, and they all make amazing work. Anywhom, I was not planning on doing a gushy post about my famalam (sorry guys), but about the challenges and perks that come with pursuing a creative career. As you may have noticed – I have grown up in a ‘creative’ household, whatever the hell that means, and so I’m very aware of how hard it is to forge a career in the arts, but equally aware of how rewarding it is.

Pro: You get to be freaking creative, yo! (Ironically I start this list with probably the least creative example possible) Yah I’m actually so into irony at the moment, it’s really groundbreaking? This is totally one of the best things about being ‘creative’. You get to create, and it’s like…your job. Awesome. What more could you ask for? You get to look at art and make art, all day long. And trust me, this is what ‘creative’ people LOVE. I would know. I’m a creative guru.

Con: It’s really, really difficult. Ah man, so difficult. As you know, I’m writing my play at the moment and trying to be really witty/interesting/original all the bloody time. Sometimes I feel rather drained after writing a clever one-liner. That’s why it takes me so long to write posts. This blog is actually ten years in the making. What makes this an even worse Con is that lots of people think being ‘creative’ is super easy. Grr. If you’re one of those people – you’re very very wrong. Even if you’re the most talented ‘creative’ person in the world (like Kim Kardashian) actually getting into the mindset, sitting down and making work, just any work, not even necessarily good work, is the hardest thing in the world. Well, it’s easier than childbirth (most of the time).

Pro: Ooft, the satisfaction. You know that feeling when you’ve written something wonderful down, or found just the perfect melody, or just figured it all the hell out, and it washes over you like a beautiful wave of self-love (oo-er). This is the feeling we live for. It’s comparable to the feeling when you get a question right on ‘University Challenge’, and the thought ‘I am a god, worship me, tiny humans’ flashes across your consciousness.

I’m a culture vulture and I scavenge on poet tears

That was a little more macabre than I intended.

Happy Tuesday, all of you afternoon delights (as in the sachets of custard, not the unsubtle innuendo). Thank you very much for returning to my B.L.O.G. which stands for:

Basically
Loads
Of
General Hilarity

The H is silent.

Observation: My cat just came into my room and looked genuinely shocked to see me in it, as if I was invading his personal space in some way. He needs to be taken down a peg or two. That’s right, no more gourmet smoked salmon ganache for you.

So, today, I’m going to round up a few of the cultural excursions that I have excurted around this week. (Ahem. Ignore the words, they’re just there for show.)

Blind: The Paper Birds – In no uncertain terms, I want to be Grace Savage. ‘Blind’ is a one-woman show which stars the one woman who just so happens to be the two time UK beatboxing champion. Yeah. You’d better put down your cup of tea and pink wafer and listen to this. Let us first acknowledge the exceptional name – I mean, let’s face it, you can’t call yourself this and then go and work in retail. This woman is a force of nature. Of course, she is an exceptional beatboxer, something that you might expect from a two time UK beatboxing champion. There were beats, and she made them happen…really well. But also, the show itself was astondingly well written and crafted. This was no concert – it was a perfect autobiographical piece of theatre, as you followed the journey of Grace Savage. I highly suggest checking out some of her work, if you aren’t already familiar. I have, being the kind-hearted creature I am, put a link to her website here so that you may learn her ways and talk about her forever to everyone you know, as I do. All in all, totally and irrevocably badass. (Also she replied to one of my tweets, so we’re basically best friends now)

Writing, Rewriting, Writing etc.: The Musical

Coming to theatres near you…book now if you like disappointment.

Good morning, internet users from around the globe! I have, of course, been checking my blog statistics in a regular fashion that some may deem ever so slightly obsessive, and I was amazed that there are real people reading my blog in SWITZERLAND, ITALY, AND THE US OF A. This makes me very giddy, I may have to have a little repose before I continue…

– We apologise for this interruption. This life-changing blogpost will resume shortly. Thank you for your patience. –

Ah, that’s better. Dear all of you blogglers from exotic locations, and you blogglers from mundane locations; Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I don’t even care if you liked it or not, like what my mum always said to me after Sports Day: ‘The point is is that you tried, and that’s the most important thing. Remember, competitive sports isn’t for everyone. You have lots of other skills, like running really slowly.’

Anyhow, back to the real point of this beautiful, bouncing, bountiful blogpost; sweet, sweet music.

That’s right, little chickadees, today I’m going to ramble on about music, and how it affects your writing.

‘Ooh!’, ‘Aaah!’ ‘Isn’t that clever?’, ‘This is going to be really insightful, I can feel it in my bones!’

These are just a few examples of the reactions this blogpost will invoke in you, my dear readers. So, as I may have mentioned about 43 times before, I have started writing a full-length play. And I am currently 10 pages in – I told you I was serious! That is some mild work that has happened there. And I for one have always struggled with the whole ‘Should I play music when I write? Or should I just let my painful, powerful words that speak of truth and emotion resonate around my writing chamber, bringing joy mixed with deep, deep sorrow to all that hear them?’ You know what I’m sayin’?