' "I'd kill you in a second." He laughed: "yeah, I know." '

Today I learned some sciency things about the brain. Did you know that as well as the fight or flight response that we have in times of stress, there is also another response? We freeze. Of course, in the real world, these situations apply less to freezing in front of sabre tooth tigers thus leading to being eaten, but more to normal every day tasks which we find difficult. As in- homework looks hard! Can’t do it! Freeze! Which in turn leads to procrastination.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying that I’m finding the idea of maintaining a blog and a full time PGCE stressful and the result is that I Freeze! and procrastinate on my blog, whether through not posting much or not commenting on other people’s blogs. But I want to get better and I will try harder. For anyone wondering, I am still reading your blogs. What would help is if there were any definite topics I had to write about, so if anyone has anything they would love to hear my *opinion* on (I don't know why you would but still) let me know. :)

So, boys and girls, after that rambling introduction I thought I’d talk about the topic of death- or more specifically, goodies killing baddies. Death is a funny thing in novels. In real life, I’m a pacifist. I don’t agree with killing under any circumstances. That’s not to say that I think all rapists and murderers deserve to live, but that I don’t agree with the act of the person who has to electrocute or inject them- I don’t agree that anyone should be a killer, legal or otherwise. But anyway, I’m going off on a tangent here so I’ll get back to the point. In real life, death isn’t taken lightly. I have my views. You have yours. Mr and Mrs down the street have theirs. Most people will have an opinion on killing. Most people don’t ever expect to see it in their lives.

With that in mind, try now to imagine seeing someone get killed. Blood, guts, bowel releases, the whole extravaganza. I know I’m being graphic here, but it’s to help make you place it. If it were me, I’d be throwing up at the sight. I’d probably faint, histrionic as that sounds. 

So why in books is goodies killing baddies often taken lightly? I’m talking about protagonists who kill villains and don’t even blink. They look forward to doing it. They desire it.

I think it’s general consensus now that readers want true-to-life characters who react properly to things, but the death of a bad guy is still lacking that grounding in reality. I think part of the problem is that as authors, most of us have no idea what witnessing a real murder feels like, so we assume that if it’s a bad guy then we won’t care.

I could be wrong but I disagree with this. I’ll admit I feel queasy at the first sight of blood so I’m always going to be on the stronger end of the spectrum, but I think that it doesn’t matter who’s injured or killed: the sight of someone who’s insides are clearly outside should set our gag reflexes going. When it comes down to it, the sight of a dead person should strip us down to our basest instincts: Humans want and expect to see other humans alive, not dead. Obviously, I’m not talking about army vets or doctors here, but for the average guy on the street who becomes a reluctant hero and then finds they’ve killed someone, there should be more of a response than ‘oh, he’s dead.’ I think the sight of a mutilated body will always come across as wrong, no matter whose it is. 

This can go a step further. Why do we make our protagonists want to kill the bad guy? Would we, ourselves, be so eager to kill someone in real life? There’s no coming back from killing, and I do believe the act changes you. If a protagonist decides they have to kill someone, this should be done after an agonising amount of thought.

Yes, I’m overthinking it. If you don’t expect this from me by now then I don’t know whose blog you’ve been reading but it isn’t mine. Perhaps you could argue that the news has desensitised us to violence, but I think that seeing something on a TV from the safety of your house and actually living it are poles apart in their differences.

Is this a topic any of you’ve ever thought much about? Have you found yourself killing off a baddie and had your protagonist act completely blasé about it? Have I now sent you into an editing frenzy as you quickly change your characters’ responses? (Trust me, I’m not expecting that J). I’m fully aware that the above is just my opinion so feel free to let me know if you agree/disagree with it and why!

‘Isn’t it ironic, doncha think?’ Er, no actually, no it’s not.

I’ve come over all teacherly thanks to my course, so I thought I’d go into full English mode and point out a few common errors made by lots of writers. Including me. Looking at my list, these pesky little details may not seem like a big deal, but being aware of them could be the difference between an agent deciding to read your manuscript or not, so they might be worth taking note of.

1. Lay down/Lie down. When you’re talking about a person, ‘lay down’ is past tense, and ‘lie down’ is present tense. So you never ever ask someone to ‘lay down’ you ask them to ‘lie down.’ I first became aware of this when some lyrics of a song were bothering me because they were grammatically incorrect, ‘…someone to lay with’ and I mentioned it to a friend. She was confused at what I meant. That was when I realised just how common it is to use ‘lay’ for present tense regarding a person. Chickens lay eggs, people lay tables, but people don’t lay down. I don’t care if 90% of the English-speaking world is saying it, it’s still wrong. You want further proof? Word just underlined ‘lay’ with green, to show that it’s grammatically incorrect. The word it wants me to change it to? ‘Lie.’

2. All right. You don’t really hear about this much, but there’s actually no such word as ‘alright.’ It should always, always be ‘all right.’ Two words. I don’t know why. Just is.

3.Ironic. ‘It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife…’ This is not actually irony. ‘A situation is…ironic (situational irony) if the actions taken have an effect exactly opposite from what was intended.’ Having lots of spoons is not the opposite result of wanting a knife. ‘If the speaker is rifling through a silverware drawer which is known to contain knives, then this is ironic. If she's in a spoon factory, it isn't.’ I’ll let Marco from Animorphs explain it a little better: ‘We’re going to bring on global warming because we ran too many leaky air conditioners? We used too much spray deodorant, so now we’ll be doomed to sweat forever?…That’s irony. Note to Alanis. That is irony.’   

4. Him and I/Me and Her/She and I. (Etc) So you write the sentence ‘him and I went to the cinema,’ and you’re not sure if it’s right? Break the sentence down. ‘I went to the cinema’- fine. ‘Him went to the cinema’- not so much. It becomes obvious it should be ‘he and I went to the cinema.’ Always break the bits up if you’re not certain. ‘Me and her went swimming’. ‘Me went swimming’ – no. ‘Her went swimming’. Also no. So what should it be? ‘She and I’ would work, but ‘we’ is a lot neater. If still in doubt, try and use ‘we’ or ‘us’ to avoid confusion.

5. Run/Ran Bid/Bade Grit/Gritted Spit/Spat. I am especially guilty of this one, but there are some words that always seem to end up being written in present tense, even when the writer is writing in past tense. It’s always things we know when we stop to think about it, but somehow we slip up on certain words because they just seem to work in present tense. I think part of the problem is that they rhyme with some words that are in past tense, or words that don’t have a past tense. Like ‘hit.’ You wouldn’t say ‘hitted’ or ‘hat’. You’d say ‘I hit the ball’ which could be either past or present tense. ‘Grit’ and ‘Spit both rhyme with ‘Hit’ so when I’m writing and listening to the flow of the words, rather than thinking about them individually, I find that they sneakily sound like they work. Unfortunately, this isn’t really one you can check, apart from keeping a close eye out for the blighters whilst editing.   

6. Until/til/till. We shorten the word ‘until’ a lot. What we often forget is that the shortened version of ‘until’ is ‘til’ not ‘till.’ A ‘till’ is a cash register. Careful with this one. Kate Middleton was caught using ‘till’ instead of ‘til’ in a letter and was mocked for it by the press. Which just goes to show you never what snobs out there will be judging you on your grammar rather than what you’re saying.

7. Compliment/complement. They’re two separate words. Who knew? I think most people know what a compliment is: ‘you like nice’ ‘your eyes are pretty’ ‘I love the way your greasy hair shines in the moonlight.’ Ok, that last one was backhanded, but still, you get my point. It’s to say something nice about someone/something. So you probably know what complement is too- when two things/people bring out the best in each other and work well together, they complement each other. And they’re spelt differently- even though they mean very similar things. Go figure.

8. And this last one is just because it irritates me no end, but has absolutely nothing to do with writing. A person who doesn’t eat meat but eats fish is not a vegetarian. They’re a pescetarian. No creature of any kind = vegetarian, no meat = pescetarian. As a vegetarian, I get asked a lot if I eat fish. *Headdesk.* I think people should now know the answer to that one.

Just a quick note- due to my now much, much busier schedule, I don’t know how regularly I’ll be updating my blog. I’ll try to do at least Wednesdays and Sundays- hopefully more if I can find the time! J

'The books transported her into new worlds and introduced her to amazing people who lived exciting lives.'

This week I began my teacher-training course. In a year’s time, I will be a fully-fledged teacher and hopefully in real employment, which is both amazing and terrifying! So today I had a wonderful day mostly studying English and children’s books, and learned (kinda!) how to get children interested in books.

If Heaven exists, a pocket of mine will be like those seminars.

But it got me thinking: what were the books I loved as a kid? What inspired me the most? And also, what are all of your favourite childhood books?

And where did my thinking end?? With a list of course! So here you have it- Charlotte’s favourite childhood books/series/authors: (In no particular order)

1.Roald Dahl books. I read most of these, but my favourites were Matilda, James and the Giant Peach and The Magic Finger. I loved the anti-hunting message of The Magic Finger, the strong female role model of Matilda, (not to mention her awesome powers and her bookworminess- go bookworms!) and the magic of a giant peach going on a journey over the sea and through the sky whilst crewed by giant, talking insects. If I could steal anyone's imagination, it would be Roald Dahl's.

2. Dick King Smith books. Dragon Boy, Lady Daisy and Pretty Polly. If you’ve never heard of them but still enjoy reading children’s books, then look these up at once. My copies are battered from my multiple readings.

3. The Adventure Series, by Enid Blyton. A group of children have amazing adventures. This is basically the staple for any children’s book I’ve ever attempted to write. I was so enamoured with the series that at one point I told my mum I wanted two girls called Dinah and Lucy-Ann and two boys called Philip and Jack. Luckily I lost my enthusiasm for that idea. Ok, the books were sexist and racist, but when you’re eight, it’s easy to ignore the annoying stuff in favour of the good. I can’t read them as an adult though. Uh-uh. I've tried. Can’t do it.

4. Animorphs by K.A. Applegate. They lost their way after 20 books or so and a few ghost writers later, but in the beginning this was a gripping series with strong characterisation and a unique, SciFi premise. It was also a great way to learn about animals.

5. A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket. There is a lot to be said for a strong narrative presence, and the uniqueness of this series kept me reading long after the plot had turned absurd. Loved the film and this picture by the way!

                                      

 6. The Mennyms by Sylvia Waugh. These are probably not that well known but they are an amazing gem of a series about a family of life-size rag dolls magically come to life, that try to live in secret without being discovered by the real world. The twist in the first book is brilliant and the character of Soobie (who is completely blue, so can never leave the house) has left a lasting impression. If you’ve ever read the A Song of Ice and Fire series, he’s a little bit like a child friendly version of Tyrion.

And finally...

7. Jacqueline Wilson books. I loved The Bed and Breakfast Star, The Suitcase Kid, Double Act, and The Lottie Project. These books introduced me to a world I knew little of, but to be honest I was thinking less about that and more about just how engrossing the stories were. They always involved strong, first-person female narrators and wonderful complementary illustrations by Nick Sharratt. 

Harry Potter and Just William I’ve mentioned in other posts so I won’t repeat my adulation for them in this one. His Dark Materials, although loved, I read in my teens, so I won’t put it on this list either. There are many, many more I could have written about, but I had to stick to my absolute favourites or otherwise it wouldn't be: 'Charlotte's favourite books' but: 'books Charlotte read as a child' which would have made an extremely long list! 

So how about you? What childhood books do you remember fondly?

‘…You and me could write a bad romance…oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhh-oh-oh-oh…caught in a bad romance...’

I’ve been thinking about romances and what makes them work. It’s always a bit embarrassing to admit you’re a fan of romance novels, but there you have it- I’m coming out in blog world. Let’s just state for the record: I prefer romance as a sub-plot, or at least, as part of the plot. There always has to be something else going on as well. Three hundred pages of ‘I love you, no I hate you, no I love you’ does not, a novel, make.

The problem I find with romance novels is that nine times out of ten the actual romance part leaves me cold. I think the secret that no one shares is that a sizzling romance is extremely hard to write. At best, I can enjoy the story as a whole and like the love interests as characters, but more often than not, I’m indifferent to their relationship.

 I’m aware that as a reader I’m stupidly hard to please, and there is no failsafe answer for what makes a romance work for me, or for anyone. (Although I’ll just say this: if in doubt, banter, banter, banter!)

But one thing I will say, (and this is only my own opinion and others are free to disagree), is that, as a rule of thumb, the instant I know I’m not going to enjoy a romance is when I find out that it’s from both members of the couple’s perspectives. (This doesn’t mean that I then go into the book with a closed mind. I promise you I don’t.)

Question: What makes romance exiting and slightly scary in real life?

Answer: Not knowing what the other person is thinking or what they’re going to do.

So why would books then take away that aspect of romance? It’s boring to be in both people’s heads, and to know everything they feel for each other. This is telling. Not showing. When character A gets annoyed at character B over a misunderstanding, we can’t share that annoyance because we already know everything. Instead, the annoyance turns on character A because she/he/it doesn’t realise that character B is crazy about her/him/it. It is frustrating to the extreme to know everything and have both characters squabbling like children. We need to share the doubt that character A feels to become immersed in the plot. It is never a good idea to have the reader screaming at character A- he/she/it loves you, you moron!

For me, the driving force of Twilight was not knowing what Edward was thinking, or why he did the things he did. Had the book been told from both Bella and Edward’s perspective (and I’ve read what there is to read of Midnight Sun, which is all I’ll say on the matter) I probably wouldn’t have continued past the first fifty pages.

 Romance is about mystery and heightened emotions and uncertainty. (In a book anyway- I’m making no comments about the real world here, folks.) And, in my opinion, the reader needs to experience all of these feelings with JUST ONE of the protagonists. By giving the reader total knowledge of everyone’s feelings, you take away all of the above, and the result is just…flat. Would you read a murder mystery if the killer was revealed in the first chapter? It’s the same type of thing. The drive of most murder mysteries is: ‘who is the killer?’ The drive of most romances is: ‘how will these two crazy kids go together?’ And before anyone asks, ‘isn’t the drive of romance: will they end up together?’ The answer is no. Readers pick up a romance assuming the couple will end up together. The joy for them is seeing how the couple gets there. (I’m actually not just generalising and making up a load of rubbish here. One of my essays at uni was on romance in Women’s Literature. All of the stuff I’ve said about reader expectations comes from a study in a book. A real book. From the library and everything.)

The problem with showing both characters’ points of view is that the reader then already knows how the characters will go together. They’re both vegetarians. They love the same band. She’s a jewel thief and he’s a bank robber. Knowing how they go together is the starting point to figuring out the rest of the book by yourself. Here’s an exercise for you- take two people you know well and imagine a relationship developing between them- imagine how it would or wouldn’t work- all the things that make them click and all the things that make them argue. Do they have complementary personalities? Clashing personalities? Would one be all-give and the other all-take? Does one plan everything to the nth degree and the other live solely on instinct? It’s quite easy to map out their entire romance when you know them well, isn’t it? So if a reader can figure out the relationship before they’ve even read the book, why should they continue to read it?

Now take someone you know and pair them with a stranger. You can't figure that relationship out because you don't know the stranger. You have to wait for your friend to tell you all about their new romance and then you lap up the juicy details like a starving cat provided with milk. It's exciting because you can't figure out what's coming next.  

 I’ve probably read about five books in my life where I’ve thought- that was a great romance, but one example I will give is Juliet Marillier’s books- Daughter of the Forest and Son of the Shadows. (But not the third book in that series- don’t ever come complaining to me that I recommended you read Child of the Prophecy. I did not.) Juliet Marillier doesn’t always get it right, but when she does, I can’t put her books down. Which is why I’m now busy hunting for substitutes until she releases her next book. On that note- if anyone has read any Juliet Marillier and knows of similar authors who are also good, let me know! 

So, what do you all think? What are your formulas for a great romance? And what do you like/hate to see in romances? Have you any favourite romance authors to recommend?? Comment away...

'“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.' Take 2!

Since I basically heard crickets in response to my post yesterday, I'm assuming all is not well in Raven's Keep. However, I have taken on board Prerna's extremely helpful comments and hopefully am now posting a vastly superior draft of the opening section of my manuscript, Raven's Keep. I might be shooting myself in the foot with this, but even if only one person comments to let me know what now needs improvement then it's better than nothing. If there are any lurkers out there- remember you can leave anonymous comments, so go crazy!

(Here's the synopsis again for those who don't know: A teenage girl wakes up in a strange town to find that she has amnesia and no one knows who she is. It is a gothic/urban fantasy with a bit of a murder mystery thrown in.)


Chapter one:

Yellow dots played on her eyelids like tap-dancing ants. Her body itched and tingled as it began to wake up, but she kept her eyes shut and didn’t move. Every bone felt heavy and fragile beneath her skin. A confusion of voices filled the air, asking strange questions that made no sense and invaded her space. She wanted to pull the covers over her head and shut the sounds out, but the more conscious she became, the more she doubted that she was in a bed. The patter of ants turned into the jab of needles.

“Make way, make way.”

She could just make out the clucked muttering that comes from a crowd being jostled as someone shoves through, but still she didn’t move, though she could feel her heart pounding in her chest as though determined to draw attention to itself.

“For goodness sake everyone. I’m here now. I’ll deal with this.”

She felt her eyelids twitch. The needles were trying to pry them open. She had begun to sense the people forming a semi circle around her; to feel the bumpiness of the ground beneath her body. 

“Now.” The same bossy voice came again, nearer this time. “What is going on?”

“It’s like she appeared from nowhere.” Someone answered. “She’s still alive, but I dunno what’s wrong.” 

A silence prickled the atmosphere before the bossy voice continued: “how long has she been lying here?” 

“Not long,” another person said. “Do you think she should go to the hospital?”

Cora opened her eyes.

She blinked in the sharp sunlight as the dots continued to make things blurry, and realised her view was obscured by what looked like a crimson mop. She blinked again and the vision reshaped itself into the hair atop a woman’s head. The face below it was middle-aged and fleshy, with several layers of loose powder that made Cora think of uncooked pizza dough. She blinked again and the woman’s blue eyes came into focus.

“Everyone stand back!” It was the bossy voice, Cora realised. The woman was ‘bossy voice.’ She kneeled in the dirt beside Cora, her legs protected from the ground by a shabby tweed jacket that didn’t look like it belonged to her. “The stranger is awake.”

“Who are you?” The words were out before anything else came to mind, but a second later an onslaught of more important questions rushed at her. What was going on? Where was she? How had she got there? Too many thoughts buzzed in Cora’s head like a frantic swarm of bees. Not much was coming to her in that moment, but she felt confident that she didn’t normally wake up outside and surrounded by a bunch of strangers.    

The woman pressed her lips together. “I was going to ask you the same question. You’re the one who was lying unconscious in the street.”

Cora stared at her, trying to focus. Silver earrings hung like church bells through the woman’s short hair, brushing the shoulder pads of a tailored, striped navy suit. Everyone else stood back from the woman, and Cora realised that they all knew who the woman was. She turned her attention to the crowd. No one looked familiar. Teenage boys drawn by the commotion. Mothers with toddlers. Shop keepers who had left their stores unattended to find out what was going on. All were strangers. Cora twisted her head and saw that she was lying on the cobbled ground of what appeared to be a town square. Even now people exited the shops, attracted by the sight of a crowd on such a sleepy, sunny day.

Despite the gathering it was quiet. The cobbles stretched from one side of shops to the other, leaving no road for any cars to get through.

Cora struggled to sit up, feeling her cheeks burn under everyone’s eyes. Immediately a headache threatened to rip open her skull. Massaging her forehead, she looked around the crowd, searching for an escape. She needed to get away- she didn’t know why, but she felt this need for escape as a certainty in the same way she felt her aching legs. A strange snapping sound brought her back to the person in front of her.

“Now look at me.” Even the birds seemed to quiet down when Bossy Woman clicked her fingers. “What’s your name?”

“Cora.” It sounded strange on her tongue. “Cora,” she tried again.

“Cora?” Bossy Woman lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s it.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your wits aren’t addled now, are they? Or perhaps you fell on your head. You must have a last name.”

Cora felt her chest tighten. “I…I don’t remember.” What was her last name? How old was she? What day was it? Her breaths became shallow as she realised she didn’t know the answer to any of the questions. As stars swam across her eyes she made herself inhale and exhale slowly.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Someone else called out.

“I don’t think so.” Cora turned over her slender arms, examining both front and back, but the pale, freckled skin was clear of cuts or bruises. Her aching bones didn’t need to be mentioned.

“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.

“I’m fine.” Cora didn’t know why she felt the need to hide everything. Perhaps it was because all of the crowd were staring at her as though she’d fallen from the sky; perhaps it was because every instinct told her to run. In a minute she would remember everything, she promised herself, squeezing her fingernails into her palms. It was just taking her longer than normal to wake up and her mind was still foggy from sleep. That was all.

BW rose to her feet and held out a manicured hand that looked like chunky chips dipped in blobs of ketchup. As she waved it in Cora’s face, Cora caught a whiff of disinfectant. “Get up,” BW said, her fingers wriggling when Cora hesitated. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.”

With shaking arms, Cora pushed herself upwards, ignoring the proffered aid. BW dropped her arm as though it had failed her and she would like nothing more to do with it.

Cora took a deep breath as she straightened up and felt the air rush to her head. Her legs were as brittle as lollipop sticks and her stomach felt like it was being liquidized in a blender.

“Um… thanks for the offer, but I don’t need to go to hospital. Thanks.” Brushing the dirt off of her clothes, she avoided looking at the crowd. Their gazes only made her stomach churn faster and on top of everything else the fog still refused to clear up. Before she could stop herself she stumbled forward and her arms shot out to keep her balance.

“Don’t be stupid and stop wasting my time,” BW said. “You need to be checked for any damages and then I need to phone your parents.”

“My parents?”

“Of course. How old are you anyway? You don’t look much more than seventeen.”

“I’m … I don’t know.” Cora rubbed at her head again. It still sparked as though a firework was banging about inside of it.

“Oh, for goodness sake, never mind.” BW clutched at Cora’s hand before Cora could shake it off. “We’ll sort it all out once you’ve been checked over.” She turned to the crowd. “Everyone, get back about your day. This isn’t a spectator sport.”

As the crowd dispersed Cora felt the tightness in her chest begin to loosen. “Thanks for that,” she said, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as BW marched her down the street. “How come they listen to you?”

 “Are you actually saying you don’t know who I am? I’m the Mayor of the town of Raven’s Keep. Mayor Winter.”

“Oh.” Cora bit her lip. The town’s name was unfamiliar. “Where’s that?”

“Right here.” BW paused and grabbed Cora’s shoulders, digging her nails through Cora’s t-shirt. She looked at Cora with a solemn expression, yet her eyes seemed to glitter. “You don’t know where you are or how you got here, do you?”

No and no, but Cora wasn’t about to say it. Instead she shrugged. “I’m just a bit…confused.”

“DO…YOU…KNOW…WHO…YOU…ARE?”

Cora jerked backwards out of BW’s hands and then instantly regretted the action as she almost lost her balance again. “I’m…Cora. And by the way-” she massaged her shoulders “-I’m not deaf.”

BW smiled. “Let’s just get you to the hospital.”

So again, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment- say anything at all that comes to mind, even if you think it sounds ridiculous or nitpicky to the extreme! I feel like I'm yelling into a well here: 'is there anyone out there...there...there...' but anyway, you get my drift. Any comment will be welcomed with imaginary cupcakes and the knowledge that you've made a desperate girl happy. So...yeah. I'll shut up now and go look for my dignity. :) 

'“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.'

So, after stating yesterday that I finished the first draft of my WIP 'Raven's Keep' I decided on a whim that I would post the opening section of it here, because I'm desperate for any feedback I can get. When I say first draft, I mean overall first draft- the section I'm posting has in fact been edited several times. However, I'm feeling pretty vulnerable right now, so if you think it's crap, please find a constructive way of telling me! The story in a nutshell is about a teenage girl who wakes up in a strange town to find that she has amnesia and no one knows who she is. It is a gothic/urban fantasy with a bit of a murder mystery thrown in. Hope you like!

Chapter one:

 “Do you think she’s ok?”

“What do I look like, a bloody mind reader?”

“What happened?”

Yellow dots played on her eyelids like a million tap-dancing ants.

“No idea. One minute I’m walking down the street, next thing I know she’s lying there, unconscious.”

“You don’t think she’s dead?”

Too much noise filled the air. She wanted to pull the covers over her head and shut the sounds out. Where had all of the voices come from?

 “Nah, I checked her pulse. Look, you can see her breathing.”

The dots were growing more insistent. The patter of ants had turned into needles.

“Make way, make way.”

She could just make out the clucked muttering that comes from a crowd being jostled about as someone shoves through.

“For goodness sake everyone. I’m here now. I’ll deal with this.”

Her eyelids twitched. The needles were trying to pry them open. She had begun to sense the people forming a semi circle around her; to feel the bumpiness of the ground beneath her body. Where was she?

“Now.” The same bossy voice came again, nearer this time. “What is going on?”

“It’s like she appeared from nowhere. She’s still alive, but I dunno what’s wrong.” She recognised the voice- it was one of the first people who had spoken. A man who sounded like he talked from the bottom of his throat.

“And you didn’t think to get me straight away?”

“We thought you were in your office.”

“Yes, well. That’s why we have mobile phones now, isn’t it?”

A silence prickled the atmosphere before the bossy voice continued: “how long has she been lying here?” 

“Not long,” another person said. “Do you think she should go to the hospital?”

Cora opened her eyes.

She blinked in the sunlight as the dots continued to make things blurry, and realised her view was obscured by what looked like a crimson mop. She blinked again and the vision reshaped itself into the hair atop a woman’s head. The face below it was middle-aged and fleshy, with several layers of loose powder that made Cora think of uncooked pizza dough. She blinked again. The woman’s eyes came into focus; diluted blue and ringed with eyeliner.

“Everyone stand back!” It was the bossy voice, Cora realised. The woman was ‘bossy voice.’ She kneeled in the dirt beside Cora, her legs protected from the ground by a shabby tweed jacket that didn’t look like it belonged to her. “The stranger is awake.”

“Who are you?” The words popped out of Cora before anything else came to mind, but a second later an onslaught of more important questions rushed at her. What was going on? Where was she? How had she got there? Too many thoughts buzzed in Cora’s head like a frantic swarm of bees.    

The woman pressed her lips together. “I was going to ask you the same question. You’re the one who was lying unconscious in the street.”

Cora stared at her, trying to focus. The woman wore a tailored, striped navy suit with shoulder pads. Silver earrings hung like church bells through the woman’s short hair, brushing the shoulder pads as though the entire outfit was one, connected system. Everyone else stood slightly back from the woman, and Cora realised that they all knew whom the woman was. She turned her attention to the crowd. No one looked familiar. Teenage boys drawn by the commotion. Mothers with toddlers. Shop keepers who had left their stores unattended to find out what was going on. All were strangers. Cora twisted her head and saw that she was lying on the cobbled ground of a town square. Even now people exited the green grocer’s, the newsagent’s, the butcher’s, distracted by the sight of a crowd on such a sleepy, sunny day.

Despite the gathering it was quiet. The cobbles stretched from one side of shops to the opposite row, leaving no road for any cars to get through, had there been any cars.

Cora struggled to sit up, feeling awkward under all of the attentive eyes. Immediately a headache threatened to rip open her skull.

“Are you ok?” A mother asked, her grip tightening on her child as he began to slip in her distracted hold.

“I’m fine.” Cora massaged at her forehead. She was fine, she told herself. She just needed to…get away. A strange snapping sound brought her back to the moment at hand.

“Now look at me.” Even the birds seemed to quiet down when Bossy Woman clicked her fingers. “What’s your name?”

“Cora.” It sounded strange on her tongue. “Cora,” she tried again.

“Cora?” Bossy Woman lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s it.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your wits aren’t addled now, are they? Or perhaps you fell on your head. You must have a last name.”

Cora felt her chest tighten as though breathing had become harder. “I…I don’t remember.”

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Someone else called out.

“I don’t think so.” Cora turned over her slender arms, examining both front and back, but the pale, freckled skin was clear of cuts or bruises.

“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.

“I’m fine.” Cora didn’t know why she felt the need to hide her headache. Perhaps it was because all of the crowd were staring at her as though she’d fallen from the sky.

BW rose to her feet and held out a manicured hand that looked like chunky chips dipped in blobs of ketchup. As she waved it in Cora’s face, Cora caught a whiff of disinfectant. “Get up,” BW said, her fingers twitching when Cora hesitated. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.”

With shaking arms, Cora pushed herself upwards, ignoring the proffered aid. BW dropped her arm as though it had failed her and she would like nothing more to do with it.

“Um…no thank you,” Cora said, brushing dirt off herself and avoiding looking at the crowd. Their gazes made her stomach churn, on top of everything else.

“Don’t be stupid and stop wasting my time,” BW said. “You need to be checked for any damages and then I need to phone your parents.”

“My parents?”

“Of course. How old are you anyway? You don’t look much more than seventeen.”

“I… I don’t know.” Cora rubbed at her head again. It still sparked as though a firework was banging about inside of it.

“Oh, for goodness sake, never mind.” BW clutched at Cora’s hand before Cora could shake it off. “We’ll sort it all out once you’ve been checked over.” She turned to the crowd. “Everyone, get back about your day. This isn’t a spectator sport.”

As the crowd dispersed Cora felt the tightness of her chest begin to loosen. “Thanks for that,” she said, as BW began to march her down the street. “How come they listen to you?”

 “Are you actually saying you don’t know who I am? I’m the Mayor of the town of Raven’s Keep. Mayor Winter.”

“Oh.” Cora bit her lip. The town’s name was unfamiliar. “Where’s that?”

“Right here.” BW paused and grabbed Cora’s shoulders, digging her nails through Cora’s t-shirt. She looked at Cora with a solemn expression, yet her eyes seemed to glitter. “You don’t know where you are or how you got here, do you?”

Cora shrugged, not knowing, even as she did it, why her instinct was to try and downplay everything. “I’m just a bit…confused.”

“DO…YOU…KNOW…WHO…YOU…ARE?”

Cora jerked backwards, out of BW’s hands. “I’m…Cora. And by the way-” she massaged her shoulders “-I’m not deaf.”

BW smiled. “Let’s just get you to the hospital.”


So, there you have it. Remember, I'm DESPERATE for feedback, so any thoughts you have, negative or positive, are appreciated. Too confusing? Over written? Anything else??? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE tell me!!!!

‘When the sale comes first and the truth comes second just stop for a minute and smile.’

So, I’ve been away from bloggy world for longer than I’d hoped, (three days but it feels like a lifetime.) I’d like to say that this is because I’ve been hard at work, writing, but the truth is I’ve been struck with the dreaded blog-writer’s block. So, if anyone has any brilliant ideas on what my next few posts should be, if there are any films or books they’d love for me to review/rip to shreds, or if they are just desperate to hear the sound of my writer’s voice, let me know. I’m needing an inspiration fairy right about now. Inspiration fairies are like muses, but better.

On a side note, I did, in fact, finish the first draft of my WIP this morning, so I guess it’s now time for the real work to begin! Fun, fun, fun. My WIP is currently called Raven’s Keep, and I’d love any feedback you have on that title. Hate it? Love it? Indifferent? Please, please, please let me know!

This post does actually have a topic by the way, and is not just me rambling from one point to the next. Today I thought I’d discuss my biggest book-related pet peeve: Celebrity writers.

God. Uch. The two words don’t even go together. I mean, that’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. Aren’t writers by their very definition meant to be people who stay out of the limelight? (You can disagree with me on that comment- I know I’m generalising to make my point.) Celebrity autobiographies are bad but fiction is even worse. At least with the autobiographies, it’s pretty much a guarantee that the celebrity ‘author’ knows what their book is about.

Don’t get me wrong- I have nothing against ghostwriters. Every writer would do pretty much anything if it involves being paid to do what they love, and I can’t blame them for that.

The thing that gets to me is that I live and breathe writing. I think about it first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I couldn’t not write, even if I knew my work would never ever be read, because writing is just part of what makes me me. 

But for celebrities, it is just a vehicle that earns them money. Most of them don’t care about writing or reading or books in themselves. They just want their hard-hitting, ‘tell-all’ book to be the Christmas number one bestseller. And people wonder why libraries are closing?!

For me, books are art. They might not be for many of you, and that’s fine. You might just view the written word as fun entertainment, whether through blogging, or poems, or reading. But think about it- you wouldn’t catch a celebrity trying to sell a painting, would you? (Although it will happen soon, when people in the industry realise there’s a profit to be made from it) For me, celebrity art *shudders* and celebrity books are the same thing- completely absurd. Writing is an art, and if you don’t have the talent, or at least the love for it, you shouldn’t do it. (I’m aware I could be shooting myself in the foot here, over my questionable ‘talent,’ but hey, no one can question my dedication.) You want to reveal your life story? Do it in a gossip magazine- that’s what they’re there for.

 Perhaps I’m just bitter or grumpy, or can’t face the cold, hard truth of reality, but I can’t shake this skewed idea I have that unless you love reading and the written word, you shouldn’t be allowed to write. Why should people read your books, if you don’t read yourself? People who have never read a book in their lives and don’t intend to start, even with their own products, should not be allowed to make money from their ‘books.’ It’s just plain gross. For every celebrity who churns out a future bargain-bin waste of space without thought or care, there are thousands of would-be writers, dreaming, breathing and loving writing and being rejected by publishers across the world. 

Yes, I am aware that this horrible epidemic can’t be outlawed and that we don’t live in ‘fair’ land. I am also aware that some of these books could be amazing. I don’t know, I’ve never read any, and whether they’re amazing or shit is irrelevant. The issue is why they exist. I recently had an opportunity to do work experience at a big publishing company, and I actually sat through a meeting where one member of the team suggested approaching a certain popular octogenarian to see if he fancied 'writing' another autobiography. No one was keen on the pitch and everyone was clearly thinking: who actually cares what this celebrity has to say? But the idea wasn’t ruled out. You know why? Because they knew there might be money in it.

In all honesty, I just want to know why. Why do people read these books? What is there that draws people to them? Because, personally, I just can’t see it. If you are a fan of celebrity books, don’t be shy- I won’t bite your head off. I’m not attacking the readers, just the principle of celebrity books as a ruthless, calculated, moneymaking venture. I want to know what’s good about them so I can sleep better at night.

(Disclaimer: I do not actually stay awake at night worrying about the future of books because of the current epidemic of celebrity authors- I was just being dramatic. :D )

'Buy me diamonds and rubies, I'm crazy bout Bentleys' - wait, is that the wrong song??

The other day, the amazingly wonderful Cherie at http://readywritego.blogspot.com/  was nice enough to give me another blog award, and you should all check out her blog pronto. *Points at you.* Yes, you.

Here it is...aint it pretty??

So, as I did Seven Things About Me quite recently, I thought I’d vary it up a bit with seven random favourites instead-

1. Favourite type of weather: Storms. I live in Britain. Britain is not equipped for extreme types of weather. When the sun shines we sweat it out in our un-air conditioned houses and humid public transport, whilst longing for swimming pools and cocktails with little umbrellas in them. When it snows, we shiver it out in isolation, unable to drive on our icy, slushy roads, dreaming of Christmas and feel-good movies and five courses of food. But when there’s a thunderstorm? All we want is to be inside and to be dry and warm: something even Britain is capable of achieving. I love nothing more than to sit inside and listen to rain lashing against the window as though I’m in the only person in the world that exists. I think it brings out something primitive and uncomplicated in everyone- the simple pleasure of knowing that you’re safe, because it’s raining and you’re inside and not wet. Bliss. 

2. Favourite style icon. Effy from Skins. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t style myself like that- I don’t make a habit of going about with my underwear visible from my skirt, but goshdarnit, I love her style. And in Skinsland, she gets away with it.

3. Favourite Disney movie. That’s a tough one. As a child I would’ve said Mary Poppins or The Lion King, as I probably watched those two films more than any of the others. But as an adult I’ll say Mulan. Hey, she saves all of China- you can’t get much better than that. Also, Eddie Murphy as a dragon. Need I say more?

4. Favourite underage child role model rebel. Taylor Momsen. Smoke? Check. Drink? Check. Discuss inappropriate things in interviews? Check. Make jokes in bad taste? Check. Style herself like a six-foot panda with a distaste for covering up? Check. There’s nothing cringey or embarrassing that Taylor Momsen hasn’t done. Is she seeking attention? Is she too cool for school? Is she just a brat with a bad attitude? Who knows? Who cares? So why do I like her? (Phew, that was a lot of questions!) Because despite all of the above, in a world where the vast majority of rock singers are men, Taylor Momsen stands out. I love her band, The Pretty Reckless, which surprisingly is Pretty Great. (See what I did there?!) *Shakes head at self.* We need more female-fronted bands like that.

5. Favourite song. Hug Me, by Meg and Dia. It’s based on a book, Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley, so it’s already obvious that I’d like it just from that, but I defy anyone to listen to this song and not want to play it again. Or put it on repeat. Or learn all the words. Except for my dad, who doesn't like anything other than opera. I don't understand his ears.

6. Favourite artist. I have two, and they’re very different. John William Waterhouse and Rosina Wachtmeister. One is a Pre-Raphaelite style artist who depicted myths and legends. The other…well, she likes cats.

7. Favourite quote, from On The Radio, by Regina Spektor:

This is how it works:
You're young until you're not.
You love until you don't.
You try until you can't.
You laugh until you cry,
You cry until you laugh,
And everyone must breathe,
Until their dying breath.

No, this is how it works:
You peer inside yourself,
You take the things you like,
And try to love the things you took,
And then you take that love you made,
And stick it into some,
Someone else's heart,
Pumping someone else's blood.
And walking arm in arm,
You hope it don't get harmed,
But even if it does,
You'll just do it all again…

 

Best way to sum up life, death and love I’ve ever heard.

And, because I’m cheeky, I’m throwing in an eighth favourite- favourite idea for fan fiction I’ve ever heard, ever, courtesy of Selina: The White Queen from Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, meets Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean. Can you imagine those two going out for coffee?? I want to see this happen!

And now, the five lovely people of bloggy amazingness that I give this award to are…

Ashley Nixon at http://ashley-nixon.blogspot.com/

Jessie at http://jessie-humphries.blogspot.com/

The Many Colours of Happiness at http://themanycoloursofhappiness.blogspot.com/

Gary Gautier at http://garygauthier.blogspot.com/

Rachel Pudelek at http://rachelpudelek.blogspot.com/

So go and see their wonderful blogs at once. Or, you know, when you feel like it. :D

‘Grandmother, what big teeth you have’ … ‘All the better to eat you with!’ (A review)

I love fairy tales in any form, so I was really excited when, a few days ago, I got to see the film, Red Riding Hood, for the first time. As I watched, I was struck by the idea that the film was more like your standard YA fantasy book than any film I’d seen before. However, this is hardly surprising when you know that the director is Catherine Hardwicke, director of the first Twilight film and apparent lover of teen angst galore.

Red Riding Hood is set around the seventeenth century, in a small village called Daggerhorn. Within this isolated village, two stories are going on simultaneously, both of which centre around Red Riding Hood, whose name in this is Valerie, (Amanda Seyfried.) The first story is that of a werewolf who has prayed on the village for decades, and the second is Valerie’s romantic life. She loves her childhood friend Peter, (Shiloh Fernandez) but is being forced to marry the wealthy Henry (Max Irons.)

Red Riding Hood is at times a little bit Sleepy Hollow, a little bit The Village, but unfortunately is nowhere near as good as either. It lacks the quirkiness of Tim Burton’s imagination and the sweetness of the romance in The Village. Straight away, I was confused as to who everyone was. The opening scene should have been one introducing all of the characters, but the viewer is never given that. Because of this, it took me a good fifteen minutes to figure out who was who. This wasn’t helped by the lack of close-ups on anyone’s face but Valerie’s, and the fact that not one adult looks older than forty, including Valerie’s grandmother (Julie Christie.) One conversation that I thought was taking place between husband and wife turned out to be mother and son, and the actress who plays Valerie’s mother (Virginia Madsen) looks spookily like Amanda Seyfried’s older sister. I felt like I was watching an episode of the OC. I know you could argue that it’s realistic for people to be younger in this film, as in olden times they married young and died young, but as the film doesn’t attempt to be realistic on any other front, I think I have the right to want to know whether someone is old enough to be a grandmother just by looking at them. 

The other big flaw was the love triangle. Who needs personalities when you can have perfectly styled hair and big blue eyes? All three of them were boring, boring, boring, limp, lifeless and dull, and I didn’t care who she ended up with, although it didn’t take any guesswork to figure that one out. When is a love-triangle not a love-triangle? When it’s one big cliché, that’s when! And why on earth was Max Irons, of all people, cast as Henry? His American accent was appalling, and I can just imagine the phone call Max made to his dad, Jeremy, when he landed the role. “Dad! Dad! I’ve got a main part in this new film!”

Jeremy: (in his extremely recognisable voice.) “That’s great! What’s the character like? I love a character I can sink my teeth into.”

Max: “Well…(long pause)…he says things. I’m fairly confident he gets to say things. Sometimes … sometimes he even gets to make facial expressions.”

 Incidentally, unlike my sisters, I am not enamoured with Amanda Seyfried’s face. Sure she’s a pretty girl, but there’s nothing gothic or strikingly unusual about her, in my opinion. She lacks Christina Ricci’s bizarrely attractive, moon-like features, or Bryce Dallas Howard’s Pre-Raphaelite hair. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal of course, but in a film such as this, especially when the camera spends so much time on Valerie, I wanted to see someone who doesn’t look like the latest perfume add model. (Actually, that goes for all three leads.) 

Numerous absurdities can be found again and again in this film. The reason that Father Solomon (Gary Oldman) is so hellbent on killing werewolves is because it is God’s will, yet he’s happy to kill another priest, simply because the man gets in the way? Inconsistent evil for the sake of evil doesn’t work for me. And even though it snows throughout the film, everyone dresses like it’s a nice spring day, and no one ever so much as shivers. This was so ridiculous that it was like watching a school play which doesn’t have the budget to make things more realistic. Another issue is that Valerie’s friends just seem to exist in a parentless state, which doesn’t make sense given the circumstances. I can hear the producers’ conversation now…

“We’re not hiring another person over the age of thirty. We’ve got five old people already- that’s enough!”

“But ... but … things happen to people which will leave the viewers wondering where their parents are…”

“The parents are dead! Ok! That’s what we’ll tell anyone who asks. All the parents are dead. They looked in the mirror and saw a grey hair or a wrinkle or whatever and were so distraught that they ended it all.”

“Uh…ok…”

Cynical? Me?

Also, whilst I’m busy nitpicking, why does Valerie’s dad (Billy Burke) have a Bieber haircut?!

So, just to show that I’m not a completely joyless harpy who takes pleasure in hating all things, here’s what I did like:

The celebration dance scene was interesting and well choreographed. I liked how it combined old-fashioned dancing and modern dancing to make something that hasn’t really been seen before yet still works. That was perhaps the one original thing for me, so it gets a tick for that.

I also liked the murder mystery of figuring out the werewolf. I didn’t see it coming though the clues were there (to be fair, I wasn’t trying too hard to figure it out) and when we did discover whom the werewolf was, it was in a way that (mostly) made sense, and seemed well plotted, explaining away earlier mysteries.

For me, the grandmother was the most interesting character, so every scene that had her in it was a good scene. She was wonderfully mysterious and ever so slightly creepy. Valerie’s dream about her was the most frightening bit, and I mean that in a good way.

All in all, I’d give Red Riding Hood two stars out of five. It’s the sort of film that once you know the ending, you’d never watch it again, because there’s simply nothing to go back for. A strong romance would’ve been the draw for repeated watching, but unfortunately, as stated before, it falls completely flat on that front.

Ah well. It was a disappointment this time around, but I won’t give up hope that the future remakes of fairytales to hit cinemas (there seems to be two Beauty and the Beasts and two Snow Whites in the offing) will be worth watching.

Agree/disagree? Haven’t seen it? All opinions welcome in the comments!

Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. ~Gene Fowler

Working on a WIP (work in progress) is haaaarrrd. Seriously. I find that although writing is perfectly easy to do in short stories, it suddenly becomes a total chore when I have a three hundred-page book to write, and in my desire to get a novel out, I lose all capability for something as simple as decent sentence structure. (See what I mean?) My similes stop making sense, I forget all about description, I start comma splicing, and every character starts talking in, like, exactly the same way.

I am about three chapters from the end of my current WIP. Soooo close! It’s just pushing myself that’s the problem. I hate writing badly, but I know that if I don’t do the first draft badly, it won’t get written at all.

I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter.  ~James Michener

 Who was it who said that thing about genius being 90% hard work, 10% inspiration? (Not that I’m deluded enough to think I’m a genius- I’d happily accept being called a half-wit -the quote just serves my purpose.) I’m pretty sure I’ve misquoted anyway, but you know what I mean. Right? Right?!

I have inspiration for perhaps the first two chapters of any book. And then it’s gone. Used up in the amount of time it takes me to do this. *Clicks fingers.* The rest of the book- however many years it takes me to write it -is mostly just hard work, and if I’m lucky, I’ll get the occasional spurt of enthusiasm again, every few months or so.

That’s not to say I don’t like my stories, or enjoy creating them, or even that I don’t enjoy writing. I love them. To all of the above. I can spend many a happy hour thinking about my stories and what direction I want them to go in. My characters are as real and as loved for me as any other author’s characters are for them.

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air.  All I must do is find it, and copy it.  ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895

And I love writing- I love putting a new spin on old ideas and an old twist on new ones. I love similes and metaphors and cringeworthy puns. I love the surprises that get you at the end of a good book, even though in hindsight you kick yourself because you really should have seen them coming. I love poetic language to describe death and commonplace words to describe love. I love writing something horrendous so that I can sift through it to get to the good stuff, which I know I must have in me somewhere; only it’s probably deep, deep, deep down inside. Probably.

Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.  ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

But there’s something about sitting in front of a computer, seeing pages of my own writing, and just being filled with self-doubt. I think self-doubt must be the death of creativity. (Apparently I’m paraphrasing Sylvia Plath here.)

 It gets easier with each draft. I mean, I don’t have much experience as this is only my second proper WIP, but I think it’s about seeing the words on the page translate the images in my head, and the closer I get to that, the calmer I feel. I know I will never reach the point where a book feels complete for me (I don’t think that’s possible for any writer) but I would like to reach a point where I feel confident that I’ve written a good story.

The time to begin writing … is when you have finished [your work] to your satisfaction.  By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.  ~Mark Twain

So, how about you? Anyone else feeling the frustration of ‘oh my god I could finish my first draft in ten hours if I just made myself work on it’ versus ‘but you won’t because it’s shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit’? Or is that just me?? *Laughs manically.*

Any comments, thoughts, experiences or advice to get my head examined would be muchly appreciated.

A writer and nothing else:  a [person] alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right.  ~John K. Hutchens, New York Herald Tribune, 10 September 1961

‘Hey remember that time when I would only read Shakespeare? Hey remember that other time when I would only read the backs of cereal boxes?’

Today I wanted a happy post, so I started thinking about my inspirations. I don't know if this is like most other writers, but I can find inspiration in anything- the backs of cereal boxes, the middle of Tesco's supermarket, a music video or even two people arguing on the street. All of these things lead me back to writing, and allow me to remember that life can be a little bit bigger, a little bit stranger, and that imagination can be stretched a little bit further.

So, I thought: time for another list! A list of the top ten things (to my best recollection and not including books, because that’s too obvious) that inspire me to not just think outside of the box, but to trample the box, kick it away, and never have anything to do with it ever again.

Without further ado, and in no particular order, I give you: Charlotte’s favourite inspirations…

1. The concept of Dead Like Me, a dark comedy programme that unfortunately only lasted for two series. A toilet seat falls from space and kills a girl. The girl then becomes a grim reaper. This is the sort of premise that I wish I had thought of first.

2. The introduction of Tara in the first series of True Blood (a programme that is part vampire porn/part gothic brilliance.) She comes across as rude, loud, angry, obnoxious and far too intelligent, but straight away I adored her. For all of her flaws, she remains endearing, and the sort of person you'd want as your friend but Never as your enemy!  

3. The band, Panic! At the Disco’s, music video for ‘The Ballad of Mona Lisa.’ Set in a Victorian funeral parlour, the video embodies steampunk and eyeliner. Two of my favourite things. A friend tried to explain the video to another friend and said something along the lines of: “It’s basically just Charlotte. The inside of her head.” So, yeah. This video and I are kindred spirits.

4. Years ago on holiday, my parents bought a huge painting of a tropical waterfall. Filled with exotic colours and animals, the detail is so pretty that I feel calmer whenever I look at it. This is the one ‘heirloom’ that my sisters and I are guaranteed to fight over when my dad leaves us for the great beyond. (Sorry dad.) I don’t know how many times over the years I’ve wished I could pull a Narnia and step inside of that painting. Unfortunately I am reminded yet again, that in our world, a painting is just a painting.

5. Speaking of stepping into paintings…Disney's Mary Poppins. More specifically, her snowglobe. That is one magical, magical snowglobe, and I have been searching for one like that my entire life. If anyone knows where I could get one, let me know. It would be a childhood dream come true.

6. And thoughts of Dick Van Dyke lead me to another of his films, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and the best villain in the world, ever, The Child Catcher. Would you buy sweets from this man??

True fact: The children's author, Roald Dahl, wrote the first draft of the screenplay for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but didn’t work any further on it, and it ended up getting changed a lot. I think the one thing they kept from his original draft was: The Child Catcher.  Dun dun dun… I actually shudder just thinking of him now. (The Child Catcher, not Roald Dahl) And I’m 23 years old.

7. Misfits. Misfits, for anyone who doesn't know, is a British TV show about a bunch of people doing community service, who gain super powers during a weird storm. Despite its flaws, Misfits has come up with some truly ingenious ideas, like a boy who has been given the ability to see the world as a video game, and, you know, Nathan, in all of his Nathaness. Who comes up with that stuff?? The way they filmed the video game episode as well was just brilliant. 

8. The adult cartoon, Family Guy. Does it need any further explanation? Love it or hate it, there’s no denying that Family Guy would be insulted if they knew that the ‘box’ even existed in the same realm as them. Why can people hear the baby talking sometimes and not others? They just can, ok? Deal with it.

9. This ornamental birdcage, which I got for my last birthday. It’s from Monsoon but they’ve stopped stocking it now, and I absolutely love it. It’s just so pretty and random. I have a love of all things random. *Gushes.* J

 

10. The White Queen in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. I wish I had invented this character. What can I say? I love her style and I love her mannerisms and I just find her so watchable. She could waffle on about the benefits of skimmed milk over whole fat for hours and as long as she did it with those strange arm movements I would still find it mesmerising.

There were plenty of others I could have included, but I did say I’d limit myself to ten, even though it was hard. L I’m so indecisive that, years ago, when my family was moving house and I couldn’t make up my mind as to where I wanted my furniture to go, the removal men asked me if I was as indecisive as my mother. I replied, in all earnestness, “um, I don’t know.” They had a good laugh out of that one.

So that’s my big, exciting list. If you’re now intrigued to check any of them out, go for it, and let me know. Except for my dad’s painting because that would just be weird.

 

NB: None of the pictures above are mine!