@DineshAllirajah

To lose a friend or a family member feels beyond devastation. To lose a teacher feels beyond comprehension.

To say that I learned how to write over the past four years is inaccurate. I knew how to write. I simply didn’t know that I knew. Dinesh Allirajah didn’t tell me I could write. He showed me. He gave me weekly gifts of Hemingway and  Chekov and Chopin. He showed me that stories aren’t hugely involved epics with tragedy and love and burning buildings. He showed me how one word can say more than a paragraph. How each character has their individual right to be heard. He gave me confidence to write as myself. To be heard as myself. He showed me I can write. In person he laughed at my clumsy attempts at titles and my affinity for the word ‘fuck’. He made me read aloud every week. Despite my protests. He made me listen to others’ criticisms. Often inane. He made me have an opinion. Often inane. We exchanged little in personal words. But enough in mutual respect. For a few hours for a few weeks for a few years I absorbed what I could of his enthusiasm. His knowledge. His belief in my ability. This was his most valuable gift to me.

I said in my overly sappy introduction that to lose a teacher feels beyond comprehension. I offer no apology for my choice of words. I simply do not know how to mourn my teacher.
So why am I writing this? Why share my confusion and my misery in a public display of clipped syllables? Because this is what I have learned. Because spoken words are transient. Because anything less than permanence would feel a damned disservice.

http://realtimeshortstories.wordpress.com/

Fifty Shades Too Many

Ok, so along with every other woman on the planet between the ages of 20-60, I'm reading the E.L. James 'Fifty Shades' trilogy. I've been away from work for a few weeks (again), and the whisperings of 'Mummy Porn' got the better of me, so I downloaded 'Fifty Shades of Grey' onto my Kindle, and plunged in head first.

The more I read, the more I developed a strong feeling that I knew the plot already. The sex scenes were new, but the plot was definately familiar:

'Young, virginal, clumsy woman with self confidence issues, falls blindly in love with a devastatingly handsome man with a secret and troubled past.' It's Twilight! (Don't judge me people, I'm a school librarian..it was research :))

Further investigation (yes, I know I'm sad) proved me right. The 'Fifty Shades' Trilogy was originally written for a 'fan-fiction' website, and initially contained characters names Bella Swan and Edward Cullen. After concerns over the sexual nature of James' writing, she removed the stories from the fan-fiction sites, and re-wrote the books under their current titles.

I've never read anything from the erotic fiction genre before (I live a very sheltered life), but I'm almost embarrassed to admit that did quite enjoy the first book. Possibly because it was a new genre to me, possibly because I was bored, I couldn't truthfully comment, but I finished it in a day. The plot was easy to follow, there were a few interesting words (and ideas) in it, I had nothing better to do, so I wanted to finish the book.

By book two, 'Fifty Shades Darker', I'd kind of become accustomed to/bored by the writing style of James. She tends towards the use of unusual vocabulary, but she uses a word, then uses it again, then again, then again (a bit like Christian does to Ana) until frankly I got fed up of 'Christian's mercurial behaviour' and just wants to hear that he's a moody bugger. It was in this book, the 'break up and life stands still' book (see Twilight again, New Moon by Stephanie Myers), that I found greater pleasure using the 'Dictionary Look Up' option on my Kindle to guess the definitions of some of James' more colourful vocabulary. The sex scenes had ceased to be titilation and became predictable; he put his finger there, she quivered with excitement...blah de blah! Still, I'd started so I finished (a bit like Ana...every time...as if!)

Book three. Fifty Shades Freed. Thank god it's the last one.

I'm sorry ladies, but I've about given up. My relationship with 'Fifty Shades' has passed through the 'can't get enough' phase, through 'yeah, it's still quite good, if a little predictable' to 'what should I do, read or decorate the ceiling...' I think I'm over it!

And now that it's over, I'm starting to wonder what it was that has made it (and Twilight) such a success, and I'm beginning to realise I'm not very comfortable with my thoughts.

Think about Mr Darcy and Mr Rochester. Think about the time period that these books were written. Think about the assumed subservience of their women. Then think about women in 2012. We're different, aren't we? Our fore-sisters burned their bras and threw themselves in front of race horses. We are equal to our men. That is what we wanted and that is what we have...kind of. But, if books like 'Fifty Shades' and 'Twilight' are speaking to the thoughts and desires of women to be subservient to men, what does this mean? Is this what we want? To be dominated? Or is it simply escapism. Is it acceptable to be subservient at times, and expect equality at others? (No wonder men don't understand us!) The fact that both authors are women, and both series have been hugely successful amongst audiences of mostly women must say something.

Sitting...and sitting...and sitting.....

So.
Here I am.
On the sick again.
Counting days...hours...minutes until I can go back to work...
Still.
At least the sun's making an effort now!
It was positively tepid this afternoon!

My knee's been 'repaired' by taking a graft from my hamstring and threading it through lovely holes that've been drilled through my bones! Wicked! The bruising looks like modern art and my right leg is now distinctly sausage looking. Still. Chin up eh? Not too high though, I might sprain it!

Seriously though, it's pretty damned clever what they can do innit!

On a positive literary note, it's giving me loads of time to write stuff.

I had 2 'flash fiction' (VERY very short stories) published on National Flash Fiction day here:
http://thewrite-in.blogspot.com

and another story is going to be published on the '1000 words' site on June 2nd. (Check out my button!!)

Watch this space for further injury news exciting instalments!

Writing on the Wall

Hey!
I've entered a Flash Fiction competition....actually I've entered a couple...but first things first.

For those of you who don't know, Flash Fiction is basically very very short stories...usually 500 words (ish), and National Flash Fiction Day is in May this year.

The Writing on the Wall competition focuses on the end of the world, this being imminent according to the Myan calendar.

You can read my entry at this link...

www.writingonthewall.org.uk/flash-fiction-submission.html

I think I'm on the third page (make your own Page 3 jokes at will).

You can 'Like' my story...(or dislike others ha ha!)

I'm also going to be published here: www.1000words.org.uk some time in May.

And you all knew me before I got famous! ;)

Blink and I'm Over...

Wow! Has it really been that long since I posted on here? Life is definately passing me by!

I'm pleased to report a HUGE improvement in my general joint 'issues', but slightly embarassed to admit to this year's skiing injury!

We had a great holiday this February in a resort called Borovetz in Bulgaria, but I managed to snap my cruciate ligament on the first day! (Yup...typical!!!)

Basically I managed to fall over backwards on a red run, which sent me rolling downhill (sexy), and the tip of my ski got stuck in the snow...I kept rolling...and the rest is history! I'm getting remodelled (again) on 2nd May, which will add some lovely metal pins to my list of add-ons. I'll probably be a whole new person by the time I'm fifty!! I think that might be Craig's secret plan!

On the plus side, it will give me time to catch up on my non-University related writing. I plan on entering every available writing competition in the hope of ....well ...prizes (!?) Ha Ha! So watch this space ...www.fresh1nk.wordpress.com

and also...check out my new blog (woohoo get me!) at www.smoffat99.wordpress.com.
It contains some examples of my poetry, flash fiction and short stories.

I've got an answer....but forgotten the question?!?

Okay, so a woman walks into the Rheumatologists office and walks out with a diagnosis!
Not funny?

Well until last Saturday I would have considered it laughable, because each previous visit I've had to consultants of all shapes, sizes and denominations has left me without an answer, downtrodden and without any hope of being given the right treatment.

Last Saturday I expected the same. So much so, that I attended the appointment, (brought forward a month due to a cancellation) without any expectations, other than the disappointment of their apathy. So you can imagine my shock when the consultant said 'I know what's wrong with you'.

 It was a bit like being introduced to the real Santa, or finding out the taxman owes you money and has volunteered a refund...it just doesn't happen...at least not, I thought, to me.

However this time it was different. The consultant, a man in his early thirties I guess, listened intently to my woes, made notes, examined me thoroughly, then uttered those immortal words 'I know what's wrong with you'.

It was, in poetic, fluffy, creative writing terms, like being slapped in the face with a rainbow! It hurts like hell, yet is profoundly attractive and promises the riches of appropriate treatment!

My new found sage has promised to write to my drug pushing GP to get me off the morphine, and onto a more appropriate nerve block. He is arranging appropriate physiotherapy, and has given me the information I need to research my 'condition'. He is also seeing me again in 4 months to discuss how I'm getting on and inject some of my arthritic joints.

What can I say?

My gob has been well and truly smacked!

But have I been handed a pot of gold or a poison chalice?

It's really difficult to explain how I feel today. On Saturday I was elated. Someone is treating me. It's a first in my 27 years of joint pain. For three quarters of my life I've waited for someone to acknowledge that my joint pain is linked, and not just a series of reoccurring unrelated sprains. And now I know what it is you'd think I'd finally be satisfied wouldn't you? If you'd asked me last week I'd have told you that that's EXACTLY what I wanted. Now I'm not sure.

I've read words such as 'acute', 'incurable', 'neurological', and it scares the pants off me (and I can't bend over to put them back on again!)

I've found myself this week saying things like, 'My rheumatologist says I've got.....', and 'Apparently I've got....', but I just can't bring myself to say, 'I've got...'.

I just can't say it.

It feels too real.

I suppose it's a case of be careful what you wish for.

Don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful that I'm going to receive the right treatment for my condition. That is certainly something to be positive about.

 For the first time in months I can think about the possibility of skiing again next February, and hopefully walking the dog again over the summer, but at the moment I need to sort my head out that I've got this thing that isn't going away.

I want so much for this not to define me. I don't want to be the person with x,y or z. I want to be known for who I am, not what I've got, but at the moment it's all I can think about so I'm in real danger of becoming my disease.

On Tuesday I see my GP to start my new medication regime which will bring with it a whole new list of attractive side affects to deal with, so forgive me if my smile wains just slightly. Over the summer I will start the physiotherapy and exercise plan that will get me mobile again. It's going to hurt, but no pain no gain don't they say?

I'm aware that with help I will succeed in living with my symptoms.

I'm aware that without the support of my friends and family it would be a much harder journey.

I'm also aware that I haven't told you my diagnosis.

Frustrating isn't it?






http://www.ukfibromyalgia.com

Plastic fantastic? Or naturally normal? You decide!!

I'm fortunate enough at the moment to be working part time, which gives me access to daytime television, which is horrifically fascinating! Have you seen Jeremy Kyle? Cringe!

Anyway, last week I saw 'This Morning', and watched an interview with a 'charming' 35 year old American woman calling herself 'Chelsea Charms'. This tiny 5'3" woman has...wait for it...164 XXX boobs which she has named 'Ity and Bitsy'. (Itsy and bitsy they are not!!!) Not surprisingly she earns an absolute fortune as a 'feature dancer'...read from this what you will! Apparently her boobs are still growing due to a procedure she has had which has now been banned in the EU and US. Basically, she has been injected with a polypropylene string that irritates the breast tissue, causing it to ooze liquid which then increases her breast size. Is it me? Does this sound appealing to anyone else? I mean, I know I'm not exactly flat chested, so I've never had any desire to have an 'enhancement', but really, this just sounds gruesome!! I imagine Steven King could write something suitably grim about it!

What really astonishes me about this woman's self induced malformation is, if she'd been born with unnaturally huge boobs she would undoubtedly have been a candidate for a breast reduction. Huge boobs may be the things teenage boys dream of, and apparently grown men pay to look at, but to women, they're a bloody nuisance! Back pain, lack of sleep, struggling to find nice clothes and dealing with unwanted attention are just a few of the reasons women give for wanting breast reductions. Young girls with huge boobs are often mocked mercilessly by boys at school, yet this woman has deliberately turned herself into a cartoon sex object in order to make a living. Hmmm.

Don't get me wrong. I don't blame this woman for exploiting men with her deformation. If people want to pay money to look at her, then that's their choice, but it kind of makes me think of a circus freak show.

On another program, I watched top music and film stars who have had plastic surgery to 'enhance' their looks. Some look good, and I can understand how people who depend on their looks can become obsessed with maintaining 'perfection'. Unfortunately most of these once beautiful people end up with twisted and deformed features in the name of 'perfection'. Noses are twisted and lips are inflated and uneven. Plasticine faces are pushed and pulled out of shape so that in the end they all end up looking the same. Ugly! Had they'd been born with these deformed features, would they still have achieved stardom?

It has also been reported this week that a woman in America has been injecting her 8 year old daughter with Botox to improve her chances in beauty pageants! Hmmm. What can I say? Child abuse?
I am fortunate enough to know several people who look different to others. Life has given them a face or a body that can be difficult for people, who don't know them, to look at. This is their life. They face being stared at and judged every day. They have no choice. No amount of surgery will improve their looks, yet they often face painful operations to improve, or save, their lives. How fair is that?

I also know young women who have lost their breasts to cancer. They face massive reconstructive surgery to make them feel normal, yet normal is something they will never really feel again. These women have faced leaving their children and families. They have faced having their bodies mutilated to save their lives. How fair is that?

Why do people who are born with faces and bodies that function normally, go through painful procedures and face life threatening surgeries, just to look a little bit better? Why are huge amounts of money spent to make someones lips a bit fuller, or wrinkles a little bit less defined? Why do people face death to get a smaller bum? Why are some people born with facial disfigurement that no-one can do anything about? Why do young mothers face death on a daily basis? Why?

No, I'm not happy with the way I look all the time. I could do with losing some weight, my teeth are crooked and I hate my nose, but I accept that this is the way I am. People love me despite my big bum and my wonky smile. I don't need, or want, to spend my mortgage on surgery to make me perfect, because I'm NEVER going to achieve perfect, because I don't believe it exists! Surely surgery is for things you need, not things you want! Yes, I know that a lot of people who go for these elective surgeries are suffering mentally, and their insecurity about their body or face can have serious affects on their health, but surely the help they need is psychological, not surgical?

There's nowt as queer as folk.
Unfortunately technological and surgical advances are making folk even queerer!
Where or when is it going to stop?