Saturday, May 12

fantastic, raging rain. I love it. If you live where I do, you have to - or at least pretend to. But I honestly do; it's far better than a pathetic attempt at rain, which manifests itself into 'mild drizzle'. Yeuch!

Friday, May 11

Chapbook, rejection letter, writing competition...

Chapbook: got the draft copy. A few things need tweaking, but at least I can envisage the final thing, I think...

Letter: got some poems rejected for a magazine, but also got sent surprisingly helpful constructive criticism from the editor. Not sure whether this is normal, or not, or whether it is only normal when poems get to the so-called 'short leet'. Whatever -- sending them off was just a chance, like everything else, and the comments have helped me gain a bit more objectivity -- which is, of course, good!

There is a writing competition for which I should work... I also need to revise (photosynthesis, cosine and sine rule, and write an essay...), shower, go for a cycle, and do some music, eat (I am looking forward to this!), and then go to a friend's house, which I anticipate gladly.

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Knowing that I am leaving school feels strange; but well overdue! If I had a school beret, I would most certainly chuck it up, fantastically, to whirl in the air, amongst the shrill voices.

Tuesday, May 8

sitting up till late, being forced to scribble and think, then do a bit more, with poetry-reading interludes. I do miss it, but I know it's a bad idea. For now, with exams...

There are some things I've been writing recently, which seem more true than other stuff, less shackled, less controlled in the sense of trying to achieve a certain structure, or shape; more allowing the poems themselves to evolve. But is is scary reading them, and although I want to put them on here, there are people who know me who read this; and people, they have that habit, often, of presuming. I assume their presumptions will be something, which, with time, I shall learn to slowly keep a distance from.

I also had an idea: many stories, stowed stories, converged last night.

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Children should be allowed to write stories how they want. Maybe, maybe then we wouldn't all be 'fucking idiots' to the same extent, where our thoughts are a constant mangled mess, wombing pregnantly as they poke us.