Nothing highlights the best and worst parts of your life to yourself like letting somebody into your home and living your life with you for a week.
Also: nothing highlights the best and worst parts of your life to yourself like letting somebody into your home and living your life with you for like, you know, EVER, but I'm just not that kind of girl. Compromise isn't in my vocabulary because I'm not emotionally mature enough to develop my empathy for others yet.
This is the bit where I'm supposed to say sorry.
My friend Stephanie arrived this weekend for an intensive writing work-shopping session because UH-HUH. My Heart Beats Only For You (And a Few Dozen Other People) is ready. As I typed that Mama probably died a little inside. I once mentioned that the book is like the blog, only with the rude bits left in. She was all, WHAT OTHER RUDE BITS ARE THERE LEFT TO SAY? and I was all offended because I always thought I was really quite reserved on here, until I retold the story to Calum and he said exactly the same thing.
When your best friend wonders what on earth you have left to reveal, it makes you wonder.
Anyway, in the interest of getting totally excited because the alternative is to hide in a corner and just say over and over again as I rock back and forth and try not to cry, 'Pleasedon'thateit Pleasedon'thateit Pleasedon'thateit Pleasedon'thateit Pleasedon'thateit Pleasedon'thateit, I thought I'd share some of my favourite extracts from the manuscript.
I came to realise that even though heartbreak is an all-encompassing motherfucker of a monster that robs you of your time, your tears, and your ability to feel without battery-operated machinery, when you fall off the horse you have to go get back on it again. And then you ride that fucking horse like he’s your bitch.
... even if I do risk becoming the girl who interrupts you every other sentence to say, ‘Really? Gosh, that reminds me of this time that I was in the orphanage in southern India...’ you can even sit me next to the boring physiotherapist from Bangor for the first course and when she acts like a day-trip to Glasgow makes her freaking Leo DiCaprio in The Beach I can get all LISTEN LADY. YOU HAVEN'T HAD AN ADVENTURE UNTIL YOU HAVE ACCIDENTALLY HAD GOAT POOP IN YOUR MOUTH.
Calum had lost interest in my life after the trip to the sex shop. He was all, I’M TOTALLY GROSSED OUT NOW, and I was like, YOU BROUGHT ME HERE! And he was all, I’M LIKE PRINCESS DIANA TO YOUR PRINCE CHARLES, SACRIFICING MYSELF FOR YOU LIKE THIS, and I was like, DON’T TALK ABOUT THE PRINCESS OF THE PEOPLE THAT WAY, and he waved his hand dismissively and said, I HAVE TO GO AND FIND MY SMELLING SALTS NOW. GOODBYE.
FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.
Do you like it? Good. Then you can stay.
Stephanie and I met in a writing class in America, and she lives in France, and considering I'm British and she's hanging out with me here in Rome we pretty much high-fived as she got off of the plane and said, YEAH FOR INTERNATIONAL AWESOMENESS! But then, in our final email to each other before she came we also declared that this trip, 'would be so creative it'll be like two creative writers getting together and writing creative stuff together' so maybe this whole tale is indicative of something I'm not prepared to admit to myself or the Internet about how I choose to use the English language.
Also, I'm pretty sure most of Stephanie's notes on my manuscript are going to centre around a need to use more punctuation.
Stephanie got shat on my a passing bird today, which I'm told is very lucky, and I choose to believe that that luck is based around the pleasure and joy she will have from holding my pages in her sweet little hands and is unrelated to the fact that we've been groped by dirty Italian men twice in the past twenty-four hours with one guy doing it REPEATEDLY at the crowded market until we realised that no. It wasn't his briefcase hitting our asses. IT WAS HIS FILTHY OLD MAN HANDS. And no, we didn't know the word for 'pervert' in Italian, so instead I just smacked him.
Anyway, basically this is a blog post about being scared and needing your support and worrying what somebody else will think to something I've worked so hard on. I told my pregnant friend that all I could think about was this sodding book, and she shrugged and said, 'All I can think about is this kid in my belly. Laura, we're both having babies.' Which is basically the truest thing anybody has ever said ever in history. Except that before you leave the house you should take off at least one accessory. When Chanel said that it was pretty true too. I'm looking at you, Sienna Miller.
Here, Stephanie, hold my baby. And then judge my baby, and give me notes on my baby, and tell me how my baby could be better and that I'm a horrible, terrible, ill-informed baby-writer and what on earth was I THINKING in trying to scribe a baby anyway, when there already exists so many babies in the world with no publishing homes? WHO THE HELL ARE MY VAGINA AND I ANYWAY?