News

About a month into school back in the States. Realized taking only 12 hours is awesome, so thank you Past Sarah for making Future Sarah so happy. But it comes at a price. Grad school applications. GRE prep. Time consuming. Crap.

Plus side, I've got a ring on it. Trever asked me to marry him when we met for our Tour de Europa in July. Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5, across from the Costa Coffee. Just how I would have wanted it. Now I'm in a flurry (not really) of planning. Couldn't be more excited about it :)

Stay tuned for wedding freakouts. Exciting conclusion in May 2010.

S

Writings

Here's a very abbreviated version of my short story I wrote for Chris Killen's fiction course. I haven't written fiction in ages, so bear with me if it's rough. I read this excerpt the other night at our 'show and tell' night, had way more fun 'performing' it. Enjoy, and if you don't, well, go away.

Excerpt from "Ready"

The stereotypical squeal of the mic is a dead giveaway you’re not doing well.

Storytelling is one thing. But telling a story to make other people laugh is something entirely different. There’s pressure to be funny. You’re entertaining. You've told plenty of funny stories in your life. Don’t worry about the stunned silence from the darkened crowd.

Damn it. You know what happens when you express your hopes and dreams. You have to deliver. No wait, this is a favor. John said he was in a bind, and really appreciated it. So it doesn’t quite matter if you bomb. You’re just filling the time until the headliner shows up from his weekend-long tour ‘o booze. You’re jealous of him. Reward yourself by drowning your sorrows at the bar after your tell some bad jokes.

You’ve been nervous before, so it’s fine. But this sweat, oh no, not the sweat. Palm sweat that would make any prepubescent boy at a middle school dance feel better about his level of hygiene. Here comes the churning. Please don’t hurl. Funny, maybe. But your chances of meeting anyone or getting laid after this would be completely shot.

“So uh, is anyone here a college kid?” Of course they are, dipshit. They’re at a university comedy club. Stereotypical brick backdrop, the faint smell of Jaeger and vomit, seating only about 35 people and their forced two drinks. Only college students would stoop to this level of cheap entertainment.

“Boo.”

Do people still actually “boo?” That didn’t die out in the nineties? Don’t get down. Keep going. And then after the show find that bastard in a dark alley and kick his ass.

“Yeah, I’m a college kid. I find it really hard to take tests. Especially, ha, uh, the pregnancy ones…”

A murmur of laughter. Enough to find a little more voice.

“Yeah, there’s no way to just go in and buy one of those either, it’s so conspicuous. And you know you’ve hit rock bottom when the cracked out girl at the drug store is giving you the judgmental eye.”

Nothing. Not even a pity giggle. You’re losing them.

Time is dragging by at this point. Five minutes is forever when you’re bombing on stage. It sort of feels like you’re in slow motion and every second of silence makes you want to flee. Every second of silence is a disappointment to your mother; the one person who always thought you could do more. Do anything. There’s no real way of recovering on your own.

You’re staring at them and they’re staring right back, their watered down drinks beginning to sweat through the paper tablecloths, give each table a cluster of wet rings. John puts his face in his hands and shakes his head. He’s clearly regretting giving you a call to begin with.

More awkward silence. You can’t do anything about it. One last anecdote, then run off stage. Run away from comedy. Should have gone to law school. Should have gone to college. Anything with more stability and less embarrassment than this.

“So uh, I just have one more story for you all, then I gotta get off stage.” Yes, you do.

“Oh thank god!” One lonely voice emerges from somewhere in the darkness. It’s the Boo Guy. You knew this day would come. You’re about to get heckled.

“So this is a story my brother loves to tell about me…

“Is he funny? Can we talk to him?” Of course, Boo Guy gets a laugh. Sure, make fun of the girl who can’t seem to stop sweating. Tina Fey never had to go through this shit.

“…it’s a little embarrassing. But I’ll tell you all anyway. So I wear contacts—“

“Doesn’t make you funny!” Alright, enough. Go after this guy and make him cry. Operation Make Boo Guy Cry.

“No, contacts might not make me funny, but they make me attractive. Something you’d know nothing about.” The crowd laughs a little. Admittedly, not your best comeback. But there’s more to come. Be ruthless. Be a bitch. Be funny.

“Well I ain’t going home with you, little lady!”

“Shit, I don’t think you’re going home with anyone tonight. Not unless girls now enjoy a fresh Old Milwaukee stain on a clearly un-pressed shirt and a receding hairline. Tell me, did Ted Nugent call for his leather jeans back, or did those come free with the body odor?”

Adrenaline. You’re running on pure adrenaline and reflex now. You’ve blocked out everyone but Boo Guy and the microphone. Finish him.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a dollar for all the times you’ve gotten laid in the past month. With a living breathing person, your hand and dolls don’t count.”

He’s stunned. You’re tense. Your heart is pounding through your chest; your flop sweat has ceased. Eyes dilated, muscles strained, you’re like a lioness circling the newborn wildebeest, ready at any second to lash out and make the kill. You’ve blocked everyone out except for Boo Guy and John. John is now standing in the back, hands in pockets, mouth open and staring. You know he’s impressed, though. He’s mortified and impressed.

“Alright, ladies and gentleman, that’s all the time I have. Thanks so much for having me, give a big round of applause to my friend here in the third row. You can find him later tonight at the Waffle House, gorging himself on the “I’ll be single forever” platter. Goodnight!”

Winding through the crowd behind John, you make brief eye contact with Boo Guy.

“Hey,” he mutters.

No eye contact.

“Good show.”

other blog: http://cnwsummerschool.blogspot.com/

And look at Chris Killen's website: http://www.thebirdroom.org.uk/

Shameless promotion.

S

Readings

I'm terrible at keeping up with a blog. I have it bookmarked and everything, just staring back at me. Sorry, big guy. I write a lot every day. Just not on my blog.

I have 2 more days of class, and I'm being workshopped in my poetry class tomorrow. I hate writing poetry. I mean, I really hate it. I never think it's any good, because poems can be written in 2 minutes. It takes me longer to write this than a poem. That's not right. I've always felt that anytime I write a poem for class, all my professors go apeshit over it. I consider it a borderline insult, only because I know I can do better. When they tell me it's really good, it's almost patronizing.

Tomorrow we're sharing from our journals in class. One entry. And then tomorrow night, we're sharing something we've written in front of everyone. While the rest of the group is worried and nervous about sharing, my atention whore side kicks in and thinks 5 minutes isn't enough. I want more time. I love performing.

What I want to read is my short story. But our professor's 8 year old son will be in the audience. I don't want to be the prick to drop F-bombs in front of the little kid and scar him for life. I'll do that to my own children. So now I'm stuck.

Only a few more days left in Manchester. Rain. Hopefully it stays warm in France and Germany. Less to pack.

4 days till Trever. 71 days down.

Cheers

S

Late

Awake at 1:34 in the morning, to the sound of belching Frenchmen. God help me.

Went to the Ford Maddox Brown, or what we affectionately refer to as Maddox, or even Maddie's. We sit at booth number 10 in the corner, making it ours and scowling at any locals who may have beat us to the precious seats. Maddox is decorated in a way that would be considered super classy in a college town, but there are plenty of older men in apple caps watching Sky Sports News over a pint. It's nothing fancy, a place to sit and chat with a pint of something lovely on draft. Nothing like that in the US, really, especially not in Columbia.

I still love hearing "cheers." I wish I could say that in the US without sounding like a complete tool. I'm prepared to get made fun of with the things I've gotten used to saying. Cheers and not thanks, asking for the toilet and not the restroom, till and not cash register, in queue and not in line, and looking right and then left to cross the street. I'm going to be so out of sync back in Missouri.

London on Saturday. Tomorrow is Didsbury, just to have a look around, it's easy to get to on the bus. And I should probably do some work as well. Boo.

Off to yell at the stinky cologne guys in the hallway. The shrew is back.

Trever in 8 days.

Cheers,

S

Whirlwind

Went to Dublin this weekend. I have bad travel karma. Went to Dunleary on Sunday, beautiful.

I've switched classes. I'm now in the poetry section of the course, which sounds more intimidating than it really is. Almost. I'm not a poet, by any means. I enjoy nonfiction writing above all, in that I love writing about things that have actually happened to me. I thought I was climbing a mountain when I had to make something up on my own. But now I have to make it short? Ugh.

I've never done this much writing before in my life. And I thought I wrote a lot. This program came at a great time. I used to write every day, but for some reason, I stopped. Got too busy. But that's a crap excuse. And I know it. This has made me write. If I don't write, I fail. Don't want that.

I'm a bit sick at the moment, have been for a while. I wish I would just get sick, or not. This in-between stage is driving me crazy.

Other than that, loving England. Going to Lyme Park in a few days, one of the manors outside Manchester. Then this weekend, I'm off to London. Going to try my damndest to see Jake on Sunday. I hope I can.

Shameless plug for Centre for New Writing blog here: http://cnwsummerschool.blogspot.com/

Off to read.

S

Stream of consciousness

Sitting the the Uni of Manchester library. Red, nasty, but super comfortable bean bags have been removed. Sitting on Ikea couch. Not comfortable. using adapter in public, being made fun of. Don't judge me, Manchester.

Not sure how to fix short story. My character needs closure, I think. Not sure how. I think she's alright, succeeding at a stand up gig. But I need more. Fiction is hard.

Journals need to be done. How do you be creative and analytical at the same time, without sounding hokey? Have to publish to the Centre for New Writing blog as well. Never blogged so much in my life. Better than having a Twitter. Don't tweet me.

Butt hurts from yesterday's hike. Buns of steel. Throat feels a lot better, still a bit of an ache though. Hello, salt water gargle.

Dublin tomorrow. Hope it's not too cold. Erin go braugh.

16 days till Trever.

S

Comedy

So I've arrived in Manchester and decided to put the blog to good use. Also, I'm procrastinating from the short story I need to be writing. Manchester is wonderful. The days fly by so quickly, and the nights are certainly filled with lots of pubs. Not complaining. I've never been a "club girl" so I much rather prefer the niceties associated with a pub bartender. Something so friendly about hearing "3 pounds, love." Aw, thanks Mr. Bartender. Cheers to you too.

This assignment might be killing me, only because I already have writer's block. I blame myself mostly, I didn't write the entire time I was home. Occasional sentences, but I just didn't have the stamina. I'm out of writing shape. I did a crossword everyday (one and a half, if the LA Times was fairly easy), but that's not good enough. It does feel good to crank out 1100 words no problem. But never having written fiction (outside of the story of Sir Burps a Lot in 4th grade, yeesh), I still struggle. WWNHD? What would Nick Hornby do? Probably just get on with it. I will too, eventually. This draft doesn't have to be "ah-may-zing," and I take solace in that.

I'm having issue with all the change I've been carrying around. It's awful There aren't one and two pound notes, they're coins. Then there's 50, 20, 10, 5 and 1p. I hate change. I hate carrying cash, period. But I'm determined not to use a credit card. No extra fees for me, thank you. I feel like I could defend myself in a dark alley with all the pound coins I have. Keeping that in the back of my mind.

I really do love it here. The weather is what I think the Pacific Northwest is like: slightly unpredictable, rainy, but surprises you with a couple of blue-sky days and sunshine. It's lovely. Way better than the thousand-degree weather I left in Virginia. It's great to be able to walk pretty much anywhere, too. The bus is handy, but there are times when I'd prefer to walk. It's great. And our favorite pub with fantastic food is right around the corner. Can't beat that.

Bad short story calling my name. Have to go back and finish.

Cheers,
S