Do you remember, when you were a kid, when a film or a show really captured your imagination?
Like when I was seven, I fell in love with The Little Mermaid, and had an ariel doll, and pretended to be a mermaid in the bath.
And when I was four I was convinced I was Lucy Pevensie (I was the youngest of 4 kids, and quite chunky, like in the BBC show) and spent a lot of time watching the show, reading the books, messing about in cupboards ...
But you know when you're life is all consumed by this story that's captured your imagination that you live and breathe it and can't last a day without refreshing the whole wonderful story in your mind?
That really pissed off your parents.
Case and point, my son. He fell in love with toy story a couple of weeks ago. He has to start his day with it, and end his day with it. His nursery have the songs on CD; I heard them when I picked him up yesterday. The fruit on sale in tesco's at the moment has a toy story book offer on it, so now I get asked for 'Buzz Odinge' and 'Woody Pear' instead of bog standard fruit (and that boy needs no more encouragement with eating fruit. He hits his 5-a-day before breakfast. I don't love his nappies). I've got him a woody doll for easter, but next time you're in a shop, check out the range of toy story eggs for sale - eggs alone. There's a bed spread and blanket too. Our tesco's is playing the first movie over and over, so I can't even escape it if I escape the house.
I'm toy story'd out. I used to love that film, but now ... the talking woody will be a mistake. I already know the quotes, but I'll hear them when the film's not on now.
But we've got a definite date to see the third film, the day before we leave for Florida (where, of course, we'll eat at Pizza Planet) and he'll probably take his woody to that. It's going to be his first cinema trip too. But that might drive me completely crazy. We'll see.
Wednesday 31 March 2010
Tuesday 30 March 2010
Ann M Martin
I'm finally back to blabbing incoherently about authors I've read/who've influenced me. And frankly, it's about time I mentioned Ann M Martin.
If you don't know, Ann wrote The Babysitters Club books. I hadn't even heard of them, but when I was 9, I was given The Truth About Stacey (book3) and Boy Crazy Stacey (book8), and I loved them to pieces. I wish now I didn't have such a sweet tooth, and had saved all my pocket money to negociate more books out my parents (I was creating loan structures with them from the age of 7, when I wanted a set of quints cousins for £3. So pricey for my 75p a week pocket money ...) but I still had a fair collection by the time I was 13/14. I know I should have grown out of them by then, but I was amazed that she'd written so much about this one group of girls - there's almost 200 of the original series, another 20 of the restyled series, 15 specials, 30-odd mysteries, plus the Little Sister and California Diaries spin offs. And since getting more disposable income, I've slowly tried to get the complete series - there's a lot of my room dedicated to those little brick spines. And even more of my storage.
I have reread some in recent years. I kind of wish I hadn't. The writing is so poor, I mean, it was a revelation when I was 9. But I don't think little kids could follow the writing properly these days. Well, maybe they can with the later books, but the first books are so vague in descriptions and the storylines are rushed through a couple of weeks, and she doesn't let things gestate. I worry I'm the same with my writing tbh.
Anyway, I remember reading someone's opinion on amazon about the series, saying they liked Stacey best because she was the only one with any flaws ... but I disagree. Stacey was the best character in the series because she was more like a typical teenager. She had fleeting crushes, she felt betrayed by some people she loved the most (her parents, her boyfriend), she went through phases of hating her friends (we've all been there ...) but she always rationalised everything she did, even if it was just that that was where she needed to be, to grow, or if it were just that she was young and allowed to make mistakes. The other characters, Mary Anne and Kristy especially, were so wound up on their stereotype that it was hard to see if they acknowledged what they actually needed for growth. Stacey changed the most in the books, which considering they had so many birthdays/Christmases/Halloweens etc, would make the most sense (and despite the amount of aforementioned celebrations, they remained 13 after book 10. Before, they were all 12).
California Diaries was good in the sense that Dawn's world got unsettled, the edges became blurred and she couldn't be a stereotype anymore. But still - one of her friends was anorexic, another had an abusive boyfriend, another had a suicidal friend ... it sounded like she was putting speech marks around a text book and using the books as a point to preach from. No subtlety ... no real art.
I loved her growing up, and The Babysitters Club will always be a big part of my reading history, but now I'm a little analyst ... not so much.
Sorry Ann. I'm sorry I grew up.
If you don't know, Ann wrote The Babysitters Club books. I hadn't even heard of them, but when I was 9, I was given The Truth About Stacey (book3) and Boy Crazy Stacey (book8), and I loved them to pieces. I wish now I didn't have such a sweet tooth, and had saved all my pocket money to negociate more books out my parents (I was creating loan structures with them from the age of 7, when I wanted a set of quints cousins for £3. So pricey for my 75p a week pocket money ...) but I still had a fair collection by the time I was 13/14. I know I should have grown out of them by then, but I was amazed that she'd written so much about this one group of girls - there's almost 200 of the original series, another 20 of the restyled series, 15 specials, 30-odd mysteries, plus the Little Sister and California Diaries spin offs. And since getting more disposable income, I've slowly tried to get the complete series - there's a lot of my room dedicated to those little brick spines. And even more of my storage.
I have reread some in recent years. I kind of wish I hadn't. The writing is so poor, I mean, it was a revelation when I was 9. But I don't think little kids could follow the writing properly these days. Well, maybe they can with the later books, but the first books are so vague in descriptions and the storylines are rushed through a couple of weeks, and she doesn't let things gestate. I worry I'm the same with my writing tbh.
Anyway, I remember reading someone's opinion on amazon about the series, saying they liked Stacey best because she was the only one with any flaws ... but I disagree. Stacey was the best character in the series because she was more like a typical teenager. She had fleeting crushes, she felt betrayed by some people she loved the most (her parents, her boyfriend), she went through phases of hating her friends (we've all been there ...) but she always rationalised everything she did, even if it was just that that was where she needed to be, to grow, or if it were just that she was young and allowed to make mistakes. The other characters, Mary Anne and Kristy especially, were so wound up on their stereotype that it was hard to see if they acknowledged what they actually needed for growth. Stacey changed the most in the books, which considering they had so many birthdays/Christmases/Halloweens etc, would make the most sense (and despite the amount of aforementioned celebrations, they remained 13 after book 10. Before, they were all 12).
California Diaries was good in the sense that Dawn's world got unsettled, the edges became blurred and she couldn't be a stereotype anymore. But still - one of her friends was anorexic, another had an abusive boyfriend, another had a suicidal friend ... it sounded like she was putting speech marks around a text book and using the books as a point to preach from. No subtlety ... no real art.
I loved her growing up, and The Babysitters Club will always be a big part of my reading history, but now I'm a little analyst ... not so much.
Sorry Ann. I'm sorry I grew up.
Honesty corner
So ... I had a comment the other day, asking why I called myself zee/zeebee (zeezee, ker-ray-zee-zee, zeena ... variants of zee basically). It's a pretty long, dull story, but as you asked, I will answer it.
However .... in the meantime, if anyone else wants to ask anything, however brutal, comment on this post and I'll answer them all, say, by the end of the week? If this is the only question I'm going to get then ... well, aren't you guys in for a treat!
Just to pad this blog entry out a little, since I loathe short posts, a few facts/stats for you to ignore:
I have reached chapter five of The Picture Of Dorian Gray (which, thanks to film marketing, I keep calling Portrait. I have noticed. I'm sorry. I'll stop.)
I'm up to chapter 13 of Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire, which I'm reading to my son. We started Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone two years ago. I'm determined to finish the entire series with him before he's five. Two years to go ...
In terms of Budding, the story I'm writing at the moment (which I'll call a book once it's bound by a publishing house, by the way) I have now written 98,112 words over 241 pages, and I'm so close to the end I can smell it. This is in comparison to the first one, Uprooted, which has 110,808 words over 256 pages. I don't quite understand how there can be 10,000 words difference over 15 pages but hey, that don't matter. I now have to properly brainstorm for the third one, Wilting (I know, but all I can come up with is flower analogies ... )
And when I tagged on this entry, 10 different authors whose first name starts with 'J' came up. Maybe I should have a literary alterego, lol ...
However .... in the meantime, if anyone else wants to ask anything, however brutal, comment on this post and I'll answer them all, say, by the end of the week? If this is the only question I'm going to get then ... well, aren't you guys in for a treat!
Just to pad this blog entry out a little, since I loathe short posts, a few facts/stats for you to ignore:
I have reached chapter five of The Picture Of Dorian Gray (which, thanks to film marketing, I keep calling Portrait. I have noticed. I'm sorry. I'll stop.)
I'm up to chapter 13 of Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire, which I'm reading to my son. We started Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone two years ago. I'm determined to finish the entire series with him before he's five. Two years to go ...
In terms of Budding, the story I'm writing at the moment (which I'll call a book once it's bound by a publishing house, by the way) I have now written 98,112 words over 241 pages, and I'm so close to the end I can smell it. This is in comparison to the first one, Uprooted, which has 110,808 words over 256 pages. I don't quite understand how there can be 10,000 words difference over 15 pages but hey, that don't matter. I now have to properly brainstorm for the third one, Wilting (I know, but all I can come up with is flower analogies ... )
And when I tagged on this entry, 10 different authors whose first name starts with 'J' came up. Maybe I should have a literary alterego, lol ...
Sunday 28 March 2010
Typy, typy!
So, you know I was bleating on about my writing in a few posts, I had a block, I didn't know how I was going to get another one full, two half chapters, out of my story? I've written 16 pages in word so far of chapter 16, and don't think I'm really halfway through it. Whoops. It's going to be the longest chapter of the thing ... but ha, shove it writer's block, shove it! To be fair, I was all set to go on to one scene and before I know it the characters are taking themselves off somewhere else, but I was thinking the other day I needed a character in it more. And he's part of this scene that just barrelled its way in there ... so kudos Foster, kudos.
This is a weird way to write, isn't it? I mean, some scenes I think over for ages before I write, let them develop, some scenes I role-play through and write down, not exactly word for word, but definitely gist for gist. And then there's buggers like this one that are just like 'excuse me, I'm meant to come in here, did you not know that?' Um, no. Oh, and I think I had this block more because I have no idea how I'm going to manage the next one. I mean, I will, but I have to organise my thoughts more. I've written loads, but it might as well be notes on napkins in a box right now. I tried sticking it all together in word, but that just made it worse for me. I do have a list of scenes that should happen, but they're a line or two per chapter, not a chapter's worth of information.
Anyway, deeply disturbed this morning when I woke up. I'll confess right now, though nowhere else, that I think a few Jonas Brothers songs are okay. One of them in particular I relate to this story. So I was listening to one the other day ... and thinking up this scene that I'm about to write. And I guess it was on my way to work I was doing it, because the Jonas Brothers were in my dream, as certain characters, acting out the scenes I was thinking up in the middle of my work. I think about way too much all at once, it's so not on.
It's okay, I'll overplay Jack's Mannequin. I've been balancing Jonas Brothers out a lot lately like this. Although, got into the Kooks ... and Mcfly's Bubblewrap ... and I bought 101 Power Ballads ... most of my current music is pretty mellow. I'm obviously doing too much lol, I need mellow music to chill me out. I miss NFG and screamo ...
This is a weird way to write, isn't it? I mean, some scenes I think over for ages before I write, let them develop, some scenes I role-play through and write down, not exactly word for word, but definitely gist for gist. And then there's buggers like this one that are just like 'excuse me, I'm meant to come in here, did you not know that?' Um, no. Oh, and I think I had this block more because I have no idea how I'm going to manage the next one. I mean, I will, but I have to organise my thoughts more. I've written loads, but it might as well be notes on napkins in a box right now. I tried sticking it all together in word, but that just made it worse for me. I do have a list of scenes that should happen, but they're a line or two per chapter, not a chapter's worth of information.
Anyway, deeply disturbed this morning when I woke up. I'll confess right now, though nowhere else, that I think a few Jonas Brothers songs are okay. One of them in particular I relate to this story. So I was listening to one the other day ... and thinking up this scene that I'm about to write. And I guess it was on my way to work I was doing it, because the Jonas Brothers were in my dream, as certain characters, acting out the scenes I was thinking up in the middle of my work. I think about way too much all at once, it's so not on.
It's okay, I'll overplay Jack's Mannequin. I've been balancing Jonas Brothers out a lot lately like this. Although, got into the Kooks ... and Mcfly's Bubblewrap ... and I bought 101 Power Ballads ... most of my current music is pretty mellow. I'm obviously doing too much lol, I need mellow music to chill me out. I miss NFG and screamo ...
Saturday 27 March 2010
Well, isn't that a kick in the crotch.
My new burst of energy lasted until this morning, I had a half hour work out on my wii and ate breakfast, then went to work. And a couple of hours later, I felt really teary. I still do actually.
My mother thinks I must be tired. And I admit, putting High Fidelity on because the guy I used to work with at Uni had mentioned it on twitter at 11.30 at night and trying to watch it probably wasn't condusive to feeling good come the morning. Didn't help that one of my manager's was being his usual annoying self either.
So anyway, early (as in, before half ten) night for me tonight. But I've cracked into the first couple of chapters of The Portrait Of Dorian Gray now and I'm intrigued. I can see why Oscar Wilde stood trial for the content, they all sound like raging homo's. Not that it's a bad thing, but the Victorian era would have it down as evil or something.
I'm not in my most cohesive mood right now. I need a drink, and sleeps. Sorry.
My mother thinks I must be tired. And I admit, putting High Fidelity on because the guy I used to work with at Uni had mentioned it on twitter at 11.30 at night and trying to watch it probably wasn't condusive to feeling good come the morning. Didn't help that one of my manager's was being his usual annoying self either.
So anyway, early (as in, before half ten) night for me tonight. But I've cracked into the first couple of chapters of The Portrait Of Dorian Gray now and I'm intrigued. I can see why Oscar Wilde stood trial for the content, they all sound like raging homo's. Not that it's a bad thing, but the Victorian era would have it down as evil or something.
I'm not in my most cohesive mood right now. I need a drink, and sleeps. Sorry.
Friday 26 March 2010
Energy
I'm going to leave off the subject of books, and my silly, silly friends for a while. Or this post.
I have so much energy right now.
Or would have if I could be bothered to stand up (actually, am being all geeky and checking my cafe world and happy friends apps on facebook for a sec) so am jumping back on my wii in a bit.
I think I'm just in a good mood, that's all it is. Work was hysterical. I can't remember who noticed it, but Lizzy, Sally and me were all taking it in turns to make Emma blush. All we had to do was say one name, haha ... she's like a red hulk.
And then my very best friends on the entire planet are talking about a holiday, either end of this year or sometime next year. I wanna go so badly. I promised mum going to New York last July would be my make up holiday for missing EuroDisney, but since it was only me and Cassie, I don't think it counts. I don't mind where we go (somewhere hot would be nice though) so long as we're together. But just talking about it has psyched me up, got my planning head on. I'm never happier than when planning something like this. Thank you Cassie, for bringing it up!
I have so much energy right now.
Or would have if I could be bothered to stand up (actually, am being all geeky and checking my cafe world and happy friends apps on facebook for a sec) so am jumping back on my wii in a bit.
I think I'm just in a good mood, that's all it is. Work was hysterical. I can't remember who noticed it, but Lizzy, Sally and me were all taking it in turns to make Emma blush. All we had to do was say one name, haha ... she's like a red hulk.
And then my very best friends on the entire planet are talking about a holiday, either end of this year or sometime next year. I wanna go so badly. I promised mum going to New York last July would be my make up holiday for missing EuroDisney, but since it was only me and Cassie, I don't think it counts. I don't mind where we go (somewhere hot would be nice though) so long as we're together. But just talking about it has psyched me up, got my planning head on. I'm never happier than when planning something like this. Thank you Cassie, for bringing it up!
Thursday 25 March 2010
No. No. NO!
Suddenly, all my friends are telling me about how they're suddenly dating people (except those who weren't single before the last few weeks) ... which y'know, I love. I want my friends to be happy. Especially in ways I can't make them happy, romance and the like.
Except ... oh, you're a fool. I want to tell you but I don't want to be the one to make you unhappy. And you'll never read this so I can spout my two cents here.
He broke your heart already. Twice. He couldn't be bothered to find the time for you, then went off with any old girl. Twice. Yet you're back with him and want us to be all 'oh-em-gee, I'm so pleased for you!' ... I said what I thought last time he broke up with you. I never, ever thought I'd see that you were stupid enough or so lacking in self esteem that you'd take it again. Don't you remember how last time, he did it when you needed him the most? No one should have to make the sorts of gamble you did, literally, with your heart, and he skived off to break your real one while you still had it (I think it's obvious who I'm talking about. I can't be the only one thinking this, can I? Does it just not matter now she's had the surgery?) ... I'm almost speechless. You know, to your face. I just hope you're ready for it this time.
I know people hate when you ditch your friends because you found someone ... but I feel like to an extent, I want to be the one who ditched because of that someone they found. Does that make sense?
I'll end my rant. I've half tidied my room. It's a feat. How does it get so messy in two weeks? I only bought like, 15 books in that time! I'm curbing my spending though, 2 lots of nursery fees out within a fortnight has hit my account hard. Plus, I'm off to Florida in July (Harry Potter land!) and I'll be going to a freemason dinner-dance end of next month too. Apart from what's absolutely necessary, I cannot spend any more on books (and really, I should plough my way through what I have first, no?). I also can't spend any more on junk food, since I'm slowly becoming a tear-drop shape, rather than hourglass. Gross.
Except ... oh, you're a fool. I want to tell you but I don't want to be the one to make you unhappy. And you'll never read this so I can spout my two cents here.
He broke your heart already. Twice. He couldn't be bothered to find the time for you, then went off with any old girl. Twice. Yet you're back with him and want us to be all 'oh-em-gee, I'm so pleased for you!' ... I said what I thought last time he broke up with you. I never, ever thought I'd see that you were stupid enough or so lacking in self esteem that you'd take it again. Don't you remember how last time, he did it when you needed him the most? No one should have to make the sorts of gamble you did, literally, with your heart, and he skived off to break your real one while you still had it (I think it's obvious who I'm talking about. I can't be the only one thinking this, can I? Does it just not matter now she's had the surgery?) ... I'm almost speechless. You know, to your face. I just hope you're ready for it this time.
I know people hate when you ditch your friends because you found someone ... but I feel like to an extent, I want to be the one who ditched because of that someone they found. Does that make sense?
I'll end my rant. I've half tidied my room. It's a feat. How does it get so messy in two weeks? I only bought like, 15 books in that time! I'm curbing my spending though, 2 lots of nursery fees out within a fortnight has hit my account hard. Plus, I'm off to Florida in July (Harry Potter land!) and I'll be going to a freemason dinner-dance end of next month too. Apart from what's absolutely necessary, I cannot spend any more on books (and really, I should plough my way through what I have first, no?). I also can't spend any more on junk food, since I'm slowly becoming a tear-drop shape, rather than hourglass. Gross.
Tuesday 23 March 2010
Oh yeah ...
I finished New Moan. It kinda dragged, but I guess at least they stuck close to the series that way? Joanne says she finished Breaking Dawn today, so we can finally moan about the end scene in front of her, lol. Such a cop out - if you spend thousands of pages setting up a scenario for bloodshed, tips on destruction, making a point of the easiest ways to be stronger etc etc and it all comes down to a battle of the minds ... don't you worry, I've already killed off one of my characters, put another two in coma's and another character will kick the bucket at some point.
And I'm basically writing one of those teen romance stories.
For Shame, Meyer, for shame.
By the by, I can't get into The Portrait Of Dorian Gray. Tried reading Revenge by Sharon Osbourne but it's a bit meh right now - is it her autobiography rewritten with characters instead? And obviously, by a shadow writer?
And I'm basically writing one of those teen romance stories.
For Shame, Meyer, for shame.
By the by, I can't get into The Portrait Of Dorian Gray. Tried reading Revenge by Sharon Osbourne but it's a bit meh right now - is it her autobiography rewritten with characters instead? And obviously, by a shadow writer?
Monday 22 March 2010
Lark Rise to Candleford
A quick post, since I'm typing and about to go to bed (it's taken all day to do 600 words ... I hate days like this) but my family are watching Lark Rise on sky plus. I love this show so much, even if it might be a little twee and not really have much action or sex or whatever. That it's a successful show without that says so much for its writing. Plus, it has my favourite actress in it (Olivia Hallinan. And Claire likes Jonathan Creek so she loves that Julia Sawalha is in it too) so it makes it more watchable. But I didn't realise until the end of the second season that it's actually based on a book (just the one, worst luck) ... I might add that to the never ending list of books I want to own/read ...
... I felt I should mention some relevant, new media here, since I must seem a little eccentric otherwise. I know a period piece doesn't exactly back that up, but they stopped filming Girls In Tears (God, Jacqueline Wilson strikes again!). Coincidentally, Zara Abrahams was in Girls In Tears too, before Coronation Street and Dancing On Ice. There, something slightly more cutting edge, lol.
... I felt I should mention some relevant, new media here, since I must seem a little eccentric otherwise. I know a period piece doesn't exactly back that up, but they stopped filming Girls In Tears (God, Jacqueline Wilson strikes again!). Coincidentally, Zara Abrahams was in Girls In Tears too, before Coronation Street and Dancing On Ice. There, something slightly more cutting edge, lol.
Saturday 20 March 2010
Few days, no blog.
Mainly because my son's been sick (the doctor said it's a cold and he's basically turned it into manflu, but I'm still worried it might be chicken pox), but also because I got freaking inspired the other night and spent ages typing (and mother goes 'I don't know what you can spend so much time typing about' - uhhhhh, normally teenage books are on average 90,000 words. I've only got 85,000 so far of this book. Clearly, I'm spending that typing right now) and now I'm getting excited about the end of Budding ... but also worried I'm rushing the ending like I did in this chapter in Uprooted ... maybe that's just my thing, who knows?
That's not to say I haven't been reading. I read that Jacqueline Wilson book, Little Darlings (and oh my gosh, I know someone who's like Destiny's mother. Without naming names ... Destiny's mum's convinced her daughter is the love child of this musician and basically trespasses his house trying to get him to see Destiny ... and then she gets all sick. Certain people reading will know exactly who I'm talking about); I read this Twilight spoof called New Moan (okay, I'm up to chapter 10, and so far it's stuck closer to the storyline than Nightlight did, although I don't get why Winnie-The-Pooh got involved as a drug dealer in it) and I've started The Portrait Of Dorian Gray, since it was the shortest of the top 50 list I picked up (I was in an odd mood). I might be run off my feet, but there's always time for a book.
Speaking of which, I just pulled something in my foot. It freaking hurts. Got to hop and get a *very* late macaroni cheese dinner. Yay. I don't think.
Sorry this has been so short. I want to carry on typing Budding as I eat, lol. Discussion point: The name 'Lambrini' for a protagonist (girl) - too much? I keep debating this ... I mean, I like it atm and for various reasons I like the connotations made by the name, but I am worried about how it would be recieved by literary agents/editors. Don't want to get laughed out of a chance ...
That's not to say I haven't been reading. I read that Jacqueline Wilson book, Little Darlings (and oh my gosh, I know someone who's like Destiny's mother. Without naming names ... Destiny's mum's convinced her daughter is the love child of this musician and basically trespasses his house trying to get him to see Destiny ... and then she gets all sick. Certain people reading will know exactly who I'm talking about); I read this Twilight spoof called New Moan (okay, I'm up to chapter 10, and so far it's stuck closer to the storyline than Nightlight did, although I don't get why Winnie-The-Pooh got involved as a drug dealer in it) and I've started The Portrait Of Dorian Gray, since it was the shortest of the top 50 list I picked up (I was in an odd mood). I might be run off my feet, but there's always time for a book.
Speaking of which, I just pulled something in my foot. It freaking hurts. Got to hop and get a *very* late macaroni cheese dinner. Yay. I don't think.
Sorry this has been so short. I want to carry on typing Budding as I eat, lol. Discussion point: The name 'Lambrini' for a protagonist (girl) - too much? I keep debating this ... I mean, I like it atm and for various reasons I like the connotations made by the name, but I am worried about how it would be recieved by literary agents/editors. Don't want to get laughed out of a chance ...
Thursday 18 March 2010
Kate Brian. Again.
I finally read Suspicion, the 9th book in the Private series (or 10th, if you count the prequel) - it was out before my birthday but my local waterstones/WHSmith didn't have it. I ordered it online, went to lakeside and viola ... stupid distribution system!
So, anyway. The ending had been spoilt for me, by some big-mouthed a-hole on amazon, and I really wish they hadn't done that. There's so much more to the book than Reed getting mugged off by Upton (seriously, I know he's meant to be English upper class and therefore subject to a crap name, but .... Upton? At least the British girls in it have better names! Poppy, Astrid ...) - Kate's got a theme of trying to kill Reed in the books, as I've said before, and I admire her near-distain for her protagonist, her callous disregard for making Reed's life comfortable (you can wear diamonds and couture darling, but someone will try to shoot you at a party, is that alright?) but there was more to it than that in Suspicion. She cons these guys paid to shoot her and ends up stranded on a desert island for a week. Okay, an island near St Barths, but it's fairly remote, in real terms.
The ending made me happy, because I love one character, Noelle. She's a bitchy loud mouth but she clearly loves Reed. She's like the knight in shining armour who makes sure Reed scrubs it clean every day. Love her. Anyway, they agree to room together, which I was thinking they should do in the last book. And this quiet, broody character has moved schools to go to their prep school, and he was one of the better characters. But ... oh man, what Kate did to Billings House at the end! I know there's another book out in May ... I just hope there's a better house for Noelle and Reed. Though I don't know who else she's going to get to try and off Reed ... will be interesting, lol.
I do read some absolute rubbish, lol. Oh well, I'm finally inspired to write my rubbish now. How I'll fit it into 1&1/2 chapters ... oh well!
So, anyway. The ending had been spoilt for me, by some big-mouthed a-hole on amazon, and I really wish they hadn't done that. There's so much more to the book than Reed getting mugged off by Upton (seriously, I know he's meant to be English upper class and therefore subject to a crap name, but .... Upton? At least the British girls in it have better names! Poppy, Astrid ...) - Kate's got a theme of trying to kill Reed in the books, as I've said before, and I admire her near-distain for her protagonist, her callous disregard for making Reed's life comfortable (you can wear diamonds and couture darling, but someone will try to shoot you at a party, is that alright?) but there was more to it than that in Suspicion. She cons these guys paid to shoot her and ends up stranded on a desert island for a week. Okay, an island near St Barths, but it's fairly remote, in real terms.
The ending made me happy, because I love one character, Noelle. She's a bitchy loud mouth but she clearly loves Reed. She's like the knight in shining armour who makes sure Reed scrubs it clean every day. Love her. Anyway, they agree to room together, which I was thinking they should do in the last book. And this quiet, broody character has moved schools to go to their prep school, and he was one of the better characters. But ... oh man, what Kate did to Billings House at the end! I know there's another book out in May ... I just hope there's a better house for Noelle and Reed. Though I don't know who else she's going to get to try and off Reed ... will be interesting, lol.
I do read some absolute rubbish, lol. Oh well, I'm finally inspired to write my rubbish now. How I'll fit it into 1&1/2 chapters ... oh well!
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Amatuer
I'm not trying to offend anyone with the above title ... I just scoured my usual sites and for some reason (okay, it might possibly be because they know each other) someone on another blog and someone on this website have both talked about fanfics - one talking about her current writing, one reminiscing about fanfics we used to write, in the days where we had loads of free time (especially when we bunked) to write down peggy-sue's and mary-sue's or brief attempts at thinking outside the box.
I mean, I write my own stuff now, but I admit that to some extent, I picture certain people in roles. I might watch them in films to notice their tics, to see how it would differ from how I might write them otherwise ... does that make sense? Like, personally, I rub behind my ear when I'm thinking on how to phrase something I want but feel rude for asking, I pull at my bottom lip when I'm dwelling, but I can't have all my characters do that. So I pick someone 'famous' and watch them, and if they ruffle their hair or tap their fingers against a surface or something instead, I use that. So to some extent, what I'm writing is a fanfic. But when I picture the characters as they are, they're not the people I've borrowed traits from.
Cassie mentioned one of my old series actually, on the website. Flattering, because she said it was awesome. It probably was at the time, but if I read it again I'd probably die of embarrassment (I remember re-reading it a while ago actually, thinking 'this writing is dire, but at least you can get a sense of the character's emotions' ... I was proud of myself for that. And yes Cassie, I'm talking about Ice/Camp Capades. Why did we name them after figure skating? Lol). It's weird though, because I wrote one, so cleverly called Not Another Teen Fic (which I have, in unedited form, in three notebooks in our garage somewhere, completely with obsessive planning down to schedules, house plans and street maps. Nothing if not thorough!) and it's kind of the jumping board for what I'm writing now. But now it's with one narrator, not 20. My list of fanfics were almost impressive, since I'd written them from the age of 17 until I was about 21, when I started thinking on the stories I'm writing now. I'm going to be narcissistic and name as many as I can, and you're going to stop reading now, right? I'm not going to describe each and everyone one, but those with a star (*) I finished, those with a hash (#) I wrote with someone else: Blind Date*, Hyped Up*, One Time Only*, Ice Capades*#, Camp Capades*#, Wedding Capades# (yeah, we couldn't decide how the hell that was going to end, and my co-writer then disappeared off the face of the earth. Or to uni, if you want to look at it like that), Not Another Teen Fic*, Kissing# (slash!), Unattainable* ... oh and there was this one, Twin Town or Double-Vision or something* ... I'm useless with names. I just found one of the sequels to Hyped Up, and there were two, and Unattainable had a sequel too, though I can't remember if I finished that ... and a book planning the thing I'm writing now. I have too many notebooks, lol ... but yeah, I think my point is, I've done a fair amount of fanfics in my time ... at least 12 mentioned there, and another two or three I can think of that I at least finished. It's almost depressing that I've only written 2 in a year, but since there's more detail and thought in this latest project ... maybe that's not such a bad thing.
And as for fanfics I've enjoyed in the past? Most of my friend Kim's, although the only one I remember had something about firemen in it? I think she'd based it around New York about 9/11, though she wrote it about 4 years later. And one Cassie wrote, which is still up on an adult fanfic site, about Aiden (though she swears she hates them now lol) where most of them got their brains blown out in drug raids in Seattle ... since most of the ones mentioned above are romance, or relationship oriented ... Cassie and Kim make me feel underwhelming. Although, having read Ivy talking and posting some of her latest creative offerings ... maybe there's company for me yet lol.
And no, I'm not posting any of my writing on here. Though if pressed, I might talk about it, and if you press enough, I'll let you read a rough copy elsewhere lol ... and for Joanne and Cassie, the second one's coming soon. I probably won't bind this one.
I mean, I write my own stuff now, but I admit that to some extent, I picture certain people in roles. I might watch them in films to notice their tics, to see how it would differ from how I might write them otherwise ... does that make sense? Like, personally, I rub behind my ear when I'm thinking on how to phrase something I want but feel rude for asking, I pull at my bottom lip when I'm dwelling, but I can't have all my characters do that. So I pick someone 'famous' and watch them, and if they ruffle their hair or tap their fingers against a surface or something instead, I use that. So to some extent, what I'm writing is a fanfic. But when I picture the characters as they are, they're not the people I've borrowed traits from.
Cassie mentioned one of my old series actually, on the website. Flattering, because she said it was awesome. It probably was at the time, but if I read it again I'd probably die of embarrassment (I remember re-reading it a while ago actually, thinking 'this writing is dire, but at least you can get a sense of the character's emotions' ... I was proud of myself for that. And yes Cassie, I'm talking about Ice/Camp Capades. Why did we name them after figure skating? Lol). It's weird though, because I wrote one, so cleverly called Not Another Teen Fic (which I have, in unedited form, in three notebooks in our garage somewhere, completely with obsessive planning down to schedules, house plans and street maps. Nothing if not thorough!) and it's kind of the jumping board for what I'm writing now. But now it's with one narrator, not 20. My list of fanfics were almost impressive, since I'd written them from the age of 17 until I was about 21, when I started thinking on the stories I'm writing now. I'm going to be narcissistic and name as many as I can, and you're going to stop reading now, right? I'm not going to describe each and everyone one, but those with a star (*) I finished, those with a hash (#) I wrote with someone else: Blind Date*, Hyped Up*, One Time Only*, Ice Capades*#, Camp Capades*#, Wedding Capades# (yeah, we couldn't decide how the hell that was going to end, and my co-writer then disappeared off the face of the earth. Or to uni, if you want to look at it like that), Not Another Teen Fic*, Kissing# (slash!), Unattainable* ... oh and there was this one, Twin Town or Double-Vision or something* ... I'm useless with names. I just found one of the sequels to Hyped Up, and there were two, and Unattainable had a sequel too, though I can't remember if I finished that ... and a book planning the thing I'm writing now. I have too many notebooks, lol ... but yeah, I think my point is, I've done a fair amount of fanfics in my time ... at least 12 mentioned there, and another two or three I can think of that I at least finished. It's almost depressing that I've only written 2 in a year, but since there's more detail and thought in this latest project ... maybe that's not such a bad thing.
And as for fanfics I've enjoyed in the past? Most of my friend Kim's, although the only one I remember had something about firemen in it? I think she'd based it around New York about 9/11, though she wrote it about 4 years later. And one Cassie wrote, which is still up on an adult fanfic site, about Aiden (though she swears she hates them now lol) where most of them got their brains blown out in drug raids in Seattle ... since most of the ones mentioned above are romance, or relationship oriented ... Cassie and Kim make me feel underwhelming. Although, having read Ivy talking and posting some of her latest creative offerings ... maybe there's company for me yet lol.
And no, I'm not posting any of my writing on here. Though if pressed, I might talk about it, and if you press enough, I'll let you read a rough copy elsewhere lol ... and for Joanne and Cassie, the second one's coming soon. I probably won't bind this one.
City Boys
So, I read this book ages ago, Ugly Americans by Ben Mezrich, about these city boys who dealt in the Japanese stock markets. Because of the system in Japan, they had to live in this one city to do trades, and were responsible for causing skews in the market, netting themselves billions. They took on Japanese stock traders, some mafia-like family ... two of them almost died in a motorcycle accident. It was a good book actually, and I learnt a lot about trading from it.
Anyway, I was in waterstones today, procrastinating from the task of finding a present for a three year old girl I've never met (hello Tinkerbell tea set) and came across a book called This Bleeding City. It was written just before the stockmarkets in the UK took a fall apparently, and the guy who wrote it was a trader and therefore is probably writing from experience. I've had a peek at the preface, and Oh My Word. I may leave the 50 book list just to read it (in the preface, the protagonist has left his son in the car a moment to do something in the office, gotten sidetracked, and hours later, realises his son is still in the car. It's a hot day and the kid's barely a toddler, so he's running into A&E with this kid who's feet are bruised from burst blood vessels. Did that really happen to Preston's nephew? Jesus ... oh yeah, it's Preston's brother who wrote it, apparently, but it doesn't mention it in the book because he obviously wants to make a name for himself/have nothing to do with someone so blah. If the rest of the book is like those three pages, I have no doubt he'll do better than his brother. Well, he should.) ... speaking of the 50 book list by the way, picked up like, 9 more of the list! Thank you works, for having a sale on poor yet legible reprints of The Great Gatsby, The Portrait Of Dorian Gray, Don Quixote, Moby Dick, Gulliver's Travels and Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn (and War And Peace, since I'm curious) ... got Catch 22 and The Grapes Of Wrath from Waterstones too .... and a few other less impressive texts (Sharon Osbourne's first novel, and another Twilight Spoof called New Moan which is funnier and less off on a tangent than Nightlight, though it does reiterate their view of Bella as a narcissist far too much for my liking) because I'm not exactly WonderWoman.
Anyway, I was in waterstones today, procrastinating from the task of finding a present for a three year old girl I've never met (hello Tinkerbell tea set) and came across a book called This Bleeding City. It was written just before the stockmarkets in the UK took a fall apparently, and the guy who wrote it was a trader and therefore is probably writing from experience. I've had a peek at the preface, and Oh My Word. I may leave the 50 book list just to read it (in the preface, the protagonist has left his son in the car a moment to do something in the office, gotten sidetracked, and hours later, realises his son is still in the car. It's a hot day and the kid's barely a toddler, so he's running into A&E with this kid who's feet are bruised from burst blood vessels. Did that really happen to Preston's nephew? Jesus ... oh yeah, it's Preston's brother who wrote it, apparently, but it doesn't mention it in the book because he obviously wants to make a name for himself/have nothing to do with someone so blah. If the rest of the book is like those three pages, I have no doubt he'll do better than his brother. Well, he should.) ... speaking of the 50 book list by the way, picked up like, 9 more of the list! Thank you works, for having a sale on poor yet legible reprints of The Great Gatsby, The Portrait Of Dorian Gray, Don Quixote, Moby Dick, Gulliver's Travels and Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn (and War And Peace, since I'm curious) ... got Catch 22 and The Grapes Of Wrath from Waterstones too .... and a few other less impressive texts (Sharon Osbourne's first novel, and another Twilight Spoof called New Moan which is funnier and less off on a tangent than Nightlight, though it does reiterate their view of Bella as a narcissist far too much for my liking) because I'm not exactly WonderWoman.
Monday 15 March 2010
The Aftermath
So ... everything that happened post hospital. I'll try to make it as chronological as possible.
Less than a week after I left London, I was meant to go to France for a few days, to Disneyland with my best friends. I'd talked to the doctors about whether I could still go and at first they were like 'I don't think so' and eventually one of them had said 'if you can explain it all in French, then sure you can go'. Since my french is limited and I can say 'je mal au ...' and then not know the French for 'blood' I obviously couldn't go. I'd organised it all, we needed my card to get the eurostar tickets, and I'd booked the hotel and park tickets (and my friends needed my ID, though we didn't know that at the time). I emailed the eurostar and the hotel explaining everything, and the hotel were good about it, but the eurostar people were adamant I needed to at least be there to pick up the tickets. A refund at that time was the furthest part of my mind, I didn't know how I could face travelling to pick up the tickets to give to my friends, then turn around and go home. I almost brought my passport with me when I did, but mum and the boy came with me (to restrain me if they needed to). But oh my God, everything that could have gone wrong that day did, the trains were cancelled, we needed to catch buses, I forgot Joanne's birthday present (we were meant to be getting back just before her 23rd), when we got to the station the machine stopped working after printing out one ticket (mine) and they called the IT department but they'd left five minutes before, so we had to wait until the next morning. I started laughing because it was either that or cry hysterically. They said because the ticket that had printed had the reference on, I didn't need to be there in the morning too - that definitely would have been too much to handle.
As it was, I got woken up with a phone call two days later. Since when is it harder to get into an amusement park than a hotel? The people I'd booked the tickets with, through a work deal (which I'm still not entirely sure saved us any money, though it said 10% off) hadn't sent me the email voucher so I had to call them, get the new email, and forward that with a scan of my passport. I know everyone who went had a great time while they were there, but it felt like the whole thing was cursed (especially as I'd lamented on a website that I hadn't gone and someone missed the point that I'd done all that work and spent all that money for it and had a go at me because she hadn't gone too). Instead, while my friends were getting hugs from Sulley and joking with Mickey Mouse as only we could do; I was in my local hospital getting another blood test to make sure the treatment was initially successful. The nurse couldn't get my veins in my arm to come up, and the only protuding vein she could see was inside my wrist. I started crying - I was so sick of needles and blood tests by that point - and the nurse was going to mum 'is she actually crying?' (no shit, Sherlock). Instead, she took the sample from the back of my hand, where the clot was still pretty huge, but there was a vein we could clearly see. I preferred her taking it from there, but I was still kind of a mess as we left hospital.
I was sleeping for ages too. I'd go to bed at 7 or 8, sleep until 10, and still need a 2 hour afternoon nap. It was just under two weeks before I started helping with the boy again (I had to, all my family are teachers so they had to go back to school. I had no help) but it was like before I'd gone into hospital, I still couldn't entertain him properly.
Worse, before I'd gone in, he'd started saying a few words - mill for milk, and mamma, that sort of thing. But he'd stopped talking while I was away. He'd make baby noises, and giggle and stuff, but I've not heard him say 'mill' since. He skipped it when he was learning to talk again, called it by his proper name. He was pretty clingy the first few weeks, and when I had to go for routine check ups, appointments to arrange my gallbladder coming out, he was inconsolable. So was I, really.
I was having speech problems myself. I couldn't understand some of the things people were saying to me - you could ask me how I was and I knew what the individual words meant but as a whole, it lost all meaning. I had to get people to repeat what they were saying a few times before the words fell into place in my head. If I didn't say what I was thinking when I thought it, it was lost. I couldn't remember certain words - say I wanted to get a spoon for boy to have a yogurt, I'd have to mime a spoon action for a few moments to try to trigger the word, or at least give someone the vague idea I knew what I wanted, even if I couldn't remember the word. I'd talk and forget what I was saying halfway through a sentence. People would get my attention and then lose it withing seconds, not because they were boring, I just couldn't function right. I seriously had an msn conversation with Joanne where we were talking and all of a sudden, mid-laugh, I was like 'I can't remember what we're talking about' and Joanne was like 'but it's all right there, just scroll up' - but none of it made sense.
I worked my arse off trying to get back to the old me. I did sudoku a lot - those 81 little numbers were such a big help - and logic problems, criss-crosses, word searches, the whole shebang. I threw myself into my writing, and reading, hoping if I absorbed and expelled enough words, I'd have some form of retention. At first it was my old comforts, Harry Potter, Septimus Heap, Remember Me, and slowly it was other things, different things to pull me out of my comfort zone, to make myself grasp more. I still refused to take phone messages, thought my parents often forgot I had no short term memory, and kept asking me to do laundry, give my siblings reminders.
My stepsister's wedding was a month after I left hospital. The hotel was connected to the reception hall, next to the church. It was gorgeous, but the food was so pretentious. I had lamb the first night, and it was done really rare, I think I ate one piece. And my gallstones were aggreivated and I spent the evening being sick, so much so that my stepbrother, who's a doctor, arranged for me to get some medication they rarely give over the counter. Cara did a great impression of my stomach pain in the local chemist, apparently, to get it. I took it, and ended up sharing mum's bed, rather than sleeping in the room with my sister (my dad slept in my bed that night). If you look at wedding photo's even now, I look really off. Noah fell asleep at the reception, after dinner, so I took him to bed, where he woke up. Everyone had left us, thinking I'd sleep too, and I wore myself out trying to get him back off to sleep, so I took him back down to the party, and he fell asleep again in minutes. I knew it wasn't his fault, but it didn't seem fair - I couldn't eat much of the wedding breakfast either, I missed Faith and Jack cutting their cake, their first dance ... everyone was telling me stories the next morning (like Cara's husband throwing his back out lifting Cara's godmother's husband to Time Of Our Lives, or Cara and Claire stealing all the buffet and wedding cake) - I wanted to be there, not hear it secondhand. I was sick of being sick, sick of missing out. But thank goodness for boy - he'd been slamming this mini pot of jam on the table, trying to get the lid off that way, and my dad said 'if you get that lid off in the next five minutes, I'll give you a tenner' - three more slams and it flew across the room. He still owes boy that money. As a result of the weekend though, I spent the next few weeks living exclusively on noodles, soup and steamed chicken breast. I wouldn't have more than 20g fat a day (less than a third GDA for a female)
Anyway, I had hospital appointments every few weeks, for blood tests at UCLH, for haematology and gastroenterology appointments at my local hospital. I was so sick of seeing hospitals. They explained about my chances of getting TTP again (1 in 2 with my gallbladder still in, 1 in 50,000 if it's removed), talked about how aftercare would pan out, asked how I was feeling etc etc. I wasn't scared of having my gallbladder out, though everyone thought I was - I was scared I'd take a week in hospital to recover, of not having boy that long. I was scared if I didn't, I'd get TTP again and die this time. Having one tiny routine operation was a small price to pay. I dreamed of going for weeks without being sick.
I was feeling pretty okay by the time the operation came around - far more alert, I could remember more, I was doing more - almost like once I'd gone the 6 weeks recovery period they recommend after the operation, I'd be working again. I got admitted into the Joint Replacement ward before my operation, since they were short of beds, and the dumbasses having their knees replaced kept asking me what I was getting replaced, wasn't I too young? They were so nosy, my pre-op preparation was different to theirs, so they tried to undermine my already low confidence by saying if I hadn't done what they'd needed to do, I wouldn't be operated on. I was taken down to theatre 2 hours before I thought I'd been scheduled, since they just needed to wait for the haematology team (who were there just in case I haemorraged. Special precaution under the circumstances). When they fitted me with the general anaesthetic, the anaethnatist asked if I was nervous, but he didn't look like he believed me when I said no, just happy that in a weeks time, I'd actually be able to eat Christmas dinner. I stared at a winnie-the-pooh painting as I dropped off.
And when I woke up, my shoulders ached (they tilt the operating table so your head is 45 degrees from the floor, then fill you with CO2 so they can navigate the keyhole equipment around your organs more easily. It was a leftover sensation from the CO2) but otherwise, it was successful, no nicks or complications to make them create a bigger opening - the first good news for the last 4 months. When I got back to Joint Replacement, I was drifting in and out of sleep for a good few hours, but it was the first time in a while it felt truly restful. All the bile that had built up in my liver behind the gallstones came out at one point, but instead of being gross, it was really funny - the other women were still annoying me, and they freaked out at this dark green fountain spewing forth, but the nurses gave me one of those cardboard bedpans and offered me toast - which I had with marmalade, though I hate that stuff normally. But it was amazing, especially when I didn't feel sick afterwards. Those women looked at me like I was insane, like I was eating and drinking too early, but I needed to get rid of all that bile. My stomach felt tender, but it didn't hurt any more.
The only bad point of the operation was that my mind felt like it was back to square one. I'd gotten the boy into nursery for 2 days a week, and that helped me rest up a little, gave me some time and space to get on with getting my mind back again. I read and watched twilight in this time. Hopefully after reading these entries, with all the damage that losing my blood has done to me, everything I've learnt as a consequence, you'll understand why I'm derisive about Stefenie Meyer's writing (whilst enjoying the romantic aspects) ... she has literally no idea what effects losing your blood can do. I doubt Edward really would have had the brains he does, though he seems about as tormented as he should.
I tried to go back to work three months after the operation, but they said they doubted I could have the day shifts I was now asking for. It was a bit like 'come on, I've been so sick, I'm a mum, I'm still tired, I wouldn't cope in a busy shift yet' ... but eventually, when I added a few hours, until the time I was going to bed at night, they started giving me shifts.
And it was hard. I was constantly talking to myself when I was dealing with customers. I was quieter than people were used to when I wasn't, for fear they'd notice I just couldn't talk like I used to. I didn't recognise a lot of people, and the few I did had all been bumped up to management. I was still going through what I had when I'd come out of hospital, where one day I felt almost back to normal, and could say what I wanted to, and had the energy to do everything, but occasionally there were days, and they were becoming less frequent, but there were days where I could barely remember names, could barely walk across the room, and would've been better if I was still off, or just in bed or something. I heard a couple of senior managers talking, and they seemed to think my performance was linked to managers I liked. In some ways, I think that's sort of accurate, since those I got along with could motivate me when I was having an off day, but for the most part it was entirely out of my hands.
That was a year ago, when I got back to work. I talk to myself less when I'm dealing with customers because my memory's better, I don't have to search for words so much (but if you do see me gesturing, or if I repeat something someone's said, that's still me buying time while my brain tries to make what is an obvious connection) and I'm more able to talk to my coworkers like I used to. I've got just about enough energy to tolerate a full working week, and be a single mum, so long as I get a few hours to myself during the week sometime (there's been a lack of that lately, since I've suddenly got all day shifts, but I have a whole day coming up, where boy's in nursery and I'm not at work. I'm so going to enjoy it). But there is a difference, even if I'm the only one to really notice. Or maybe I'm not, and it's just not something to talk about? I get sick quicker than I used to, for longer. If everyone else has a stomach ache, I'm actually sick. Everyone else gets a 2 day cold, I have it for a week - I'm actually benchmarked at the moment for sick time, it lifts in April .. but it's really not my fault. My immune system sucks and my stomach lining's really weak. If there's anything to catch I do. It's just something I'm going to have to work around, I guess.
There is a downside to all this as well. I've been learning to drive, and it's annoying sometimes, because I have the ability but because of what's happened, my reaction times are really poor. My instructor's not taught me emergency breaking yet because apparently I do that too often anyway, to make up for my brain not working right. I'd been filing for life insurance before I got sick, but never heard from the bank filing it after. I've tried someone else since, and gotten refused. I just wanted to make my boy's future secure, but because of one incident, which shouldn't even repeat now I've not got my gallbladder, I've got to rely on ISA's and savings. Which is a croc, since I'd saved almost half a deposit on a house for myself and my son, and most of that money went when I was ill. I've said before to people that I feel on edge if I don't have a certain amount in credit in my account - and it's because I need that backup in case something else went wrong. I can't get any more tattooes or piercings. If I need a tooth removed, my dentist has to refer me to the hospital, because they can't adminster blood products should I haemorrage in his chair.
I have to keep going back to UCLH every six months too. So I'm still considered 'in remission'. When I do, we talk - I still have pretty bad headaches, and they know about my speech problems - and I get offered to be part of research projects, or having my case published in journals. I've given blood for DNA and T-cell research, to see if either present the same deficiency in TTP patients, whatever the trigger. Someone else is doing a computer simulation experiment, to see if TTP patients have lasting brain damage. It's based on reaction times, apparently (so, when I do it, epic fail, obvious brain damage?) - I'll be finding out in a few weeks if they're ready to do that one.
One good thing about the hospital though, is that they have a charity Christmas party every year, so I've met our patrons (Julian Rhind-Tutt and Timothy Spall). They do a bridge walk every October, and I want to do it this year. The treatments are so expensive, I want to give something back as a thank you. Joanne went with me the first year, which was pretty cool (and also, she gives blood routinely, so as well as being one of my best friends, she's kind of a hero of mine).
I haven't got a good way of finishing this off. It's obvious to me now why the first attempt didn't post. It's a pretty big explanation for one little saga though, isn't it?
Less than a week after I left London, I was meant to go to France for a few days, to Disneyland with my best friends. I'd talked to the doctors about whether I could still go and at first they were like 'I don't think so' and eventually one of them had said 'if you can explain it all in French, then sure you can go'. Since my french is limited and I can say 'je mal au ...' and then not know the French for 'blood' I obviously couldn't go. I'd organised it all, we needed my card to get the eurostar tickets, and I'd booked the hotel and park tickets (and my friends needed my ID, though we didn't know that at the time). I emailed the eurostar and the hotel explaining everything, and the hotel were good about it, but the eurostar people were adamant I needed to at least be there to pick up the tickets. A refund at that time was the furthest part of my mind, I didn't know how I could face travelling to pick up the tickets to give to my friends, then turn around and go home. I almost brought my passport with me when I did, but mum and the boy came with me (to restrain me if they needed to). But oh my God, everything that could have gone wrong that day did, the trains were cancelled, we needed to catch buses, I forgot Joanne's birthday present (we were meant to be getting back just before her 23rd), when we got to the station the machine stopped working after printing out one ticket (mine) and they called the IT department but they'd left five minutes before, so we had to wait until the next morning. I started laughing because it was either that or cry hysterically. They said because the ticket that had printed had the reference on, I didn't need to be there in the morning too - that definitely would have been too much to handle.
As it was, I got woken up with a phone call two days later. Since when is it harder to get into an amusement park than a hotel? The people I'd booked the tickets with, through a work deal (which I'm still not entirely sure saved us any money, though it said 10% off) hadn't sent me the email voucher so I had to call them, get the new email, and forward that with a scan of my passport. I know everyone who went had a great time while they were there, but it felt like the whole thing was cursed (especially as I'd lamented on a website that I hadn't gone and someone missed the point that I'd done all that work and spent all that money for it and had a go at me because she hadn't gone too). Instead, while my friends were getting hugs from Sulley and joking with Mickey Mouse as only we could do; I was in my local hospital getting another blood test to make sure the treatment was initially successful. The nurse couldn't get my veins in my arm to come up, and the only protuding vein she could see was inside my wrist. I started crying - I was so sick of needles and blood tests by that point - and the nurse was going to mum 'is she actually crying?' (no shit, Sherlock). Instead, she took the sample from the back of my hand, where the clot was still pretty huge, but there was a vein we could clearly see. I preferred her taking it from there, but I was still kind of a mess as we left hospital.
I was sleeping for ages too. I'd go to bed at 7 or 8, sleep until 10, and still need a 2 hour afternoon nap. It was just under two weeks before I started helping with the boy again (I had to, all my family are teachers so they had to go back to school. I had no help) but it was like before I'd gone into hospital, I still couldn't entertain him properly.
Worse, before I'd gone in, he'd started saying a few words - mill for milk, and mamma, that sort of thing. But he'd stopped talking while I was away. He'd make baby noises, and giggle and stuff, but I've not heard him say 'mill' since. He skipped it when he was learning to talk again, called it by his proper name. He was pretty clingy the first few weeks, and when I had to go for routine check ups, appointments to arrange my gallbladder coming out, he was inconsolable. So was I, really.
I was having speech problems myself. I couldn't understand some of the things people were saying to me - you could ask me how I was and I knew what the individual words meant but as a whole, it lost all meaning. I had to get people to repeat what they were saying a few times before the words fell into place in my head. If I didn't say what I was thinking when I thought it, it was lost. I couldn't remember certain words - say I wanted to get a spoon for boy to have a yogurt, I'd have to mime a spoon action for a few moments to try to trigger the word, or at least give someone the vague idea I knew what I wanted, even if I couldn't remember the word. I'd talk and forget what I was saying halfway through a sentence. People would get my attention and then lose it withing seconds, not because they were boring, I just couldn't function right. I seriously had an msn conversation with Joanne where we were talking and all of a sudden, mid-laugh, I was like 'I can't remember what we're talking about' and Joanne was like 'but it's all right there, just scroll up' - but none of it made sense.
I worked my arse off trying to get back to the old me. I did sudoku a lot - those 81 little numbers were such a big help - and logic problems, criss-crosses, word searches, the whole shebang. I threw myself into my writing, and reading, hoping if I absorbed and expelled enough words, I'd have some form of retention. At first it was my old comforts, Harry Potter, Septimus Heap, Remember Me, and slowly it was other things, different things to pull me out of my comfort zone, to make myself grasp more. I still refused to take phone messages, thought my parents often forgot I had no short term memory, and kept asking me to do laundry, give my siblings reminders.
My stepsister's wedding was a month after I left hospital. The hotel was connected to the reception hall, next to the church. It was gorgeous, but the food was so pretentious. I had lamb the first night, and it was done really rare, I think I ate one piece. And my gallstones were aggreivated and I spent the evening being sick, so much so that my stepbrother, who's a doctor, arranged for me to get some medication they rarely give over the counter. Cara did a great impression of my stomach pain in the local chemist, apparently, to get it. I took it, and ended up sharing mum's bed, rather than sleeping in the room with my sister (my dad slept in my bed that night). If you look at wedding photo's even now, I look really off. Noah fell asleep at the reception, after dinner, so I took him to bed, where he woke up. Everyone had left us, thinking I'd sleep too, and I wore myself out trying to get him back off to sleep, so I took him back down to the party, and he fell asleep again in minutes. I knew it wasn't his fault, but it didn't seem fair - I couldn't eat much of the wedding breakfast either, I missed Faith and Jack cutting their cake, their first dance ... everyone was telling me stories the next morning (like Cara's husband throwing his back out lifting Cara's godmother's husband to Time Of Our Lives, or Cara and Claire stealing all the buffet and wedding cake) - I wanted to be there, not hear it secondhand. I was sick of being sick, sick of missing out. But thank goodness for boy - he'd been slamming this mini pot of jam on the table, trying to get the lid off that way, and my dad said 'if you get that lid off in the next five minutes, I'll give you a tenner' - three more slams and it flew across the room. He still owes boy that money. As a result of the weekend though, I spent the next few weeks living exclusively on noodles, soup and steamed chicken breast. I wouldn't have more than 20g fat a day (less than a third GDA for a female)
Anyway, I had hospital appointments every few weeks, for blood tests at UCLH, for haematology and gastroenterology appointments at my local hospital. I was so sick of seeing hospitals. They explained about my chances of getting TTP again (1 in 2 with my gallbladder still in, 1 in 50,000 if it's removed), talked about how aftercare would pan out, asked how I was feeling etc etc. I wasn't scared of having my gallbladder out, though everyone thought I was - I was scared I'd take a week in hospital to recover, of not having boy that long. I was scared if I didn't, I'd get TTP again and die this time. Having one tiny routine operation was a small price to pay. I dreamed of going for weeks without being sick.
I was feeling pretty okay by the time the operation came around - far more alert, I could remember more, I was doing more - almost like once I'd gone the 6 weeks recovery period they recommend after the operation, I'd be working again. I got admitted into the Joint Replacement ward before my operation, since they were short of beds, and the dumbasses having their knees replaced kept asking me what I was getting replaced, wasn't I too young? They were so nosy, my pre-op preparation was different to theirs, so they tried to undermine my already low confidence by saying if I hadn't done what they'd needed to do, I wouldn't be operated on. I was taken down to theatre 2 hours before I thought I'd been scheduled, since they just needed to wait for the haematology team (who were there just in case I haemorraged. Special precaution under the circumstances). When they fitted me with the general anaesthetic, the anaethnatist asked if I was nervous, but he didn't look like he believed me when I said no, just happy that in a weeks time, I'd actually be able to eat Christmas dinner. I stared at a winnie-the-pooh painting as I dropped off.
And when I woke up, my shoulders ached (they tilt the operating table so your head is 45 degrees from the floor, then fill you with CO2 so they can navigate the keyhole equipment around your organs more easily. It was a leftover sensation from the CO2) but otherwise, it was successful, no nicks or complications to make them create a bigger opening - the first good news for the last 4 months. When I got back to Joint Replacement, I was drifting in and out of sleep for a good few hours, but it was the first time in a while it felt truly restful. All the bile that had built up in my liver behind the gallstones came out at one point, but instead of being gross, it was really funny - the other women were still annoying me, and they freaked out at this dark green fountain spewing forth, but the nurses gave me one of those cardboard bedpans and offered me toast - which I had with marmalade, though I hate that stuff normally. But it was amazing, especially when I didn't feel sick afterwards. Those women looked at me like I was insane, like I was eating and drinking too early, but I needed to get rid of all that bile. My stomach felt tender, but it didn't hurt any more.
The only bad point of the operation was that my mind felt like it was back to square one. I'd gotten the boy into nursery for 2 days a week, and that helped me rest up a little, gave me some time and space to get on with getting my mind back again. I read and watched twilight in this time. Hopefully after reading these entries, with all the damage that losing my blood has done to me, everything I've learnt as a consequence, you'll understand why I'm derisive about Stefenie Meyer's writing (whilst enjoying the romantic aspects) ... she has literally no idea what effects losing your blood can do. I doubt Edward really would have had the brains he does, though he seems about as tormented as he should.
I tried to go back to work three months after the operation, but they said they doubted I could have the day shifts I was now asking for. It was a bit like 'come on, I've been so sick, I'm a mum, I'm still tired, I wouldn't cope in a busy shift yet' ... but eventually, when I added a few hours, until the time I was going to bed at night, they started giving me shifts.
And it was hard. I was constantly talking to myself when I was dealing with customers. I was quieter than people were used to when I wasn't, for fear they'd notice I just couldn't talk like I used to. I didn't recognise a lot of people, and the few I did had all been bumped up to management. I was still going through what I had when I'd come out of hospital, where one day I felt almost back to normal, and could say what I wanted to, and had the energy to do everything, but occasionally there were days, and they were becoming less frequent, but there were days where I could barely remember names, could barely walk across the room, and would've been better if I was still off, or just in bed or something. I heard a couple of senior managers talking, and they seemed to think my performance was linked to managers I liked. In some ways, I think that's sort of accurate, since those I got along with could motivate me when I was having an off day, but for the most part it was entirely out of my hands.
That was a year ago, when I got back to work. I talk to myself less when I'm dealing with customers because my memory's better, I don't have to search for words so much (but if you do see me gesturing, or if I repeat something someone's said, that's still me buying time while my brain tries to make what is an obvious connection) and I'm more able to talk to my coworkers like I used to. I've got just about enough energy to tolerate a full working week, and be a single mum, so long as I get a few hours to myself during the week sometime (there's been a lack of that lately, since I've suddenly got all day shifts, but I have a whole day coming up, where boy's in nursery and I'm not at work. I'm so going to enjoy it). But there is a difference, even if I'm the only one to really notice. Or maybe I'm not, and it's just not something to talk about? I get sick quicker than I used to, for longer. If everyone else has a stomach ache, I'm actually sick. Everyone else gets a 2 day cold, I have it for a week - I'm actually benchmarked at the moment for sick time, it lifts in April .. but it's really not my fault. My immune system sucks and my stomach lining's really weak. If there's anything to catch I do. It's just something I'm going to have to work around, I guess.
There is a downside to all this as well. I've been learning to drive, and it's annoying sometimes, because I have the ability but because of what's happened, my reaction times are really poor. My instructor's not taught me emergency breaking yet because apparently I do that too often anyway, to make up for my brain not working right. I'd been filing for life insurance before I got sick, but never heard from the bank filing it after. I've tried someone else since, and gotten refused. I just wanted to make my boy's future secure, but because of one incident, which shouldn't even repeat now I've not got my gallbladder, I've got to rely on ISA's and savings. Which is a croc, since I'd saved almost half a deposit on a house for myself and my son, and most of that money went when I was ill. I've said before to people that I feel on edge if I don't have a certain amount in credit in my account - and it's because I need that backup in case something else went wrong. I can't get any more tattooes or piercings. If I need a tooth removed, my dentist has to refer me to the hospital, because they can't adminster blood products should I haemorrage in his chair.
I have to keep going back to UCLH every six months too. So I'm still considered 'in remission'. When I do, we talk - I still have pretty bad headaches, and they know about my speech problems - and I get offered to be part of research projects, or having my case published in journals. I've given blood for DNA and T-cell research, to see if either present the same deficiency in TTP patients, whatever the trigger. Someone else is doing a computer simulation experiment, to see if TTP patients have lasting brain damage. It's based on reaction times, apparently (so, when I do it, epic fail, obvious brain damage?) - I'll be finding out in a few weeks if they're ready to do that one.
One good thing about the hospital though, is that they have a charity Christmas party every year, so I've met our patrons (Julian Rhind-Tutt and Timothy Spall). They do a bridge walk every October, and I want to do it this year. The treatments are so expensive, I want to give something back as a thank you. Joanne went with me the first year, which was pretty cool (and also, she gives blood routinely, so as well as being one of my best friends, she's kind of a hero of mine).
I haven't got a good way of finishing this off. It's obvious to me now why the first attempt didn't post. It's a pretty big explanation for one little saga though, isn't it?
Sunday 14 March 2010
Stephen King
Firstly - I'm not done with my great repost, I'm just trying to get straight in my head what I want to say about after. There's a lot to say, and hopefully Lizzy will stop laughing at me for talking to myself at work quite so much when she reads it.
But I want to get on to the subject at hand, so to speak. I thought, if I didn't blog, a few entries ago that I'd already noticed I've mainly talked about female writers. I guess as a female I'm going to naturally gravitate to books written by other women, as I'll have a better understanding of their experiences etc.
But I read a Stephen King pretty young. Not one of his famous pieces, like The Shining. I can't even remember the name of it. It was an adult book I got out the library on my young adult account (I think they'd seen me in the library enough to know I'd probably exhausted all the other remotely interesting books), 22 short stories about love. God, I didn't know what I was taking out, and nor did the library (ahem, I was 14 at the time. One certain story got passed around my high school the two weeks I had that book, and everyone thought I was a pervert for it. I only showed them because someone had torn out a page and I was outraged. Never mind that it was a story about this woman who recieved this cursed locket and started having erotic dreams. She'd had a really pervy, descriptive one about her psychologist on the page next to the one torn out, hence why they made a big deal. I wanted to know the secret of the locket, but no, some other pervert wanted to keep it for themselves. I said in my last entry I read stuff way too mature for me ...) Anyway, the first story was a Stephen King.
It was weird. It was about this woman who was meeting her husband in a restaurant to announce she wanted a divorce, and it turned out she was having an affair with the head chef of this restaurant. When he saw the husband, he chased after him with a butchers knife. They fought, and the chef's intestines end up hanging out of his stomach yet he's still running after the husband like he's an olympic athelete. I read it in a state of disbelief.
A couple of years ago, I went through a phase of buying Stephen King, thinking I'd read them all and could face adult horror books the way I had Goosebumps and Point Horror as a kid. The book I got was called The Game, I believe. This couple go away to a lake for a romantic weekend, and he's into bondage so locks her to the bed with his handcuffs he bought off the police, and she decides suddenly she doesn't want to sleep with him so kicks him, winds him, and he falls into something behind him and dies.
It was another state-of-disbelief book. She's been locked up an hour or so, but is dying of dehydration? And a mongrel somehow enters the house, and finds the husband rotting and decaying and eats him in front of the wife. Which would be gross and set my teeth on edge and make my skin crawl but as I'm reading (and this is halfway through the book because King loves his detail) I'm thinking 'she's not been in this position a night. Rigamortis hasn't even set in, how the hell's he rotting? So how the hell would the dog smell him and think he was food?' I never finished that book. I couldn't, whatever happened I'd be criticising too.
I can see how King did that though, I mean, it takes a good few months to write a book, for me anyway. Your time scale isn't always the same as your characters. I find writing disjointedly actually helps my time flow. But surely he checked, and his editor read through and suggested maybe adding in a passing of some days to make her thirst and his state of death a little more realistic?
I'm going to be an editor's nightmare myself, aren't I? I just ... I don't get the glamour of Stephen King. I loved The Shining as the film, though I've not read the book ... but Stephen King to Horror is what Stephenie Meyer is to Vampires, in my opinion. He's got all the hype for it, but personally, I can pick too many holes.
Anyway ... so after I finished Shopaholic Ties The Knot (yeah, I started reading that one too) I'm going to crack on with the rest of On The Road. It's about time.
But I want to get on to the subject at hand, so to speak. I thought, if I didn't blog, a few entries ago that I'd already noticed I've mainly talked about female writers. I guess as a female I'm going to naturally gravitate to books written by other women, as I'll have a better understanding of their experiences etc.
But I read a Stephen King pretty young. Not one of his famous pieces, like The Shining. I can't even remember the name of it. It was an adult book I got out the library on my young adult account (I think they'd seen me in the library enough to know I'd probably exhausted all the other remotely interesting books), 22 short stories about love. God, I didn't know what I was taking out, and nor did the library (ahem, I was 14 at the time. One certain story got passed around my high school the two weeks I had that book, and everyone thought I was a pervert for it. I only showed them because someone had torn out a page and I was outraged. Never mind that it was a story about this woman who recieved this cursed locket and started having erotic dreams. She'd had a really pervy, descriptive one about her psychologist on the page next to the one torn out, hence why they made a big deal. I wanted to know the secret of the locket, but no, some other pervert wanted to keep it for themselves. I said in my last entry I read stuff way too mature for me ...) Anyway, the first story was a Stephen King.
It was weird. It was about this woman who was meeting her husband in a restaurant to announce she wanted a divorce, and it turned out she was having an affair with the head chef of this restaurant. When he saw the husband, he chased after him with a butchers knife. They fought, and the chef's intestines end up hanging out of his stomach yet he's still running after the husband like he's an olympic athelete. I read it in a state of disbelief.
A couple of years ago, I went through a phase of buying Stephen King, thinking I'd read them all and could face adult horror books the way I had Goosebumps and Point Horror as a kid. The book I got was called The Game, I believe. This couple go away to a lake for a romantic weekend, and he's into bondage so locks her to the bed with his handcuffs he bought off the police, and she decides suddenly she doesn't want to sleep with him so kicks him, winds him, and he falls into something behind him and dies.
It was another state-of-disbelief book. She's been locked up an hour or so, but is dying of dehydration? And a mongrel somehow enters the house, and finds the husband rotting and decaying and eats him in front of the wife. Which would be gross and set my teeth on edge and make my skin crawl but as I'm reading (and this is halfway through the book because King loves his detail) I'm thinking 'she's not been in this position a night. Rigamortis hasn't even set in, how the hell's he rotting? So how the hell would the dog smell him and think he was food?' I never finished that book. I couldn't, whatever happened I'd be criticising too.
I can see how King did that though, I mean, it takes a good few months to write a book, for me anyway. Your time scale isn't always the same as your characters. I find writing disjointedly actually helps my time flow. But surely he checked, and his editor read through and suggested maybe adding in a passing of some days to make her thirst and his state of death a little more realistic?
I'm going to be an editor's nightmare myself, aren't I? I just ... I don't get the glamour of Stephen King. I loved The Shining as the film, though I've not read the book ... but Stephen King to Horror is what Stephenie Meyer is to Vampires, in my opinion. He's got all the hype for it, but personally, I can pick too many holes.
Anyway ... so after I finished Shopaholic Ties The Knot (yeah, I started reading that one too) I'm going to crack on with the rest of On The Road. It's about time.
Jacqueline Wilson
I was in waterstones the other day, following up a 'double points this weekend only' offer, and came across Jacqueline Wilson's newest book. I felt such a pang when I saw it. Jacqueline Wilson's books ruled my childhood (along with Paula Danziger and Ann M Martin, but they'll get their own posts) and I so wanted it. I did this last time I saw a new Jacqueline Wilson. I debated in my head whether or not to get it. I've usually got a pram with me, and when you have one kid, they automoatically assume you have more or know more ... but I still can't do it. I'm sure they'll just know I'm buying it for me. They always seem to know I'm buying for me, not for a kid.
My sister started it all off. She had the original Tracy Beaker book, and I used to steal it and read it (I never understood that her books were off limits. I read some pretty adult stuff pretty young as a result). I got my copy of the Suitcase Kid not much later. But we didn't have much money growing up so I could never feed my book addiction properly - I took every copy I could find of hers out of the library instead. That drove my parents crazy too, every week I'd come out of the library with the full limit of my book allowance, with Jacqueline, Paula, Ann, Francine Pascal, R.L.Stine, and they'd beg me to put some back, that I'd never read them all in time, and the end of the day I would've gone through half the stack.
I liked that she took a problem child, or problem situation, and talked their way into a better one, and I loved that, that no-one's life was perfect but whatever problems prevailed in life, there was always a solution, a compromise. Part of my writing's like that. I try to live my life like that. I wish I had entire collections of all the writers I ever admired. I want all of Jacqueline Wilsons books. I wish my age wasn't such an issue for me. I wish internet shopping wasn't so addictive so I could get the books I want without embarrassment.
Damn you, 'Little Darlings' ... especially as one of the characters is a little bit like one of mine. Bahhhh! ... oh well, internet shopping it is, I guess.
My sister started it all off. She had the original Tracy Beaker book, and I used to steal it and read it (I never understood that her books were off limits. I read some pretty adult stuff pretty young as a result). I got my copy of the Suitcase Kid not much later. But we didn't have much money growing up so I could never feed my book addiction properly - I took every copy I could find of hers out of the library instead. That drove my parents crazy too, every week I'd come out of the library with the full limit of my book allowance, with Jacqueline, Paula, Ann, Francine Pascal, R.L.Stine, and they'd beg me to put some back, that I'd never read them all in time, and the end of the day I would've gone through half the stack.
I liked that she took a problem child, or problem situation, and talked their way into a better one, and I loved that, that no-one's life was perfect but whatever problems prevailed in life, there was always a solution, a compromise. Part of my writing's like that. I try to live my life like that. I wish I had entire collections of all the writers I ever admired. I want all of Jacqueline Wilsons books. I wish my age wasn't such an issue for me. I wish internet shopping wasn't so addictive so I could get the books I want without embarrassment.
Damn you, 'Little Darlings' ... especially as one of the characters is a little bit like one of mine. Bahhhh! ... oh well, internet shopping it is, I guess.
Saturday 13 March 2010
The great repost, part four
I promise, after this entry, there's one big one I want to make, and then that's it. I'll be straight back on books.
So I left the story last as we pulled up to the hospital, didn't I? There's no point making an alias for the hospital, since it's the only specialist place in Southern England for TTP. They have 8 aepheresis machines (Ant, Dec, Beckham, Baby, Posh, Sporty, Scary, Ginger. But they're currently saving up to replace them) and the two lead researchers for TTP in the country. So we got to UCLH within half an hour, and I was wheeled up to oncology and haematology.
Perhaps it was niave of me, but I didn't expect to have to be so high up in a hospital. I know it was London, and space is limited, but it's not like New York, I thought maybe I'd be fifth floor, tops. Not 13th floor.
Anyway, one of the doctors came to talk to me before anything else, and explained about what I had. And when I asked what it was called - because I hadn't heard until this point, I just knew I was 'going on a machine, like a washing machine, which spins fast and cleans out the blood'. She didn't want to tell me, said it was a long and complicated name, but she said it anyway. And then I said 'oh, that was on an episode of scrubs. Two guys had it and one of them died.' Not the thing to say when you're borderline critical, apparently (and if you're wondering, season 2, episode 9, when JD and Cox have that competition on who's a better doctor over two TTP patients. JD can't say Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura). I'd gotten to the hospital by the way, with 6.7 RBC, 14.2 WBC and 34 platelets. They caught my TTP early.
So anyway, they put a vascath in my femoral line and linked me up to the machine within half an hour of arriving. The operator was German, and they'd given me a lavender sedative to put under my tongue - apart from mouth wash to keep my mouth wet and toothpaste when I brushed my teeth, that was the first thing to enter my mouth in days - and I started feeling really weird, like I had to get off the bed and run about, and I felt myself start babbling. So the guy didn't notice at first when I was like 'I feel all jittery!' and didn't understand what 'jittery' meant, so at first he thought I was completely losing it. But once my mum managed to explain, he started fidling with the machine. Apparently a lack of calcium can cause that sort of fit? I kept saying I was hot too, and asked for them to open a window (you can't do that on the 13th floor ...) they turned down the thermostat into the minus numbers. I don't do that, I like my warmth.
Anyway, through that first session, which used about 35 pints of platelets and took about three, four hours, they kept waking me up to ask me questions. Stupid questions, 'what's my name?' 'what's your name?' 'where are we?' 'who's prime minister?' - they were stupid, simple questions, but it was the easiest way for them to check that I wasn't having a stroke. If I wasn't grudgingly accepting that Gordon Brown ran the country, and said John Major or something that made no sense, they'd have further work to do.
I preferred being in London for certain reasons. They were more consistent, there was more of a routine. I had the aepheresis in the morning, and something else in the afternoon. x-rays, a CT scan (they put iodine in the vascath, and told me 'it's going to make you feel you need to wee, give a metallic taste in your mouth, and make your veins feel like they're on fire'. All three happened, but weren't unpleasant, exactly. The catheter helped, lol). Because it was an oncology ward, there were certain perks - my own room for a start, to reduce infections (and so I could avoid food, since I wasn't allowed any), and because there's so much money in cancer research, there was a sofa bed in my room for my mum to stay (so the RMHC is a big thing for me. If at 23 I appreciated my mum being so close, being 6 it must be even more incredible) and visiting hours were any time, for any age - so long as my platelets hit 150. There were women who came around too, every few days, offering therapies like reflexology and aromatherapy. I had reflexology and reiki during my stay. The staff were friendly and I could ask them anything, and they were so nice in response (like 'how can you stand sticking needles in patients?' 'if it's the easiest way to get a patient better, that's how I can stand it' etc etc ... that conversation came around the time of day they gave me something called fragmens, which they gave to try to control the clots. I had some in my local hospital, but they injected my stomach. UCLH injected my arm, like I asked for). It'll sound ridiculous, but I fell in love with my cleaner. She was so content, she hummed every day, whether she was dusting or on the tea round. I envied that happiness in work, no matter what the work is.
But there were bad things too. The first time I went outside, when my platelets hit 150, I was petrified. Someone was smoking outside the main centre they did the plasmapheresis, and I held my breath, afraid it'd make me sicker. They gave me a neck vascath after a few days, and I was scared of that too, so scared I threw up again. I begged to be put asleep while they put it in, but they said it'd take ten minutes and there'd be no point. I got wheeled into the room they do the procedure, and everyone's in lead jackets - they gave one to mum too. They put a blue square over my face, with the hole in the middle over my neck. They put local anaesthetic on the area but it didn't help much. I'd take pregnancy a thousand times over another neck vascath. I was so out of it when I got wheeled back to my room, my stepsister had visited and it took two different antibiotics and a nebuliser to get me to say hi to her. Or more accurately 'sorry'.
The same day, later on, there were 12 different doctors, consultants and nurses in my room. One was doing observations, and the others were all talking amongst themselves, or introducing themselves to me like 'Hi, I'm Mark from ITU, I've heard a lot about you' - I know what ITU is, that didn't fill me with hope. They went quiet as one doctor talked a bit more about TTP, what it was, how they were going to treat it ... and then they took mum out the room, with my dad who was over, and when they came back in, mum was crying. She's so transparent sometimes, I could tell what they'd said. The first talk, on the first day, we were told younger TTP patients could do really well, then crash and have to go from scratch. I wasn't so niave not to notice this was the day they expected me to take a turn. And that night, on my nebuliser, I could feel myself getting tired - and not just because I had to be on the nebuliser until it ran out, and it either smelt herbal and disgusting or menthol and disgusting. I was exhausted. And I thought 'I haven't got the energy to take another breath' and this little voice in the back of my head was like 'and what's going to happen when you breath out? You're going to breath in again, you retard' - I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for that little voice. The doctors were surprised to see me in the same bed on the same ward the next morning at any rate.
I got to see the boy twice while I was in there. He came up on the friday, and I was so shocked to see him. He'd been a baby in his sleepsuit and baby walker when I'd left. He was this gigantic toddler when he came to see me. It felt like I'd missed more than 10 days of him. I was on the machines at the time, and he wouldn't look at me because of the tubes, the blood. I don't blame him, I hated that sort of thing. I was still on oxygen tanks at that point too (had been since the day after I got admitted into my local hospital), so I had those tubes up my nose, and they always freaked me out when my nan had them. But he sat on my bed and patted my legs every so often, just to make sure I was really there.
He visited on his birthday too. My younger sister had an appointment at another London hospital that day, and she went with my parents, and my other sister and my brother came with boy to my hospital, and when Claire was finished, they were all coming over too. My older sister, Cara, was amazing, she bought the boy a giant 1 balloon and a birthday hat, and they brought strawberries and a chocolate cake for him. We went to Regents park, which was a few minutes away by taxi, but after walking to the playpark from the park gates, I was exhausted, so I watched as he went on the slide (and cried) and those bouncers and then the swings. We saved the strawberries and cake for when everyone was there. But I felt so bad that this was his first birthday, cake in a hospital wing. But at least I was there, and at least I could see him (they had actually said, the day before 'we know tomorrow's a special day, so would you want to go home for a few hours tomorrow?' and I said, pretty honestly 'if I went home, I don't know if I'd make it back' and I knew it was important I stayed, so we went with him visiting London). I had to see the people leading the research though, and they were on holiday during most of my stay. The first day they could see me was his birthday.
They let me go the next day, and the tube was awful. I was tired just walking to the underground, but the trains were full and we had to stand until Liverpool Street. I knew I'd been right about not visiting home the day before. We got back and there were 'welcome home mummy' signs everywhere and boy hugged me, and one of his godfathers visited that afternoon too, but I didn't feel I could say much, or do much. When boy needed a nappy change, I couldn't get the energy to help out.
I know none of this is consistent, but as I've said before, my memory is patchy. It's a random collection of memories because that's how it's amalgamated. Like, how Rebecca always used to ask if I needed the loo, then put me on the machine, and half hour later, I'd always need to go. And how Taffy kept me up most of the night making me over-sweet tea because she was genuinely worried that my blood sugars were 3.9, when the normal range is 4-7. When the gastroenterologist said I could finally drink, and then eat. Watching the bill when they removed the femoral vascath. Vivian telling me chocolate was the best thing I could eat, for sugar and potassium, and not to worry about my dentist's reaction. When I went outside to the local sainsbury's for 5 minutes because they said I could go out. When they started giving physio because the x-rays showed both my lungs had half-collapsed. When I said I had a headache over my right eye and they started looking into my eyes at obs, and giving me further physio at obs, and asking more dumb-but-necessary questions (blood clots, headaches, and the slurred speech I had that I didn't actually hear = start of a stroke). When my best friends visited before going to see Taking Back Sunday at the Astoria down the road. When I got the post for a zoo trip I'd been planning the day before boy's birthday, then having to cancel it all. When the nurses said we had wireless in my room, did we want to bring a laptop from home? Being allowed to use mobiles too. This one light that seemed to be solar-powered which stayed on all night. Seeing Wembley stadium and the BT tower from my floor. When my neck wound started bleeding and they kept adding more and more plasters to it to add pressure to stop it bleeding, and me thinking 'God, I don't have any blood, why's what I do have left trying to leave?' and when the vascath came out, it didn't bleed at all. Getting to read again, and having mum's friend/boy's godmother's mum lend me some books when boy's godmum sent me sweets and a me2you bear.
I'm sure I'll remember more some other time. I forgot about the oxygen mask until I started writing, for instance. But there was so much in those ten days. I think I've had almost every procedure a hospital can throw at you, in the space of a fortnight. The aftermath will be in my next post.
So I left the story last as we pulled up to the hospital, didn't I? There's no point making an alias for the hospital, since it's the only specialist place in Southern England for TTP. They have 8 aepheresis machines (Ant, Dec, Beckham, Baby, Posh, Sporty, Scary, Ginger. But they're currently saving up to replace them) and the two lead researchers for TTP in the country. So we got to UCLH within half an hour, and I was wheeled up to oncology and haematology.
Perhaps it was niave of me, but I didn't expect to have to be so high up in a hospital. I know it was London, and space is limited, but it's not like New York, I thought maybe I'd be fifth floor, tops. Not 13th floor.
Anyway, one of the doctors came to talk to me before anything else, and explained about what I had. And when I asked what it was called - because I hadn't heard until this point, I just knew I was 'going on a machine, like a washing machine, which spins fast and cleans out the blood'. She didn't want to tell me, said it was a long and complicated name, but she said it anyway. And then I said 'oh, that was on an episode of scrubs. Two guys had it and one of them died.' Not the thing to say when you're borderline critical, apparently (and if you're wondering, season 2, episode 9, when JD and Cox have that competition on who's a better doctor over two TTP patients. JD can't say Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura). I'd gotten to the hospital by the way, with 6.7 RBC, 14.2 WBC and 34 platelets. They caught my TTP early.
So anyway, they put a vascath in my femoral line and linked me up to the machine within half an hour of arriving. The operator was German, and they'd given me a lavender sedative to put under my tongue - apart from mouth wash to keep my mouth wet and toothpaste when I brushed my teeth, that was the first thing to enter my mouth in days - and I started feeling really weird, like I had to get off the bed and run about, and I felt myself start babbling. So the guy didn't notice at first when I was like 'I feel all jittery!' and didn't understand what 'jittery' meant, so at first he thought I was completely losing it. But once my mum managed to explain, he started fidling with the machine. Apparently a lack of calcium can cause that sort of fit? I kept saying I was hot too, and asked for them to open a window (you can't do that on the 13th floor ...) they turned down the thermostat into the minus numbers. I don't do that, I like my warmth.
Anyway, through that first session, which used about 35 pints of platelets and took about three, four hours, they kept waking me up to ask me questions. Stupid questions, 'what's my name?' 'what's your name?' 'where are we?' 'who's prime minister?' - they were stupid, simple questions, but it was the easiest way for them to check that I wasn't having a stroke. If I wasn't grudgingly accepting that Gordon Brown ran the country, and said John Major or something that made no sense, they'd have further work to do.
I preferred being in London for certain reasons. They were more consistent, there was more of a routine. I had the aepheresis in the morning, and something else in the afternoon. x-rays, a CT scan (they put iodine in the vascath, and told me 'it's going to make you feel you need to wee, give a metallic taste in your mouth, and make your veins feel like they're on fire'. All three happened, but weren't unpleasant, exactly. The catheter helped, lol). Because it was an oncology ward, there were certain perks - my own room for a start, to reduce infections (and so I could avoid food, since I wasn't allowed any), and because there's so much money in cancer research, there was a sofa bed in my room for my mum to stay (so the RMHC is a big thing for me. If at 23 I appreciated my mum being so close, being 6 it must be even more incredible) and visiting hours were any time, for any age - so long as my platelets hit 150. There were women who came around too, every few days, offering therapies like reflexology and aromatherapy. I had reflexology and reiki during my stay. The staff were friendly and I could ask them anything, and they were so nice in response (like 'how can you stand sticking needles in patients?' 'if it's the easiest way to get a patient better, that's how I can stand it' etc etc ... that conversation came around the time of day they gave me something called fragmens, which they gave to try to control the clots. I had some in my local hospital, but they injected my stomach. UCLH injected my arm, like I asked for). It'll sound ridiculous, but I fell in love with my cleaner. She was so content, she hummed every day, whether she was dusting or on the tea round. I envied that happiness in work, no matter what the work is.
But there were bad things too. The first time I went outside, when my platelets hit 150, I was petrified. Someone was smoking outside the main centre they did the plasmapheresis, and I held my breath, afraid it'd make me sicker. They gave me a neck vascath after a few days, and I was scared of that too, so scared I threw up again. I begged to be put asleep while they put it in, but they said it'd take ten minutes and there'd be no point. I got wheeled into the room they do the procedure, and everyone's in lead jackets - they gave one to mum too. They put a blue square over my face, with the hole in the middle over my neck. They put local anaesthetic on the area but it didn't help much. I'd take pregnancy a thousand times over another neck vascath. I was so out of it when I got wheeled back to my room, my stepsister had visited and it took two different antibiotics and a nebuliser to get me to say hi to her. Or more accurately 'sorry'.
The same day, later on, there were 12 different doctors, consultants and nurses in my room. One was doing observations, and the others were all talking amongst themselves, or introducing themselves to me like 'Hi, I'm Mark from ITU, I've heard a lot about you' - I know what ITU is, that didn't fill me with hope. They went quiet as one doctor talked a bit more about TTP, what it was, how they were going to treat it ... and then they took mum out the room, with my dad who was over, and when they came back in, mum was crying. She's so transparent sometimes, I could tell what they'd said. The first talk, on the first day, we were told younger TTP patients could do really well, then crash and have to go from scratch. I wasn't so niave not to notice this was the day they expected me to take a turn. And that night, on my nebuliser, I could feel myself getting tired - and not just because I had to be on the nebuliser until it ran out, and it either smelt herbal and disgusting or menthol and disgusting. I was exhausted. And I thought 'I haven't got the energy to take another breath' and this little voice in the back of my head was like 'and what's going to happen when you breath out? You're going to breath in again, you retard' - I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for that little voice. The doctors were surprised to see me in the same bed on the same ward the next morning at any rate.
I got to see the boy twice while I was in there. He came up on the friday, and I was so shocked to see him. He'd been a baby in his sleepsuit and baby walker when I'd left. He was this gigantic toddler when he came to see me. It felt like I'd missed more than 10 days of him. I was on the machines at the time, and he wouldn't look at me because of the tubes, the blood. I don't blame him, I hated that sort of thing. I was still on oxygen tanks at that point too (had been since the day after I got admitted into my local hospital), so I had those tubes up my nose, and they always freaked me out when my nan had them. But he sat on my bed and patted my legs every so often, just to make sure I was really there.
He visited on his birthday too. My younger sister had an appointment at another London hospital that day, and she went with my parents, and my other sister and my brother came with boy to my hospital, and when Claire was finished, they were all coming over too. My older sister, Cara, was amazing, she bought the boy a giant 1 balloon and a birthday hat, and they brought strawberries and a chocolate cake for him. We went to Regents park, which was a few minutes away by taxi, but after walking to the playpark from the park gates, I was exhausted, so I watched as he went on the slide (and cried) and those bouncers and then the swings. We saved the strawberries and cake for when everyone was there. But I felt so bad that this was his first birthday, cake in a hospital wing. But at least I was there, and at least I could see him (they had actually said, the day before 'we know tomorrow's a special day, so would you want to go home for a few hours tomorrow?' and I said, pretty honestly 'if I went home, I don't know if I'd make it back' and I knew it was important I stayed, so we went with him visiting London). I had to see the people leading the research though, and they were on holiday during most of my stay. The first day they could see me was his birthday.
They let me go the next day, and the tube was awful. I was tired just walking to the underground, but the trains were full and we had to stand until Liverpool Street. I knew I'd been right about not visiting home the day before. We got back and there were 'welcome home mummy' signs everywhere and boy hugged me, and one of his godfathers visited that afternoon too, but I didn't feel I could say much, or do much. When boy needed a nappy change, I couldn't get the energy to help out.
I know none of this is consistent, but as I've said before, my memory is patchy. It's a random collection of memories because that's how it's amalgamated. Like, how Rebecca always used to ask if I needed the loo, then put me on the machine, and half hour later, I'd always need to go. And how Taffy kept me up most of the night making me over-sweet tea because she was genuinely worried that my blood sugars were 3.9, when the normal range is 4-7. When the gastroenterologist said I could finally drink, and then eat. Watching the bill when they removed the femoral vascath. Vivian telling me chocolate was the best thing I could eat, for sugar and potassium, and not to worry about my dentist's reaction. When I went outside to the local sainsbury's for 5 minutes because they said I could go out. When they started giving physio because the x-rays showed both my lungs had half-collapsed. When I said I had a headache over my right eye and they started looking into my eyes at obs, and giving me further physio at obs, and asking more dumb-but-necessary questions (blood clots, headaches, and the slurred speech I had that I didn't actually hear = start of a stroke). When my best friends visited before going to see Taking Back Sunday at the Astoria down the road. When I got the post for a zoo trip I'd been planning the day before boy's birthday, then having to cancel it all. When the nurses said we had wireless in my room, did we want to bring a laptop from home? Being allowed to use mobiles too. This one light that seemed to be solar-powered which stayed on all night. Seeing Wembley stadium and the BT tower from my floor. When my neck wound started bleeding and they kept adding more and more plasters to it to add pressure to stop it bleeding, and me thinking 'God, I don't have any blood, why's what I do have left trying to leave?' and when the vascath came out, it didn't bleed at all. Getting to read again, and having mum's friend/boy's godmother's mum lend me some books when boy's godmum sent me sweets and a me2you bear.
I'm sure I'll remember more some other time. I forgot about the oxygen mask until I started writing, for instance. But there was so much in those ten days. I think I've had almost every procedure a hospital can throw at you, in the space of a fortnight. The aftermath will be in my next post.
The great repost, part three
I'm going to have to rush this one, I've got until my work outfit's dry to type.
But it shouldn't take long anyway, because all I want to talk about here is my first hospital, the local one.
Last time, I said that I'd gotten to a&e and hadn't even been there five minutes before I got into the examining room. The first thing they did was give me 3mg of morphine. I was still doubled over, crying. So they gave me another 7 ... and it was wonderful. I'm not huge on recreational drugs, but I get why people do morphine. It made me feel like I could sleep. All the pain ... it didn't go away, but it numbed. Like when Dumbledore gave Harry that potion to help him sleep after he saw Cedric die and Voldemort come back to life, it kept it all at bay and I felt I could just sleep.
But they didn't want me to sleep. They had to ask questions. They asked about my drinking habits, and ran some blood tests (fun talk there. 'How often do you drink?' 'About three or four times a year.' 'How much do you drink?' 'Maybe 5 or 6 drinks?' 'When was your last drink?' ... 'Monday'. I'd treated myself to some apple sourz and lemonade. One tiny glass. And I didn't even finish it.) They said they had to be sure I wasn't some alcoholic before they could entertain the thought it was gallstones.
They said they'd keep me overnight, for observation, and fitted me with a catheter (almost as bad as an examination when pregnant and contracting) and wheeled me onto their assessment ward. Apparently, I got the last bed that night.
This is where time really blurred for me. The following felt like at least a week, but was just short of 4 days. I can't offer a real perspective, I was out of it for a long time.
So at first, I was kept nil by mouth. That means I didn't eat or drink anything, and the antibiotics they had to give me were fitted up with this canular (think that's the right word) in my arm, along with my IV drip. It was a mixed ward, and my bed was next to the central walkway. I didn't sleep much. They took bloods early in the morning, and kept coming back for different blood tests, blood gases, blood cultures ... because my biliruben (blood fats) levels were so high, and my pancreas inflamed, I was having blood sugar tests and only allowed a saline drip, not a glucose one (they gave me glucose once, and someone got yelled at by my bed). First day, I had an ultrasound. The next day (or the one after that?) I had an endoscopy (a tube down my throat, with camera and oincers attached, so they could clear any gallstones blocking any pipes). I passed out during that. I had x-rays too, and the usual blood pressure/temperature checks.
The day of the endoscopy, I got moved to a woman's ward. When I was in the endoscopy room, I came too long enough to throw up blood. When I got back to my room, and came around again, my sister was there for visiting hours, and I did it again. She kept trying to make me laugh, like in the mixed ward, the man opposite me had the shakes and she was like 'is he masturbating?' and when they cleared the catheter bag it was 'are they taking the piss?' but it hurt to laugh. I didn't have the air in me. And I missed my son - visiting hours were for 6 hours of the day, and for over 16s only. He was only 11 months.
I remember sleeping through a fair bit of the day, because I couldn't sleep at night. They kept a few overhead lights on so the nurses could watch us and make notes (the nurse on duty sat in the room at a desk with her files). The light and people in general watching me sleep kept me up.
As the days went on, the doctors took more and more blood. And my arms started to swell. I had a second canular, and a bag of blood, and another bag of platelets, fitted to them. At any one point I had five different baggies going into my arms. I couldn't hold the book I had with me to read it - The Half-Blood Prince, of all things to be reading. Not being able to see my son or read was the worst of it, emotionally.
As it was getting difficult for them to take blood from my arms, they tried my feet. They had no blood. So they went for the femoral line. The second day they did this, the nurse who tried my foot laughed when the needle fell out, when I told her it wouldn't work and I didn't want it because it was unneccesary pain and couldn't they get the doctor to tap my leg vein again? She said she had to show she tried. So, swollen painful foot.
I had to use the commode after a few days, and that made the nurses freak. They started asking about my cycle - I didn't know it, but there was blood everywhere. I couldn't sit on the commode long anyway, I couldn't stop coughing.
The day before my transfer, the head of haematology came to visit me. That should have been the big warning sign there, but it wasn't. I was feeling too sorry for myself. He explained in laments terms why they kept taking my blood, and showed me this slide with a sample of my blood on it. Even now, I can't decide if it was orange or grey. I've decided it was both at once. I needed the laments term though, I couldn't understand much. They weren't telling me much until he came along (this was the day mum overheard the nurses discussing leukaemia by the way). So even though it hurt and I was fed up, I let them keep taking blood, because I trusted him.
But the next day, I was aching to see my boy. I was practicing telling mum I wanted to be discharged come visiting hours. One nurse could see I was tearful, and saw a picture I had of my boy, and started asking questions, and I burst into tears. Another nurse saw and said it'd ruin my stats, and I wanted to scream at her - I didn't care about anything but him right then. But the heamatology expert came again, and explained that there was a treatment for me, and why it was best we start straight away. I couldn't wait to leave the ward I was on so agreed. Then he let it drop I'd be going in an ambulance.
So he called my mum and laughed-at-my-foot asked if I wanted a nurse with me. I was bitter towards her so said no, I didn't want to give her a free ride to london. But then mum said she was coming and she started going 'but she didn't want anyone!' - I wanted to hit her so badly. If I could move off the bed. But then the ambulance and my mum showed up and the Sister on the ward said she had to come, so I got bundled into the ambulance and blue-lighted to London.
And I'll leave it there because I'm now running late.
But it shouldn't take long anyway, because all I want to talk about here is my first hospital, the local one.
Last time, I said that I'd gotten to a&e and hadn't even been there five minutes before I got into the examining room. The first thing they did was give me 3mg of morphine. I was still doubled over, crying. So they gave me another 7 ... and it was wonderful. I'm not huge on recreational drugs, but I get why people do morphine. It made me feel like I could sleep. All the pain ... it didn't go away, but it numbed. Like when Dumbledore gave Harry that potion to help him sleep after he saw Cedric die and Voldemort come back to life, it kept it all at bay and I felt I could just sleep.
But they didn't want me to sleep. They had to ask questions. They asked about my drinking habits, and ran some blood tests (fun talk there. 'How often do you drink?' 'About three or four times a year.' 'How much do you drink?' 'Maybe 5 or 6 drinks?' 'When was your last drink?' ... 'Monday'. I'd treated myself to some apple sourz and lemonade. One tiny glass. And I didn't even finish it.) They said they had to be sure I wasn't some alcoholic before they could entertain the thought it was gallstones.
They said they'd keep me overnight, for observation, and fitted me with a catheter (almost as bad as an examination when pregnant and contracting) and wheeled me onto their assessment ward. Apparently, I got the last bed that night.
This is where time really blurred for me. The following felt like at least a week, but was just short of 4 days. I can't offer a real perspective, I was out of it for a long time.
So at first, I was kept nil by mouth. That means I didn't eat or drink anything, and the antibiotics they had to give me were fitted up with this canular (think that's the right word) in my arm, along with my IV drip. It was a mixed ward, and my bed was next to the central walkway. I didn't sleep much. They took bloods early in the morning, and kept coming back for different blood tests, blood gases, blood cultures ... because my biliruben (blood fats) levels were so high, and my pancreas inflamed, I was having blood sugar tests and only allowed a saline drip, not a glucose one (they gave me glucose once, and someone got yelled at by my bed). First day, I had an ultrasound. The next day (or the one after that?) I had an endoscopy (a tube down my throat, with camera and oincers attached, so they could clear any gallstones blocking any pipes). I passed out during that. I had x-rays too, and the usual blood pressure/temperature checks.
The day of the endoscopy, I got moved to a woman's ward. When I was in the endoscopy room, I came too long enough to throw up blood. When I got back to my room, and came around again, my sister was there for visiting hours, and I did it again. She kept trying to make me laugh, like in the mixed ward, the man opposite me had the shakes and she was like 'is he masturbating?' and when they cleared the catheter bag it was 'are they taking the piss?' but it hurt to laugh. I didn't have the air in me. And I missed my son - visiting hours were for 6 hours of the day, and for over 16s only. He was only 11 months.
I remember sleeping through a fair bit of the day, because I couldn't sleep at night. They kept a few overhead lights on so the nurses could watch us and make notes (the nurse on duty sat in the room at a desk with her files). The light and people in general watching me sleep kept me up.
As the days went on, the doctors took more and more blood. And my arms started to swell. I had a second canular, and a bag of blood, and another bag of platelets, fitted to them. At any one point I had five different baggies going into my arms. I couldn't hold the book I had with me to read it - The Half-Blood Prince, of all things to be reading. Not being able to see my son or read was the worst of it, emotionally.
As it was getting difficult for them to take blood from my arms, they tried my feet. They had no blood. So they went for the femoral line. The second day they did this, the nurse who tried my foot laughed when the needle fell out, when I told her it wouldn't work and I didn't want it because it was unneccesary pain and couldn't they get the doctor to tap my leg vein again? She said she had to show she tried. So, swollen painful foot.
I had to use the commode after a few days, and that made the nurses freak. They started asking about my cycle - I didn't know it, but there was blood everywhere. I couldn't sit on the commode long anyway, I couldn't stop coughing.
The day before my transfer, the head of haematology came to visit me. That should have been the big warning sign there, but it wasn't. I was feeling too sorry for myself. He explained in laments terms why they kept taking my blood, and showed me this slide with a sample of my blood on it. Even now, I can't decide if it was orange or grey. I've decided it was both at once. I needed the laments term though, I couldn't understand much. They weren't telling me much until he came along (this was the day mum overheard the nurses discussing leukaemia by the way). So even though it hurt and I was fed up, I let them keep taking blood, because I trusted him.
But the next day, I was aching to see my boy. I was practicing telling mum I wanted to be discharged come visiting hours. One nurse could see I was tearful, and saw a picture I had of my boy, and started asking questions, and I burst into tears. Another nurse saw and said it'd ruin my stats, and I wanted to scream at her - I didn't care about anything but him right then. But the heamatology expert came again, and explained that there was a treatment for me, and why it was best we start straight away. I couldn't wait to leave the ward I was on so agreed. Then he let it drop I'd be going in an ambulance.
So he called my mum and laughed-at-my-foot asked if I wanted a nurse with me. I was bitter towards her so said no, I didn't want to give her a free ride to london. But then mum said she was coming and she started going 'but she didn't want anyone!' - I wanted to hit her so badly. If I could move off the bed. But then the ambulance and my mum showed up and the Sister on the ward said she had to come, so I got bundled into the ambulance and blue-lighted to London.
And I'll leave it there because I'm now running late.
Thursday 11 March 2010
The great repost, part two
My iTunes is taking ages, so ... I'll talk about before I got sick, or the build up to getting sick, since it won't take very long.
My grasp on timings isn't great. I remember at university, I was sick most nights we went out. I know some people would say I obviously can't handle my alcohol, but I was coherent, I never got paraletic, I got more affectionate and used bigger terminologies than my day-to-day conversations. But I was still ill - I even got kicked out of the student union once, for being sick ... well, near the loos. But then again, we went out so rarely, since I had a complete spendthrift for a housemate and we were always broke, that it was something I didn't notice a lot.
And then I goofed up and got pregnant. And while I was pregnant, I was sick more than I should have been. Morning sickness only lasts first trimester. I blamed it on so many things - heartburn, my boy's position ... I used to get really intense stomach cramps, but I thought they were just Braxton Hicks.
I gave up being vegetarian when pregnant too. I just didn't want my kid to use my lifestyle choice as a reason not to eat his dinners, like 'I won't eat peas, because mummy doesn't eat chicken'. My midwife pushed hard for me to eat beef, since I was constantly, badly anaemic. It felt so weird to embrace that again.
About three days after I had my son, I had the worst stomach ache yet. I fought so hard not to scream, but I was yelling pretty badly anyway. They told me day three is when your womb contracts back to its original shape, so I thought I could just really feel it.
A few weeks later, I went out with some friends, to celebrate having my boy. I didn't drink much, maybe three, four drinks? I was ill that night. I couldn't get out of bed the next day. I woke in the middle of the night with those same pains.
It happened again and again, more noticeably when I went out for friends birthdays, but sometimes when I'd had a heavy meal (though I didn't make that connection at the time). Mum was worried how I'd cope back at work if I was having problems socialising infrequently. I told her it was different.
And it was.
I was working evenings, and my family were looking after my boy when I worked. I had him all day. But increasingly, I would get out of bed, come lay on the sofa and fight sleep as he amused himself while I tried to get the strength up to do anything. I felt horrible for it at the time, and I feel worse for it now - I missed out on a lot with him, even if I was there. I remember when he was a newborn, I'd wash up and goof about to nursery rhymes while he watched and giggled on his playmat. I remember trying to get him to raise his head, to sit, to crawl ... but at that point in time he could have walked and I wouldn't have worked up the enthusiasm.
We couldn't work out what was going on. Mum thought I was just being lazy. I started to get these bruises on my legs, but my work is such that you do come home with new bumps and cuts and burns every day. I passed it off as nothing.
We went to Lanzarote for a week, and I just wanted to sleep the entire time. I had some huge fights with mum, because she thought I was pawning my son off on her and she kept reminding me it was her holiday too. And it wasn't that I didn't want the time with him, or to give her a break, I was constantly exhausted. I wasn't staying up late, I was getting up at okay times, as far as she could see there was no reason for the tiredness. There was one bad incident where my boy hurt himself on the coffee table, and when I took my time reacting she accused me of not caring. I mean, we've cleared it up since, but that was awful. I cared, so much, but I just couldn't do anything about it.
A few days after we got back, I had those pains again, and woke in the middle of the night, waiting to be sick again. Mum asked if it was pregnancy again - but since my boy was concieved, there's been no chance of that - anyway, I ended up passing out on the bathroom floor. I was due in work the next day, for 5 hours, so I thought I could endure it.
But I was so hot. And any opportunity I had to go near a window made me shiver with cold. I couldn't get the breath out to talk to customers. I couldn't work out what hurt where. I wanted to go home so badly, but they'd called in a manager from another branch and I didn't want to make it difficult for her. I'd never felt bad after being sick, that normally cleared it up. I hadn't realised at the time, but this was the big turning point for me.
I had a day off next day, and apart from aching where everything had hurt, I felt fine. Until I looked - not ate, just looked - at dinner, and had to run off and be ill again. And my son had witnessed so much of this, and not reacted before, but he was suddenly unconsolable, and I couldn't make myself well enough to cheer him up. He was put to bed, and I stayed in the bathroom for hours, listening to my parents debate whether I could have a stomach ulcer or kidney stones. They made me go to hospital at 11 that night. I crawled to the front door, had my eyes closed the entire ride (and it felt like we were flying, though I was promised my dad drove slowly), and got to a&e, doubled over. Mum gave my name to the desk, and when we sat down I decided I'd prefer to sit in the foetal position on the floor. I didn't tell mum, and when I moved, she grabbed my sides, and I ended up screaming in pain. Next thing I know, they've got me on a bed in the examining room, giving me morphine and asking me questions.
And that's the start of the whole escapade, so I'll leave the rest for another night. And yes, it gets worse.
My grasp on timings isn't great. I remember at university, I was sick most nights we went out. I know some people would say I obviously can't handle my alcohol, but I was coherent, I never got paraletic, I got more affectionate and used bigger terminologies than my day-to-day conversations. But I was still ill - I even got kicked out of the student union once, for being sick ... well, near the loos. But then again, we went out so rarely, since I had a complete spendthrift for a housemate and we were always broke, that it was something I didn't notice a lot.
And then I goofed up and got pregnant. And while I was pregnant, I was sick more than I should have been. Morning sickness only lasts first trimester. I blamed it on so many things - heartburn, my boy's position ... I used to get really intense stomach cramps, but I thought they were just Braxton Hicks.
I gave up being vegetarian when pregnant too. I just didn't want my kid to use my lifestyle choice as a reason not to eat his dinners, like 'I won't eat peas, because mummy doesn't eat chicken'. My midwife pushed hard for me to eat beef, since I was constantly, badly anaemic. It felt so weird to embrace that again.
About three days after I had my son, I had the worst stomach ache yet. I fought so hard not to scream, but I was yelling pretty badly anyway. They told me day three is when your womb contracts back to its original shape, so I thought I could just really feel it.
A few weeks later, I went out with some friends, to celebrate having my boy. I didn't drink much, maybe three, four drinks? I was ill that night. I couldn't get out of bed the next day. I woke in the middle of the night with those same pains.
It happened again and again, more noticeably when I went out for friends birthdays, but sometimes when I'd had a heavy meal (though I didn't make that connection at the time). Mum was worried how I'd cope back at work if I was having problems socialising infrequently. I told her it was different.
And it was.
I was working evenings, and my family were looking after my boy when I worked. I had him all day. But increasingly, I would get out of bed, come lay on the sofa and fight sleep as he amused himself while I tried to get the strength up to do anything. I felt horrible for it at the time, and I feel worse for it now - I missed out on a lot with him, even if I was there. I remember when he was a newborn, I'd wash up and goof about to nursery rhymes while he watched and giggled on his playmat. I remember trying to get him to raise his head, to sit, to crawl ... but at that point in time he could have walked and I wouldn't have worked up the enthusiasm.
We couldn't work out what was going on. Mum thought I was just being lazy. I started to get these bruises on my legs, but my work is such that you do come home with new bumps and cuts and burns every day. I passed it off as nothing.
We went to Lanzarote for a week, and I just wanted to sleep the entire time. I had some huge fights with mum, because she thought I was pawning my son off on her and she kept reminding me it was her holiday too. And it wasn't that I didn't want the time with him, or to give her a break, I was constantly exhausted. I wasn't staying up late, I was getting up at okay times, as far as she could see there was no reason for the tiredness. There was one bad incident where my boy hurt himself on the coffee table, and when I took my time reacting she accused me of not caring. I mean, we've cleared it up since, but that was awful. I cared, so much, but I just couldn't do anything about it.
A few days after we got back, I had those pains again, and woke in the middle of the night, waiting to be sick again. Mum asked if it was pregnancy again - but since my boy was concieved, there's been no chance of that - anyway, I ended up passing out on the bathroom floor. I was due in work the next day, for 5 hours, so I thought I could endure it.
But I was so hot. And any opportunity I had to go near a window made me shiver with cold. I couldn't get the breath out to talk to customers. I couldn't work out what hurt where. I wanted to go home so badly, but they'd called in a manager from another branch and I didn't want to make it difficult for her. I'd never felt bad after being sick, that normally cleared it up. I hadn't realised at the time, but this was the big turning point for me.
I had a day off next day, and apart from aching where everything had hurt, I felt fine. Until I looked - not ate, just looked - at dinner, and had to run off and be ill again. And my son had witnessed so much of this, and not reacted before, but he was suddenly unconsolable, and I couldn't make myself well enough to cheer him up. He was put to bed, and I stayed in the bathroom for hours, listening to my parents debate whether I could have a stomach ulcer or kidney stones. They made me go to hospital at 11 that night. I crawled to the front door, had my eyes closed the entire ride (and it felt like we were flying, though I was promised my dad drove slowly), and got to a&e, doubled over. Mum gave my name to the desk, and when we sat down I decided I'd prefer to sit in the foetal position on the floor. I didn't tell mum, and when I moved, she grabbed my sides, and I ended up screaming in pain. Next thing I know, they've got me on a bed in the examining room, giving me morphine and asking me questions.
And that's the start of the whole escapade, so I'll leave the rest for another night. And yes, it gets worse.
Ahhhhh
Becky Bloomwood, I needed you! Halfway through Shopaholic Abroad, but I think I was more thinking of Shopaholic Ties The Knot. Oh well, I'll just have to re-read them all ;)
I'm aware, by the way, that I've not blogged on a male writer yet. It's okay, I've got opinions on Philip Pullman, Ben Elton ... um, I know there's more, will have to get back to you lol. There's other writers too, but somehow it tends to be women? Maybe I just fit a stereotype.
I will write more about the TTP by the way, but I'm knackered, spent almost an hour on my wii dancing, and just generally wasting time. I wanted to write tonight ... I've got more ideas than last time, but I keep imagining scenes for future stories ... dammit.
I just wanted you to know I hadn't forgotten any of this. I'm off to upload some itunes, had CD's sitting around for ages waiting to be uploaded!
I'm aware, by the way, that I've not blogged on a male writer yet. It's okay, I've got opinions on Philip Pullman, Ben Elton ... um, I know there's more, will have to get back to you lol. There's other writers too, but somehow it tends to be women? Maybe I just fit a stereotype.
I will write more about the TTP by the way, but I'm knackered, spent almost an hour on my wii dancing, and just generally wasting time. I wanted to write tonight ... I've got more ideas than last time, but I keep imagining scenes for future stories ... dammit.
I just wanted you to know I hadn't forgotten any of this. I'm off to upload some itunes, had CD's sitting around for ages waiting to be uploaded!
Wednesday 10 March 2010
The Great Repost, part one
Forgive me a moment, or a series of moments, to talk about something personal, rather than the world of literacy. It's the thing I tried to post a few weeks ago, which kept going wrong. It's going to take a while, because I'm not sure how much I can type and post in here. And it upsets me a lot, and it takes ages to type as is. I'll write these in themes too, and hopefully my reasons why will become apparent.
This first post will be about the bare facts and figures. The next postings will be my personal experiences, pre-, during, and post-. I'm mainly doing this to be cathartic, but also to clear up what I was talking about when I posted about Stefenie Meyer. A justification for my reaction, if you will.
For a full title, I suffered from Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura caused by pancreatitic gallstones. It's three different things at once, a chain reaction, but the last part of the chain can cause the first. Does that make sense? The ultimate vicious circle. Forgive me now for anything I spell incorrectly, I'm going to try and show off with my basic medical know-how. I'll break it down into its component parts.
First of all, gallstones. I was told medical staff look for 'the four F's' in gallstone patients (Fat, Fair, Fertile, Forty. And since 60% of gallstone sufferers are wormen, I consider it the five F's with Female). If I were a blonde, middle-aged woman when having my son, and a few stone heavier, I would have been the prime candidate. Instead, I was size 10-12 before having my son (who I had at 22), and am now size 12-14, and a brunette. So one established characteristic (even a year after pregnancy, you're incredibly fertile).
However, there are other things that can trigger gallstones. Eating disorders (and I went through a period in university where I ate a bowl of porridge a day because I couldn't afford anything else), pregnancy, the contraceptive pill, sudden increase in animal fats (I've been vegetarian since the age of 11, I gave up during pregnancy ... though looking back I was showing symptoms before starting university, so who knows?) as well as the four F's.
You can live with gallstones by the way. The only consider removal when the stone becomes too large, or if you have many, and one slips into a duct between the gall bladder and the bowel or the pancreas. That can turn your gall bladder septic, and cause complications like pancreatitis. Then you'll usually be given a laparoscopic cholescystectomy (or key hole surgery. They rarely open people all the way up any more, there's like a 10% chance they'll need to). They perform around 500,000 lap chol's in the US per year.
Gallstones are the most common cause for women of a certain age who get pancreatitis. I was not that age. The second most common cause, and the most common in people in their early/mid twenties, is alcoholism. As far as I'm aware, pancreatitis is usually caused by an inhabitant. It's not the same as diabetes, it's shorter lived but just as potent. It has a survival rate of 80% and most hospital treatment involves 'nil by mouth' (no eating, drinking, or taking medication orally. Intravenous city!) When the pancreas has reduced in size again, and they know the cause, they'll take action then.
Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura (or, as I'll call it in the rest of this, and all other posts on the subject, TTP) has a survival rate of 80%, should you be properly diagnosed and treatment given within a very short time frame. Without, survival rates are more like 0-5%. So basically, if you get it, you need treatment or you'll die. TTP occurs when the ADAMTS-13 enzyme is inhibited, normally by an anti-body which sits on the ADAMTS-13. Sometimes there is no antibody, and the inhibition is from something else, like AIDS/HIV virus, combine contraceptive pill, interferon, quinnine (malaria treatment, also found in tonic water and irn bru). The ADAMTS-13 is meant to control certain things in the bloodstream, hormones and such. One of its jobs is to break down a substance called the Von Willebrand Factor (I mentioned it before, in my Stefenie Meyer post).
The Von Willebrand Factor is this long strand, like a protein, that is used to knit together cuts, scrapes and bruises. Like the glue pasting white blood cells and platelets together. In it's organic form, it's extremely sticky. The ADAMTS-13 basically stops it from causing blood clots, by reducing it into a managable form. With the ADAMTS-13 inhibited, the Von Willebrand Factor remains long and sticky, and of course causes blood clots. It normally causes kindey failure, multiple organ failure, or strokes, if you don't bleed to death first. NB-It only attracts white blood cells and platelets. They build up, and white blood cells come to the site like they do to any infection or cut or bruise, to heal. And when it gets big enough, the red blood cells get shredded up. On a blood test, the red blood cells and platelets are reduced in number, white blood cells have increased. Leukaemia blood tests show the same (except for the fact with leukaemia, it's the white blood cells thinking there's an infection there isn't and turning on the blood as a result).
They analyse TTP in two different ways, you either have congenital TTP (you're born with it, or discover it during pregnancy, and suffer it frequently from there on in) or acquired TTP (caused by the antibody, or another source. Those with the antibody have a 50% chance of having TTP repeat, other sufferers have a reduced likelihood). TTP affects 1-4 in a million. Based on that figure, there are 60-240 TTP sufferers in the UK. 15 of those people have congenital ttp. 80% have the antibody. That leaves roughly 15% of TTP sufferers in the UK at least, to have another factor cause their TTP. From what I know of TTP from pancreatitic gallstones, in the past 5 years there have been 7/8 other patients with pancreatitic TTP, and only one of them had gallstones. 5 of them had the antibody present anyway. My branch of TTP is therefore incredibly rare.
TTP affects people more in their 30's/40's, and women more than men. A typical person has a count of 12-16 RBC, 8-10WBC and 150-400 platelets in a blood sample. I've heard of TTP patients with no platelets, but most have maybe 7/8.
Treatment for TTP is usually using an aphaeresis machine, this machine that looks a little like a 1950's tape recorder with hooks everywhere, crossed with a washing machine. It has 4 different G-force settings, according to different blood products, and will spin at the required speed, taking in someones blood and seperating blood, adding donated blood products, combining it again,and putting it back into a person's blood stream. These machines can hold around 40 pints of blood product, or as far as I've seen they can. Straight transfusions, from packet to blood stream, feed TTP, rather than curing it, and can speed up the process.
ttpnetwork.org.uk has more information, if anyone was interested in reading. It's probably a lot more cohesive than me. That's about all the facts I can retain and recall, so my next post on the subject will be the start of my experiences. Bear in mind all I've said here, because parts of it will come into play as I talk.
This first post will be about the bare facts and figures. The next postings will be my personal experiences, pre-, during, and post-. I'm mainly doing this to be cathartic, but also to clear up what I was talking about when I posted about Stefenie Meyer. A justification for my reaction, if you will.
For a full title, I suffered from Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura caused by pancreatitic gallstones. It's three different things at once, a chain reaction, but the last part of the chain can cause the first. Does that make sense? The ultimate vicious circle. Forgive me now for anything I spell incorrectly, I'm going to try and show off with my basic medical know-how. I'll break it down into its component parts.
First of all, gallstones. I was told medical staff look for 'the four F's' in gallstone patients (Fat, Fair, Fertile, Forty. And since 60% of gallstone sufferers are wormen, I consider it the five F's with Female). If I were a blonde, middle-aged woman when having my son, and a few stone heavier, I would have been the prime candidate. Instead, I was size 10-12 before having my son (who I had at 22), and am now size 12-14, and a brunette. So one established characteristic (even a year after pregnancy, you're incredibly fertile).
However, there are other things that can trigger gallstones. Eating disorders (and I went through a period in university where I ate a bowl of porridge a day because I couldn't afford anything else), pregnancy, the contraceptive pill, sudden increase in animal fats (I've been vegetarian since the age of 11, I gave up during pregnancy ... though looking back I was showing symptoms before starting university, so who knows?) as well as the four F's.
You can live with gallstones by the way. The only consider removal when the stone becomes too large, or if you have many, and one slips into a duct between the gall bladder and the bowel or the pancreas. That can turn your gall bladder septic, and cause complications like pancreatitis. Then you'll usually be given a laparoscopic cholescystectomy (or key hole surgery. They rarely open people all the way up any more, there's like a 10% chance they'll need to). They perform around 500,000 lap chol's in the US per year.
Gallstones are the most common cause for women of a certain age who get pancreatitis. I was not that age. The second most common cause, and the most common in people in their early/mid twenties, is alcoholism. As far as I'm aware, pancreatitis is usually caused by an inhabitant. It's not the same as diabetes, it's shorter lived but just as potent. It has a survival rate of 80% and most hospital treatment involves 'nil by mouth' (no eating, drinking, or taking medication orally. Intravenous city!) When the pancreas has reduced in size again, and they know the cause, they'll take action then.
Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura (or, as I'll call it in the rest of this, and all other posts on the subject, TTP) has a survival rate of 80%, should you be properly diagnosed and treatment given within a very short time frame. Without, survival rates are more like 0-5%. So basically, if you get it, you need treatment or you'll die. TTP occurs when the ADAMTS-13 enzyme is inhibited, normally by an anti-body which sits on the ADAMTS-13. Sometimes there is no antibody, and the inhibition is from something else, like AIDS/HIV virus, combine contraceptive pill, interferon, quinnine (malaria treatment, also found in tonic water and irn bru). The ADAMTS-13 is meant to control certain things in the bloodstream, hormones and such. One of its jobs is to break down a substance called the Von Willebrand Factor (I mentioned it before, in my Stefenie Meyer post).
The Von Willebrand Factor is this long strand, like a protein, that is used to knit together cuts, scrapes and bruises. Like the glue pasting white blood cells and platelets together. In it's organic form, it's extremely sticky. The ADAMTS-13 basically stops it from causing blood clots, by reducing it into a managable form. With the ADAMTS-13 inhibited, the Von Willebrand Factor remains long and sticky, and of course causes blood clots. It normally causes kindey failure, multiple organ failure, or strokes, if you don't bleed to death first. NB-It only attracts white blood cells and platelets. They build up, and white blood cells come to the site like they do to any infection or cut or bruise, to heal. And when it gets big enough, the red blood cells get shredded up. On a blood test, the red blood cells and platelets are reduced in number, white blood cells have increased. Leukaemia blood tests show the same (except for the fact with leukaemia, it's the white blood cells thinking there's an infection there isn't and turning on the blood as a result).
They analyse TTP in two different ways, you either have congenital TTP (you're born with it, or discover it during pregnancy, and suffer it frequently from there on in) or acquired TTP (caused by the antibody, or another source. Those with the antibody have a 50% chance of having TTP repeat, other sufferers have a reduced likelihood). TTP affects 1-4 in a million. Based on that figure, there are 60-240 TTP sufferers in the UK. 15 of those people have congenital ttp. 80% have the antibody. That leaves roughly 15% of TTP sufferers in the UK at least, to have another factor cause their TTP. From what I know of TTP from pancreatitic gallstones, in the past 5 years there have been 7/8 other patients with pancreatitic TTP, and only one of them had gallstones. 5 of them had the antibody present anyway. My branch of TTP is therefore incredibly rare.
TTP affects people more in their 30's/40's, and women more than men. A typical person has a count of 12-16 RBC, 8-10WBC and 150-400 platelets in a blood sample. I've heard of TTP patients with no platelets, but most have maybe 7/8.
Treatment for TTP is usually using an aphaeresis machine, this machine that looks a little like a 1950's tape recorder with hooks everywhere, crossed with a washing machine. It has 4 different G-force settings, according to different blood products, and will spin at the required speed, taking in someones blood and seperating blood, adding donated blood products, combining it again,and putting it back into a person's blood stream. These machines can hold around 40 pints of blood product, or as far as I've seen they can. Straight transfusions, from packet to blood stream, feed TTP, rather than curing it, and can speed up the process.
ttpnetwork.org.uk has more information, if anyone was interested in reading. It's probably a lot more cohesive than me. That's about all the facts I can retain and recall, so my next post on the subject will be the start of my experiences. Bear in mind all I've said here, because parts of it will come into play as I talk.
House Of Night.
It's had a few mentions on here so far, so what the hell, I'll talk about House Of Night for an entire entry.
I have such a divided opinion on this series, that I'm still not entirely sure I like it or not.
First of all, it's meant to be another Vampire (or, as they put it, Vampyre) series. But the school has various rituals, for new moons, the harvest season etc etc, and they present a table laden with food, and a mixture of blood, win and spices, as a token to their Goddess. They stand at the four compass points and evoke the four elements. That is paganism, or witchcraft (depending on your source of information). They occasionally drink blood, but it's a sexual thing. They're dominated by women, and treat men how 'witches' do in folklore.
So, as long as you accept they're calling it 'Vampyre' and not 'Witchcraft', the basic storyline is pretty good. A 'hunter' will show up around the time a vampyre will start this transition, and mark them with a cresent-shape tattoo, normally a blue one, in the middle of their forehead. They get enrolled in one of many schools across country, and attend classes at night and sleep in the day. They're taught about their power and history and are taught a lot of creative things, because they apparently excel in creative fields (P.C and Kristen Cast spend a lot of time naming singers and actors who are fully fledged Vampyres). Some of the adult vampyres have special powers, Neferet, the school's head, has healing powers. Zoey Redbird, the protagonist, can evoke all four elements, and spirit (and is the only fledging who has more than just the cresent tattoo. She gets an extra one each book). Neferet turns out to be fairly evil, and she and Zoey basically end up in an all-out war as the series goes on.
I'm simplifying it a lot. But just explaining the details gets confusing. It's their style of writing. They've got vampyre's who died instead of making the change who came back to life with red tattoos, and they spend all their time trying not to eat everyone in sight, and actually burn in sunlight; Zoey's human boyfriend who doesn't seem to have a spine, yet I still find likeable (rare, for me, but he does have common sense, and that's a plus, right?); a fallen angel who used to serve their Goddess who's trying to rape and kill all women, and his half-human, half-raven babies. Oh, and these warrior dudes, and a vampyre who lost her powers and became human again when one of the red vampyre's drank her blood. Yeah, they've tried to make that into a cohesive story.
My main bugbear, as I say to my friend Sally, who also reads the stories, is their reptition. Not like I've complained about before, but ... okay, Zoey's main friends are Shaunee, Erin, Damien, Jack, Aphrodite and Stevie-Rae. Her boyfriends are Eric and Heath. Say Zoey and Damien were having a conversation. It takes a page or two of writing. Erin and Shaunee walk in. The conversation is repeated almost word-f0r-word, with Erin and Shaunee weighing in their two cents. Three or four more pages. Aphrodite walks in ... yeah, you can guess. Sometimes, it takes two chapters to have one conversation, on repeat. If I wanted to read it again, I'd flip back and reread for myself. Those books would be so short if not for the repeated conversations.
Also, Zoey ... I don't know, she's been singled out early on and is pretty full of her own specialness. So when she decides something is how it is, that's it. And some of her ideas are pretty stupid, but everyone goes along with them.
But still ... I don't know ... there's still something about it. It was getting so interesting in the last few chapters of Hunted, the 6th book, and then they did something really weird and completely blindsighted me. Maybe that's it, they're so unpredictable in their storyline that it's weirdly addictive. I mean, birdmen? Snow in Alabama? They're crazy! So I'll definitely be buying the next book out, and complaining about it as I read. It's what I do. One thing I can be sure of - I don't know how the hell they're going to rescue the students from the ending of book 6 ...
I have such a divided opinion on this series, that I'm still not entirely sure I like it or not.
First of all, it's meant to be another Vampire (or, as they put it, Vampyre) series. But the school has various rituals, for new moons, the harvest season etc etc, and they present a table laden with food, and a mixture of blood, win and spices, as a token to their Goddess. They stand at the four compass points and evoke the four elements. That is paganism, or witchcraft (depending on your source of information). They occasionally drink blood, but it's a sexual thing. They're dominated by women, and treat men how 'witches' do in folklore.
So, as long as you accept they're calling it 'Vampyre' and not 'Witchcraft', the basic storyline is pretty good. A 'hunter' will show up around the time a vampyre will start this transition, and mark them with a cresent-shape tattoo, normally a blue one, in the middle of their forehead. They get enrolled in one of many schools across country, and attend classes at night and sleep in the day. They're taught about their power and history and are taught a lot of creative things, because they apparently excel in creative fields (P.C and Kristen Cast spend a lot of time naming singers and actors who are fully fledged Vampyres). Some of the adult vampyres have special powers, Neferet, the school's head, has healing powers. Zoey Redbird, the protagonist, can evoke all four elements, and spirit (and is the only fledging who has more than just the cresent tattoo. She gets an extra one each book). Neferet turns out to be fairly evil, and she and Zoey basically end up in an all-out war as the series goes on.
I'm simplifying it a lot. But just explaining the details gets confusing. It's their style of writing. They've got vampyre's who died instead of making the change who came back to life with red tattoos, and they spend all their time trying not to eat everyone in sight, and actually burn in sunlight; Zoey's human boyfriend who doesn't seem to have a spine, yet I still find likeable (rare, for me, but he does have common sense, and that's a plus, right?); a fallen angel who used to serve their Goddess who's trying to rape and kill all women, and his half-human, half-raven babies. Oh, and these warrior dudes, and a vampyre who lost her powers and became human again when one of the red vampyre's drank her blood. Yeah, they've tried to make that into a cohesive story.
My main bugbear, as I say to my friend Sally, who also reads the stories, is their reptition. Not like I've complained about before, but ... okay, Zoey's main friends are Shaunee, Erin, Damien, Jack, Aphrodite and Stevie-Rae. Her boyfriends are Eric and Heath. Say Zoey and Damien were having a conversation. It takes a page or two of writing. Erin and Shaunee walk in. The conversation is repeated almost word-f0r-word, with Erin and Shaunee weighing in their two cents. Three or four more pages. Aphrodite walks in ... yeah, you can guess. Sometimes, it takes two chapters to have one conversation, on repeat. If I wanted to read it again, I'd flip back and reread for myself. Those books would be so short if not for the repeated conversations.
Also, Zoey ... I don't know, she's been singled out early on and is pretty full of her own specialness. So when she decides something is how it is, that's it. And some of her ideas are pretty stupid, but everyone goes along with them.
But still ... I don't know ... there's still something about it. It was getting so interesting in the last few chapters of Hunted, the 6th book, and then they did something really weird and completely blindsighted me. Maybe that's it, they're so unpredictable in their storyline that it's weirdly addictive. I mean, birdmen? Snow in Alabama? They're crazy! So I'll definitely be buying the next book out, and complaining about it as I read. It's what I do. One thing I can be sure of - I don't know how the hell they're going to rescue the students from the ending of book 6 ...
Tuesday 9 March 2010
Oh, and since you didn't ask ...
The 50 books in the 'to read before you die' list. Bold, I've read, Italics, I've started. Some are series, not books:
The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy; J.R.R.Tolkien*
1984; George Orwell*
Pride And Prejudice; Jane Austen*
The Grapes Of Wrath; John Steinbeck
To Kill A Mockingbird; Harper Lee
Jane Eyre; Charlotte Bronte*
Wuthering Heights; Emily Bronte*
A Passage To India; E.M.Forster
The Lord Of The Flies; William Golding*
Hamlet; William Shakespeare*
A Bend In The River; V.S.Naipaul
The Great Gatsby; F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Catcher In The Rye; J.D.Salinger*
The Bell Jar; Sylvia Plath
Brave New World; Aldous Huxley
The Diary Of Anne Frank; Anne Frank*
Don Quixote; Miguel De Cervantes
The Bible; Various*
The Canterbury Tales; Geoffrey Chaucer
Ulysses; James Joyce
The Quiet American; Graham Greene
Birdsong; Sebastian Faulks
Money; Martin Amis
Harry Potter Series; J.K.Rowling*
Moby Dick; Herman Melville*
The Wind In The Willows; Kenneth Grahame*
His Dark Materials; Philip Pullman*
Anna Karenina; Leo Tolstoy
Alice's Adventures In Wonderland; Lewis Carroll*
Rebecca; Dapgne Du Maurier
The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time; Mark Haddon
On The Road; Jack Kerouac
Heart of Darkness; Joseph Conrad
The Way We Live Now; Anthony Trollope
The Outsider; Albert Camus
The Colour Purple; Alice Walker
Life Of Pi; Yann Martel
Frankenstein; Mary Shelley*
The War Of The Worlds; H.G.Wells*
Men Without Women; Ernest Hemingway
Gulliver's Travels; Jonathan Swift*
A Christmas Carol; Charles Dickens*
Huckleberry Finn; Mark Twain
Robinson Crusoe; Daniel Defoe
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest; Ken Kesey
Catch 22; Joseph Heller
The Count Of Monte Cristo; Alexandre Dumas
Memoirs Of A Geisha; Arthur Goden
The Divine Comedy; Alighieri Dante
The Picture Of Dorian Gray; Oscar Wilde
-I haven't included any I may have watched in cartoon, live action or film form, any I've read in a condensed version in this wonderful book my father has (101 classics to read on the loo. It got my interest in Paradise Lost!) or any I've read in child-book format (Gulliver's Travels), or even any I know the story of just because I know the story, if that makes sense? All those just mentioned are denoted by a star. I'm not tagging this post, since there's over 50 authors mentioned!
The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy; J.R.R.Tolkien*
1984; George Orwell*
Pride And Prejudice; Jane Austen*
The Grapes Of Wrath; John Steinbeck
To Kill A Mockingbird; Harper Lee
Jane Eyre; Charlotte Bronte*
Wuthering Heights; Emily Bronte*
A Passage To India; E.M.Forster
The Lord Of The Flies; William Golding*
Hamlet; William Shakespeare*
A Bend In The River; V.S.Naipaul
The Great Gatsby; F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Catcher In The Rye; J.D.Salinger*
The Bell Jar; Sylvia Plath
Brave New World; Aldous Huxley
The Diary Of Anne Frank; Anne Frank*
Don Quixote; Miguel De Cervantes
The Bible; Various*
The Canterbury Tales; Geoffrey Chaucer
Ulysses; James Joyce
The Quiet American; Graham Greene
Birdsong; Sebastian Faulks
Money; Martin Amis
Harry Potter Series; J.K.Rowling*
Moby Dick; Herman Melville*
The Wind In The Willows; Kenneth Grahame*
His Dark Materials; Philip Pullman*
Anna Karenina; Leo Tolstoy
Alice's Adventures In Wonderland; Lewis Carroll*
Rebecca; Dapgne Du Maurier
The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time; Mark Haddon
On The Road; Jack Kerouac
Heart of Darkness; Joseph Conrad
The Way We Live Now; Anthony Trollope
The Outsider; Albert Camus
The Colour Purple; Alice Walker
Life Of Pi; Yann Martel
Frankenstein; Mary Shelley*
The War Of The Worlds; H.G.Wells*
Men Without Women; Ernest Hemingway
Gulliver's Travels; Jonathan Swift*
A Christmas Carol; Charles Dickens*
Huckleberry Finn; Mark Twain
Robinson Crusoe; Daniel Defoe
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest; Ken Kesey
Catch 22; Joseph Heller
The Count Of Monte Cristo; Alexandre Dumas
Memoirs Of A Geisha; Arthur Goden
The Divine Comedy; Alighieri Dante
The Picture Of Dorian Gray; Oscar Wilde
-I haven't included any I may have watched in cartoon, live action or film form, any I've read in a condensed version in this wonderful book my father has (101 classics to read on the loo. It got my interest in Paradise Lost!) or any I've read in child-book format (Gulliver's Travels), or even any I know the story of just because I know the story, if that makes sense? All those just mentioned are denoted by a star. I'm not tagging this post, since there's over 50 authors mentioned!
Confessions
You know, when I started this blog and thought I'd write about writing and books, I didn't think I'd keep the theme up for long. But I can't stop thinking about other things I want to blog about. It's a little like when I create a story, I'll have one thread and think 'well, I can't make a story out of that' and then I'll think of the characters they'll need, for good or bad, in their lives and then I'll have too much to include. At least with a blog I can make thought transitions throughout blogs, or just create a new post whenever I wish to digress (which you may have noticed I do. At length).
So that's my first confession, that I was worried for a block that has yet to happen. The second is, that I haven't written for a while. This happened with uprooted, and is now happening with budding (working titles, dear lord they're working titles!) - I get so close to the end and even though it's the more exciting bit, I want to write the aftermath (or, the next one) so I haven't even thought about chapter 16 until this week. Honestly. I've got a little more of 15 to do, and most of 17, but maybe it's the anticipation of starting the next one is too great, or the worry that I won't be good enough to write what I want to at the pivotal moment. I will write it, and soon, but I think I need to daydream for a little while longer first.
This leads, and is part, of my third confession. When I write, I sometimes act out scenes (obviously, in private, in silence) so I can work out the flow of conversation, how to describe the characters reactions ... I feel a little like I have multiple personality disorder, but it works for me. I like being in a certain place at work, because when it's quiet, I do create scenes in my head, and have been for a good few years now (this probably isn't something I should confess, since I know one of my managers reads this, lol). I mean, I still do all the work I'm meant to, but it's not exactly strenuous mentally so I can do the physical work as I daydream.
The last confession, however, isn't mine. We were talking at work today, about books (since I finally finished Wuthering Heights on my break and couldn't wait for this moment to blab that fact) and one of my coworkers, we'll call him 'Lucas' ... confessed he'd never finished a book. I mean, I'm sure he had to when he was younger, but he's never willingly read and finished a book. Lizzy and I were a little shocked, because I'm sure we'd both live in a bookshop if that was an option (or, the library in Beauty And The Beast. When I saw that scene in that film, I got so jealous of Belle). I know some people don't read for leisure, but I just can't leave a book unfinished. Well, I didn't finish 'Great Expectations' for English, but Charles Dickens writing is so droll (and I was born on his birthday, I was so excited we were reading him until they thrust that book at us. Surely there's better Dickens books?) that it almost didn't matter. And we watched a video so I got to the conclusion anyway. But anyway, if I've picked it up, it doesn't matter how long it takes me, how many other books I read between chapters (because even at this moment, I'm technically in the middle of about 5 books, The Post-Birthday World, On The Road, How To Talk To A Widower, Dracula and Percy Jackson And The Lightning Thief... I think that's right. I can't tell you the last time I read any of those, however) I will finish. I see long, difficult, or actionless books as a challenge to overcome. Two other women at work said that although they don't read often, when they do, they get really stuck in. But they're both mothers to children older than my son, so they're forgiven - my parents spend years reading the same book, but they persevere until the end too. Maybe that's where I get it from?
So that's my first confession, that I was worried for a block that has yet to happen. The second is, that I haven't written for a while. This happened with uprooted, and is now happening with budding (working titles, dear lord they're working titles!) - I get so close to the end and even though it's the more exciting bit, I want to write the aftermath (or, the next one) so I haven't even thought about chapter 16 until this week. Honestly. I've got a little more of 15 to do, and most of 17, but maybe it's the anticipation of starting the next one is too great, or the worry that I won't be good enough to write what I want to at the pivotal moment. I will write it, and soon, but I think I need to daydream for a little while longer first.
This leads, and is part, of my third confession. When I write, I sometimes act out scenes (obviously, in private, in silence) so I can work out the flow of conversation, how to describe the characters reactions ... I feel a little like I have multiple personality disorder, but it works for me. I like being in a certain place at work, because when it's quiet, I do create scenes in my head, and have been for a good few years now (this probably isn't something I should confess, since I know one of my managers reads this, lol). I mean, I still do all the work I'm meant to, but it's not exactly strenuous mentally so I can do the physical work as I daydream.
The last confession, however, isn't mine. We were talking at work today, about books (since I finally finished Wuthering Heights on my break and couldn't wait for this moment to blab that fact) and one of my coworkers, we'll call him 'Lucas' ... confessed he'd never finished a book. I mean, I'm sure he had to when he was younger, but he's never willingly read and finished a book. Lizzy and I were a little shocked, because I'm sure we'd both live in a bookshop if that was an option (or, the library in Beauty And The Beast. When I saw that scene in that film, I got so jealous of Belle). I know some people don't read for leisure, but I just can't leave a book unfinished. Well, I didn't finish 'Great Expectations' for English, but Charles Dickens writing is so droll (and I was born on his birthday, I was so excited we were reading him until they thrust that book at us. Surely there's better Dickens books?) that it almost didn't matter. And we watched a video so I got to the conclusion anyway. But anyway, if I've picked it up, it doesn't matter how long it takes me, how many other books I read between chapters (because even at this moment, I'm technically in the middle of about 5 books, The Post-Birthday World, On The Road, How To Talk To A Widower, Dracula and Percy Jackson And The Lightning Thief... I think that's right. I can't tell you the last time I read any of those, however) I will finish. I see long, difficult, or actionless books as a challenge to overcome. Two other women at work said that although they don't read often, when they do, they get really stuck in. But they're both mothers to children older than my son, so they're forgiven - my parents spend years reading the same book, but they persevere until the end too. Maybe that's where I get it from?
Monday 8 March 2010
50 books to read before you die
I know it's a strange title. It's based on my bookmark, which lists the 50 books or series waterstones recommend to read in your lifetime. At 25, I have read 11 of those books, I've almost finished the twelfth (three chapters from the end of Wuthering Heights! I'm so proud of this achievement, I may reread something like Twilight in cushy celebration of conquering that mountain. Although, not Twilight, because the parallels between the books are eerily apparent to me. Shopaholic Abroad would do) and I've read about half a chapter of number 13. I'm determined to finish the list before I turn 40, and my son turns 18 (same year. Hello, midlife crisis in 2025!) but I'll keep you updated on here as I achieve it, obviously.
So anyway, I was thinking, as I read Wuthering Heights/read "Twilight without any happily-ever-afters" about why I dislike certain books over others. Aside from exacerbating situations or conversations which should be brief or nonexistent and therefore feel like padding, or the reverse where you have to write between the lines to comprehend what the characters are doing. I think with some books, it's the references. Twilight, Pretty Bad Things, and especially House of Night, have all leaned too reliantly on other works. Now, I know that there's not really such thing as a new idea any more, just a rewrite of old ideas, a restructuring. It's especially evident in sitcoms, where I could rewrite most scenes a dozen different ways and instead sit there saying lines before the characters because it's so predictable, having been in another sitcom (especially evident when you watch as many sitcoms as I do). I'm not saying by any means that authors these days should be inventive, because God knows how pedestrian I would be otherwise. But the parallel between new work and the old work should be subtle. House of Night annoyed me more because I was halfway through Bram Stoker's Dracula (another mountain to climb. I hate the lack of suspense) when I read one of the books. It was already established that Zoey's favourite book was Dracula, but then she has this conversation with one of her many boyfriends and ruined the effing ending! P.C.Cast and Kristen Cast shouldn't have assumed that everyone's read it. But obviously, that's going to play in parallel to Zoey's current dilemma. Mostly, it's the reptition of the phrases, of the titles, of how the characters in the newer books relate to the old characters. If I wanted to read the old books, I would (Wuthering Heights is on the list of 50, hence why I bothered to pick it up. Bram Stoker because I want to find a decent Vampire book. Anne Rice has a lot of burden on her shoulders to bear for that, I still haven't got around to Interview With A Vampire).
Another thing that annoys me, which is similar, is an author getting too into the success of their work. Sue Townsend does it with Adrian Mole in a few books. It was okay when he was on TV with Offally Good! but when his school friend wrote a book called Adain Vole, or the Adrian Mole TV show came out ... uh, it put me right off a series I loved growing up.
I sound so disgruntled right now, don't I? It's not that I am, it's just ... aren't these things you should expect from authors? That they try for their own merit, but don't rub it in that they have something of merit? Repetition and recognition of their other works in newer books I can deal with, I like the way they're trying to create their own intricate world. But that therein is the point. It's their world.
So anyway, I was thinking, as I read Wuthering Heights/read "Twilight without any happily-ever-afters" about why I dislike certain books over others. Aside from exacerbating situations or conversations which should be brief or nonexistent and therefore feel like padding, or the reverse where you have to write between the lines to comprehend what the characters are doing. I think with some books, it's the references. Twilight, Pretty Bad Things, and especially House of Night, have all leaned too reliantly on other works. Now, I know that there's not really such thing as a new idea any more, just a rewrite of old ideas, a restructuring. It's especially evident in sitcoms, where I could rewrite most scenes a dozen different ways and instead sit there saying lines before the characters because it's so predictable, having been in another sitcom (especially evident when you watch as many sitcoms as I do). I'm not saying by any means that authors these days should be inventive, because God knows how pedestrian I would be otherwise. But the parallel between new work and the old work should be subtle. House of Night annoyed me more because I was halfway through Bram Stoker's Dracula (another mountain to climb. I hate the lack of suspense) when I read one of the books. It was already established that Zoey's favourite book was Dracula, but then she has this conversation with one of her many boyfriends and ruined the effing ending! P.C.Cast and Kristen Cast shouldn't have assumed that everyone's read it. But obviously, that's going to play in parallel to Zoey's current dilemma. Mostly, it's the reptition of the phrases, of the titles, of how the characters in the newer books relate to the old characters. If I wanted to read the old books, I would (Wuthering Heights is on the list of 50, hence why I bothered to pick it up. Bram Stoker because I want to find a decent Vampire book. Anne Rice has a lot of burden on her shoulders to bear for that, I still haven't got around to Interview With A Vampire).
Another thing that annoys me, which is similar, is an author getting too into the success of their work. Sue Townsend does it with Adrian Mole in a few books. It was okay when he was on TV with Offally Good! but when his school friend wrote a book called Adain Vole, or the Adrian Mole TV show came out ... uh, it put me right off a series I loved growing up.
I sound so disgruntled right now, don't I? It's not that I am, it's just ... aren't these things you should expect from authors? That they try for their own merit, but don't rub it in that they have something of merit? Repetition and recognition of their other works in newer books I can deal with, I like the way they're trying to create their own intricate world. But that therein is the point. It's their world.
Saturday 6 March 2010
Sophie Kinsella and Kate Brian
So I still can't post what I want to, I tried writing it all in word but then this thing doesn't let you paste? 2/3 of the writing takes up 4 pages of word so hmmmm, effort much to copy that into here manually?
Instead, I thought I'd persue other activities tonight. I still haven't lost baby weight, and I've decided to finally do something about it (well, my son's a toddler now, but still, it's about time) and I got a wii a few weeks ago. It came with wii sports and wii sports resort, and I've got a few games with it. Most of them I can do sitting down, but I got this one recently, called 'Just Dance' and it's brilliant. I'm a little slow with some of the instructions, but I only played it for half hour, including warm up time. Did a little womaniser, hot'n'cold and little less conversation. Oh and fame, you gotta do fame, right?
Anyway, so I'm on a street team, the Drake Bell street team, and they're having a chat tonight. The only thing is, they want as many people as possible there, so they've given a time that the west coast of America can make. Which makes it about 1am here. So I decided to watch a DVD after wii-ing, and put on Confessions Of A Shopaholic. It's good, but it doesn't touch Sophie Kinsella's writing.
She's amazing, Sophie. It's more of an injustice I didn't include her and Kate Brian in my top five than it is Stefenie Meyer (sorry Lizzy!). I love the humour in her books. For me, the shopaholic series is successful not because she names absolutely every designer she can think of, but because of the way Becky tries to reason her way out of sticky situations, or rationalise her impulses. Mainly because it's what most people's internal narration is like, when they want something they shouldn't really have (for her, that scarf she's £20 short of, for me, it's a giant bag of starmix). But I like her other books too, more Can You Keep A Secret and Remember Me? than The Undomestic Goddess and Twenties Girl. She captures something about women that a lot of writers try for and miss. I think I'd be almost as intimidated being in the same room with her as I would Joanne Rowling.
There's another series writer I like too, Kate Brian. She's written a series called 'Private', which is a little bit like 'if Gossip Girl were overrun with murderers'. It's addictive writing, and though the details aren't always there you can picture the scenes clearly. The characters stand out, she's good at making personalities different. My only bugbear is the killing thing. At first, it was one seriously unhinged girl called Ariana, who tried to kill the main character, Reed. Kate's since written a book called 'Last Christmas' where Ariana kills an exchange student and her boyfriend's ex. Reed starts going out with the same guy in the first book. So anyway, after Ariana's sent to a correctional facility, one of her housemates (it's an overnight Private school, they're in this really cliquey house) is killed and then Reed gets a gun aimed at her by ... no, I won't give that one away. So when I read the last one released in the UK, Reed got pushed off a boat. I've accidentally read a spoiler on an amazon review (arsehole who wrote that!) for who pushed her, but I still want to read. Even if the attempts on Reed's life continue racking up. She's had as many death threats as Zoey Redbird's had boyfriends in House Of Night, I swear.
Anyway, back to COAS and my cherry Lambrini (classy bird that I am). I don't think I'm going to quite make it to the DBST chat you know. Knackered!
Instead, I thought I'd persue other activities tonight. I still haven't lost baby weight, and I've decided to finally do something about it (well, my son's a toddler now, but still, it's about time) and I got a wii a few weeks ago. It came with wii sports and wii sports resort, and I've got a few games with it. Most of them I can do sitting down, but I got this one recently, called 'Just Dance' and it's brilliant. I'm a little slow with some of the instructions, but I only played it for half hour, including warm up time. Did a little womaniser, hot'n'cold and little less conversation. Oh and fame, you gotta do fame, right?
Anyway, so I'm on a street team, the Drake Bell street team, and they're having a chat tonight. The only thing is, they want as many people as possible there, so they've given a time that the west coast of America can make. Which makes it about 1am here. So I decided to watch a DVD after wii-ing, and put on Confessions Of A Shopaholic. It's good, but it doesn't touch Sophie Kinsella's writing.
She's amazing, Sophie. It's more of an injustice I didn't include her and Kate Brian in my top five than it is Stefenie Meyer (sorry Lizzy!). I love the humour in her books. For me, the shopaholic series is successful not because she names absolutely every designer she can think of, but because of the way Becky tries to reason her way out of sticky situations, or rationalise her impulses. Mainly because it's what most people's internal narration is like, when they want something they shouldn't really have (for her, that scarf she's £20 short of, for me, it's a giant bag of starmix). But I like her other books too, more Can You Keep A Secret and Remember Me? than The Undomestic Goddess and Twenties Girl. She captures something about women that a lot of writers try for and miss. I think I'd be almost as intimidated being in the same room with her as I would Joanne Rowling.
There's another series writer I like too, Kate Brian. She's written a series called 'Private', which is a little bit like 'if Gossip Girl were overrun with murderers'. It's addictive writing, and though the details aren't always there you can picture the scenes clearly. The characters stand out, she's good at making personalities different. My only bugbear is the killing thing. At first, it was one seriously unhinged girl called Ariana, who tried to kill the main character, Reed. Kate's since written a book called 'Last Christmas' where Ariana kills an exchange student and her boyfriend's ex. Reed starts going out with the same guy in the first book. So anyway, after Ariana's sent to a correctional facility, one of her housemates (it's an overnight Private school, they're in this really cliquey house) is killed and then Reed gets a gun aimed at her by ... no, I won't give that one away. So when I read the last one released in the UK, Reed got pushed off a boat. I've accidentally read a spoiler on an amazon review (arsehole who wrote that!) for who pushed her, but I still want to read. Even if the attempts on Reed's life continue racking up. She's had as many death threats as Zoey Redbird's had boyfriends in House Of Night, I swear.
Anyway, back to COAS and my cherry Lambrini (classy bird that I am). I don't think I'm going to quite make it to the DBST chat you know. Knackered!
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