The One With Creative Writing

I'm hipster, so I Instagram my coffee.

Trigger Warning: Heavy sarcasm.

The views expressed satirically in this post are not genuinely held by the wonderful, warm-hearted and utterly beautiful author of this post.

I'm taking a creative writing class. I'm massively intimidated by classmates. They're so much better than me. I feel so inferior, and not even being British makes me feel any better. Imperialism is well and truly dead.

Should I be writing this post in rhyme? I'm working on the basis we're now in this post-postmodern world where rhyme is back in. Hannah, you do creative writing? Yes, yes I do or rather did. I used to never be seen without a pen and pad to be scribbling down ideas, but then people and their general rubbishness and meanness got in the way and I stopped - I'm looking at you [censored]. But now I'm back with a vengeance. And where better to start than with a class on writing the short story with Seymour Mayne, of Jewish Canadian Writers class fame. Bit intimidating, however, just chuck your story down for everyone to read and pull apart and that creeping fear of judgment.



Also, does anyone else ever wonder if they are, how shall I put it, warped? I quite like writing about somewhat macabre things; death, depression, dickhead fathers and the like. The story I'm submitting for next week deals with war, homelessness and prostitution. But it does double-up as a step-by-step guide of how to get rid of evangelical Christians who acost you in the street. You're welcome! I'm currently in the revision stage where I try to iron out the typos and plot inconsistencies. I'm very good at plot inconsistencies because I have no grasp of numbers. I'm genuinely not being self-depracating here. I am an idiot when it comes to numbers. I may have two GCSEs in maths at grade B, but that means nothing. I can't count and don't know how much of stuff makes up one thing of stuff. For example, I think that something that happened in 1823 happened a thousand years ago - seriously, I cannot do numbers.

My intellect, or lack of, is fundamentally unbalanced. I can read and write, hopefully, or this class is going to go badly; but I just can't deal with anything remotely number-orientated. I also have no spatial awareness. When the sat nav says, "Turn left in 300 yards" I'm like, how long is 300 yards? It's why I can't park and can't cope with this conversion faff that living abroad requires.



Should probably take fewer pictures of my coffee...

Back to creative writing, if you're lucky or horrendously unlucky, I may share some with you. Just not the story I'm submitting next week, because I may have used some people who read this blog as character inspiration, and there are subtler, more loving ways to break it to them that demonising the working class is vile. If it's any consolation, my characterisation is pretty accurate!

I'm actually a horrible person, aren't I?

To the land of Hispter, shall I fly.

I think I'm so mainstream I'm inadvertently hipster. Quick, someone find me some over-large glasses and shove a piercing through an impractical bit of my nose, I want to be so alternative I fit in.

Note to self: be less sarcastic.