I have deleted words, sentences, paragraphs, pages. Closed documents. Shut off the computer; turned the bastard thing back on again. Stared at the screen. Ripped myself a hangnail. This is my third cup of coffee in the past two hours. Claudie, you are not these words. I am spouting insincerities like your father presiding over a funeral: intelligent, vivacious, headstrong, passionate, unique. Bullshit, every syllable. You are more than a language more than a name, and wasn't that my reasoning to begin with? The Claudie Mallory, and the honorific makes me sick. Claudie Claudie Claudie Claudie. I will fill this book with nothi
I finish Lower Sixth in a week, which I'm sure is some sort of mistake as I only actually started fifteen minutes ago. In September. Oh.
I've exactly a year of school left, give or take a few days (depending, hell, on when we get our 2013 Study Leave). This is dizzying.
It's a quarter to eleven and I'm rereading Brideshead Revisited, which I can't say (bizarrely) is something I've done in a while. How one loses track of one's emotional connections. So much of myself is in this book. My name is in this book. So much of my writing style and outlook on bloody everything stems, in retrospect, straight out of Waugh. How old was I when I first re
I bought a new sketchbook today, along with a new pen and a torn-up tweed jacket that begged to be salvaged. I sewed colorful patches onto the jacket, and cut out the old lining that was ripped to shreds. It looks like a clown coat now, but it was worth a dollar.