Writing and ephemera

So I finally write my biography. It took a bloody long time. Now all we need is for the website to grow legs and start running, and for it to actually be posted. I'm not in a rush, though, because I feel like I've done it, and so, here it is:

Gemma spent her adolescence forgetting to rebel, and preparing for a career as an author by reading lots of books, writing very long letters, and obsessing about music and TV shows. After surviving a clutch of A-levels, the dubious accolade of being appointed Head Girl, and finally getting her driving licence after 72 hours of lessons, Gemma departed for university. Never knowingly underqualified, she graduated from UCL with a BA Classics; she also has MAs in English and Children’s Literature.

Gemma now lives in Oxford and works in academic publishing. When she’s not slaving over a hot textbook, she enjoys reading, writing long emails, and obsessing about music and TV shows. She is currently writing a contemporary novel with a romantic twist, and keeps a blog at

You don't need to know where I blog, you're already here.

Amanda asked if I really wanted to advertise my blog in my online bio. I don't see why not, to be honest, this blog is hardly incriminating. In its previous incarnation it was always more introspective was revelatory. And I can't see why anyone would go digging in the back pages.

But it makes me think. I've been hanging out a bit over on LJ recently; not posting, though. I'd need to clear up my old journal and invent new prettiness and that sort of thing before I'd be willing to do that, and it's not that I don't love Blogger (I do, I do), but I'll admit I miss the protective shield of being able to friend people and lock posts. And I miss the LJ client. Now the Semagic days feel like a bit of an old dream. Although of course, I can just email Blogger if I like, even from work. But I don't. But I used to have a journal over there. It was a real journal, for a long time. And then it was nothing. And now it's the past. Writing that jaunty, bright and breezy biography for the forthcoming website made me think about how most of what I've put out there, all those blog and journal posts, all those long letters... it's all just ephemera.

But I've always done it.

So, because I wanted to write it in the bio, because it made me think about all the stuff I've been churning out over the years, and how most of it doesn't actually matter... but there are some things that did matter, some things I do remember, because they must have been important, and these are the things that made me who I am, writing-wise.

When I was about seven, I wrote a book about a boarding school based in a Chalet. It wasn't really a book, of course, it was a story, and it was a rip-off. I first got seriously into reading thanks to Mallory Towers (love the new covers!) but I did a quick Google last night, and you know the Chalet School books don't seem to be properly in print anymore, just in collectors' editions, which is incredibly sad, as far as I'm concerned, because I adored those stories. However, I suppose that the Tyrolean Alps have been replaced in young girls' affections by a school for magical wizards. I think I recall commissioning my friend Layla to do some cover art for the 'book' (six pieces of A4 folded in half), but the picture I remember on the front was in coloured pencils, and scrappy, so I suspect I did it myself. And I have a feeling it was then I learned that the gap between what's in your head, and what gets put down on the paper, is always too large for comfort. It is the same still.

When I was in the second year juniors (Year 4, in new money), I wrote a story about a unicorn, which the student teacher read out to the class at story time. I remember a kid in my class saying "Did you really write that?" and feeling a bit embarrassed, but also really really pleased. The only line I remember from the actual story now is 'Unicorns are very sacred creatures' which when you think about it is pretty good for an eight year old. I've always been a bit of a praise junkie, but that episode could have gone either way; a kid could have been mean to me about the story, it could have put me off. But instead I became the praise junkie I am, that probably all writers are. And I got the feeling that it was what I was good at.

Before the next significant event in my writer's biography, I mainly remember the books I read. I adored the Anastasia books, by Lois Lowry (and later loved her young adult fiction, when I was a teen). But look at this spunky cover! The Girl Who Thinks For Herself - prototype feminism!! Independence and individuality! At ten! I love it!!

The other book that I suppose sort of shaped me, and sparked off my probably precocious fascination with the Roman world, was a sort of glossy grown up picture book (but with a really dramatic narrative) all about the eruption of Vesuvius. I've tried to find this book online, but failed miserably. I remember it so clearly in the school library, but maybe I'm wrong. Anyway, sparky girls who are different, and the Romans... basically me, in many ways.

But the actual writing is a bit of a blur until I hit 12. New English teacher. Scary man. Author. Published Author. We all have to write, the first week. I reads my story, and says "You're a writer." The next week he writes on my stuff "You are still a writer." Over the year he never gives me less than an A-, and that was for misusing the apostrophe in it's. I could spell his impossible spelling, designed to stop anyone getting full marks in the spelling test (it was schizophrenia), I read all the books he recommended. I read his books. And he wrote in one "Gemma, one day you'll be autographing your book for me." Validation. Encouragement. A bit of training, to be honest, every week a different story, a different genre. He got his agent to write to me (An agent! Me! I'd dream of that now, to be honest), and he used to lose my work in his bag, because he'd take it out to show Miss Crawford, who later became my other favourite English teacher.

That's why I'm so grateful that I went to the school I did. It seems I'm deeply nostalgic by nature (probably another writer thing), but I've been thinking about Miss Crawford, too. It was only later, after my mum had died, that I started writing again, and she encouraged me massively. But it was she who taught me about Ted Hughes, and Sylvia Plath, and had me read my first Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale, and The Bell Jar, a book I identified with a scary amount, just like most swotty sixth formers who look up at that fig tree of opportunity and panic. Those books are on the banner at the top of my blog, because they're so important to me, they've become part of my history. But also, the only real prize I ever won was thanks to Gill. I wrote about how everything is just temporary, about visiting my mum's grave, before it even had a headstone, and Gill said she loved it, "because it says, oh shit my mum has died, what can I do, but it doesn't say it." Or words to that effect. I was lucky to have her.

But what's been interesting has been how, staying friends with Andy, that first teacher, has influenced me beyond all else, in just feeling that this was what I was meant to be doing. In fact, he has been the most important person in my writing career so far. But it's probably healthy that now, despite the fact he's published, despite the fact I've never managed to properly finish anything, it feels more equal now, because if you're a writer, you're really only as good or as happy as the thing you're writing now, and having the group really helps, and having him there helps, and working in publishing, however vaguely related helps, but I owe that man such a debt, for telling me that it was ok to be obsessed with books, and unable to stop writing, and for being so encouraging, and believing in me.

So that's what shaped me, I think. Of course, I have missed out other important things, but about writing, these are the memories that didn't go in the biography, but they're the things that have counted. And unlike lots of things that go in the blog, these will stick.

Work (put it in)

Hello, blog-fans.

I have been avoiding updating, not least because I was so fond of that nifty YouTube Angel extract. But the time has come for me to type into the night, and admit...

I'm finding it hard to write. Hard to write anything at all. Circumstances are making me not want to write. In fact, they are making me actually just retreat to my duvet, with novels, and sometimes cups of tea and hot chocolate. They are making me listen over and over to fantastic pop songs in an attempt to galvanize myself. But no... nada, nothing, zilch, caput.

What is it that's got me so blocked? Well, it's one tiny thing. I have to write a biography for the writers' group website (coming soon, soon to be linked and displayed prominently), and of course it has to be written in the third person. I have just about got used to Facebook status updates being all written in the third person, but a whole paragraph about myself? Where to start, what to say, what to emphasize? So I haven't. I've just been a bit rubbish, and distracted myself with other things, instead. And I was lucky to have a really full weekend, and even this evening I've been doing other stuff, but I can't help feeling guilty.

So, as penance, and also because I know once you've heard it, you'll understand, I'll share with you the fruits of my timewasting labours:

Eureka moments... and writing for the telly

Yeah, this is a TOTAL cheat, but it's because I want to talk about Torchwood, Russell T. Davies, James Marsters and the Buffyverse...

Torchwood's back! Hurrah!!!! To be honest, I'd kind of stopped watching by the end of the first series - I didn't even continue collecting the DVD boxsets. But I heard it was coming back bigger, better and funnier... and it was! Someone else has basically already compiled a list about what all the good and bad bits of the first episode were, so I don't have to, but suffice to say, I love Eye Myles, she has a truly jolie-laide face, and James Marsters as Captain John Harper - truly inspired casting! Also, seeing James Marsters for the second time in a short space on time (the last time was in PS I Love You - he was great in that, as was Nelly McKay) made me realise how much I miss Buffy/Angel. Big sigh. When you've invested that much time in a tv show, sometimes it feels like the characters were real. But Torchwood's new-found sense of humour is totally Buffy/Angel. In fact I'd even say more Angel than Buffy, especially seeing as Torchwood owes so much to Angel anyway. Especially with the main character who can't die, the team, the city-based stuff. I mean, Cardiff, L.A.... basically the same thing, right?

In fact, I was having this discussion with lovely Emma at work, over the cross section of our pod. We agreed that Captain John was basically just the Doctor Whoniverse version of Spike, and I said "Yeah, but post-rape of Buffy Spike, not Drusilla-era Spike." And then I continued with my theory and said, "Torchwood's basically Angel anyway, it owes so much to it, and the humour in it's now totally Angel." To which Polly chipped in "Do you have any idea how much of a geek you sound like right now?"

Especially as I'd also been talking about the interview with Russell T. Davies on BBC4 that was on that evening, too! I stayed up especially late to watch it, going to bed after midnight on a school night, because I didn't think it would be on BBC iPlayer. But it was. Quick aside: I am adoring the iPlayer, have watched tons of stuff on it this week!

Russell T. was chatting to Mark Lawson about all his work and Doctor Who, and you know, all that stuff, all the while sitting in club-style armchairs, on the set of the TARDIS. How cool is that?! Anyway, he talked not just about his early days, or about how he's not really Russell T. at all, but about how he got the idea for Bob and Rose (one of my favourite TV shows just ever, so intelligently written) although I'll admit I did know already. But the relevant bit was when RTD was talking about how he really learned to write good drama. They showed a clip from The Grand, and RTD explained how he wrote a scene about a boy breaking off his engagement with a girl without mentioning it once, but that it was clear that it was happening, and by the end, the girl had taken off the ring, and it was obviously over. He said that when he nailed that, he knew he could definitely do it... and that was quite a way into his career, but still defining, still before Queer As Folk. In an article I also once read online, he spoke about his other eureka moment, which struck a chord with me, not least because it's set in a familiar locale:

"When I left Oxford, I was sitting with friends in the Jericho Tavern thinking about careers and a friend said: 'You watch so much TV, you've got to work in it.' It took her to say it for me to realise the truth of it like a blinding flash."

I hope one day I have a eureka moment like that. Maybe I've already had it and I just can't pinpoint it yet. I certainly feel at the moment that the writing group is massively important for what I need to do.

And finally, what RTD said, made me realise that writing for a different medium could definitely be a possibility, and telly, as I love it so much, might be something to think about. So in celebration of that realisation, and James Marsters, and Buffy, and all the other stuff I've been talking about, I was going to post a little bit of SCRIPT, you know, because it's writing, but then I thought about the wonders of the internet, and in particular the wonders of YouTube, and I couldn't just post empty words, you have to see the performance. So here, for your unadulterated viewing pleasure, I present to you... Spike. And Angel. Well, they're both hot.

Angel Season One, Episode 3: In the Dark:





[Angel has just saved Rachel from a violently abusive boyfriend, while Spike watches — and narrates — from the shadows.]
Spike [as Rachel]: How can I thank you, you mysterious, black-clad hunk of a night thing?Spike [as Angel]: No need, little lady, your tears of gratitude are enough for me. You see, I was once a bad-ass vampire, but love and a pesky curse defanged me. Now I'm just a big, fluffy puppy with bad teeth.
[Rachel steps closer to Angel; Angel steps back, warding her off with his hands.]
Spike [as Angel]: No, not the hair! Never the hair!
Spike [as Rachel]: But there must be some way I can show my appreciation.
Spike [as Angel]: No — helping those in need's my job. And working up a load of sexual tension, and prancing away like a magnificent poof is truly thanks enough!
Spike [as Rachel]: I understand. I have a nephew who's gay, so...
Spike [as Angel]: Say no more. Evil's still afoot... and I'm almost out of that Nancy-boy hair gel that I like so much. Quickly, to the Angel-mobile — AWAY!
Spike [as himself]: Go on with you. Play the big, strapping hero while you can. You have a few surprises coming your way. The Ring of Amara, a visit from your old pal Spike, and — oh, yeah — your gruesome, horrible death.

Writing group

I hosted the largest meeting of our writing group so far last night - eight of us, including myself, and not even a full house, as we were missing Tom. Apart from a minor panic about whether there would be enough glasses to provide lemonade for the thirsty masses, it was a pain-free evening (for me, at least).

To my mind, it was a good meeting: we read four people's pieces, comments were helpful and incisive, and we discussed our planned new website. How wonderful! We get more and more ambitious each time we discuss things, which makes me giddy with excitement. If we manage to pull these ideas off, we could have a fantastic group. Having said that, if not, the writing group has been the best thing that's ever happened to my writing (except, perhaps, for being single).

Whoops! I'll be late if I don't go now.

Boooo Reading Continuing Education Department!

For Christmas, I had a lovely idea.
"I'm a poor person, working in publishing, with writing aspirations," I thought to myself. "There are so many things I'd love to do, but unfortunately, I just can't afford to, like a Creative Writing MA, or a writer's retreat somewhere picturesque, or even buy the box set of all seven series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer." The thought could have put me in a funk, but instead, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and employed some blue sky thinking. There was one thing I'd wanted to do for ages, not too expensive, but prohibitively pricey for a little pov-stricken person such as myself, that someone, one particular person, could finance.
"Dad, I want to do an evening class," I announced. "Will you pay for me as my Christmas present?"
"Daughter," he said (this is not a real conversation, but is similar to the one we had. And he does call me Daughter. "Daughter, I'd be delighted, what course?"
"How to write sitcoms," I said. "Don't laugh."
And so it came to pass, on Christmas Day, that amongst my disgusting pile of presents that reveals my spoilt and childish nature, I received a card, in an envelope, and stapled inside was the receipt for the fee. I couldn't wait for term to start!
As the day approached, my excitement rose... At last! Someone would recognise my comedy genius. I could be the female version of Jimmy Carr. I could be the younger version of Jessica Stevenson/Hynes. I might meet cool people, make friends... ahhhh. I told everyone at work. I was delighted, and smug (I'll admit it). Not only did I ask for an original and improving Christmas present, but also I was going to be so much funnier by the end of it.
Alas, it was not to be.
I turned up, anticipating the smell of disinfectant, the squeak of the whiteboard marker. But I was in for a horrible shock. I approached quite a friendly looking lady, who broke the sad news. Due to lack of interest, the course had been cancelled. And to add insult to injury, they had sent a letter to the wrong address. Me, miffed. Dad, livid. Petrol, wasted. And no course, nothing at all. Monday evenings from now on, a dark and empty void.
Oh well. Dad says I can keep the cash. I might buy that Buffy boxset.

Tomorrow is another day...

Mes amies, are there any of you who have followed from the old place to the new one? Somehow, I doubt it, and yet that doesn't make me sad. I feel that it's important to establish some boundaries, and I'm doing it by re-titling myself. No more romantic silliness. From this point on, seriousness rules, ok! No more wittering about the Hot Boss, or about my friends, or hangovers, or crushes... well... maybe a little bit. But mostly, I am going to write about writing. And maybe some other stuff. You know, cultural stuff. Like books and tv and films; all the important things. But mostly writing stuff. Like how to use a semi-colon correctly, and what's the best book for inspiration during the long dark teatime of the soul. And I will link to the things I love.

So, here is my admission: I wrote NOTHING this weekend. Nothing. I skimmed through two books I occasionally turn to and even jotted a couple of notes in my notebook. But I couldn't bring myself to write anything. Nothing at all. Pourquoi, I heard you, non-existent readers, cry? Well, I don't know. I feel in a bit of a fug, after a very late night midweek. And I'm a wimp. And I was reading. I guess that's why. But as a great heroine of mine once said, fiddle dee dee!



(Only kidding)

Moving on....

Regrets, I've had a few, but then again... too few to mention.

I'm moving on.

I've loved being A Hopeful Romantic, but for 2008, I think it's time for a change.
If you would like to follow me, I will now be located at seegemwrite.blogspot.com