Random Stuff Of Little Meaning

I have this thing, y'see, where I start babbling about shit that doesn't really matter, so what I'm doing here is posting some of it for anyone to see. Except, um, I haven't gone through my files yet. So there's a lot more than is actually here right now.

Plans

See, when I say plans, I mean "hmm. should do that" as opposed to actual, specific... plans. As in "I really ought to improve my html" and "I really need to try to relearn the work from last year". Stuff like that.

writing plans: I do have them. Honest. Some of the things I'm doing. Some of the things I really want to do. More of a "thinking on paper" than anything else. A few may be spoiler-y.
shopping list: Hey, why not? This is random stuff, after all.
Attention-Seeking: This doesn't fit under plans, but it's here. Some stuff about my state of mind - just the personality disorder test as of now, but may be more at some point.

Dark-ish Stuff

Sex and self-harm. Why the hell not? Not horrific, but not for the kiddies. (i.e. NC-17)

The Miscellaneous Adventures of She: short, third person pieces with an unidentified heroine. A darker facet of my psyche. Also, my secret obsession with shoes.
Vibrator: A pick-up. Nothing actually happens in it.
drabble: This is a bit fucked-up, to be honest with you. Deals with rape. Have to say, it sounded like a female narrator.
drabble two: Also a bit fucked-up. Also rape, I think. Abuse, nasty stuff. Second person. Male perpetrator this time.
drabble three: Sick stuff happening to a woman this time.

Poetry

I write many little poems. Most of which are pretentious drivel. Hooray.

Emotions: This won me Ł20 in a district-wide schools competition. I was quite proud of that. It beat about three hundred other entries. I was quite proud of that too.
Low Tide: It kind of counts as poetry... There's a haiku in it... I take walks along the beach, and this is a partial record of one evening.
Not science: Inspired by reading Rebecca Elson - more thoughts on paper than finished poems, self-centred crap again.
Poems Written On A Train: Yet more self-indulgent depressed crap. Oh well.
Mothering Sunday: A poem for my mother. If you expect sweet and nice, you obviously haven't met me.

Competition Entries

I have this burgeoning habit of entering short-story competitions. I never win. But here are my entries.

Karolita: This doesn't really count as a competition entry, but it was written in response to an advert, so... It's supposed to be sci-fi for six-year-olds.
Mhairi: The first one. For the Canongate Prize - open to any and all authors with some connection to Scotland - in its first year - the topic was Scotland, I think.
Sin: For the Canongate Prize the next year. The topic was Sin. I'm almost sure I entered Sinbad. But it may have been the dialogue. Or both. I think it was both.
One Day: For the Hemingway Prize - open to all students at my university.
Brunette: For the Hemingway Prize another year. Is really quite odd, and I didn't want to let go of it.
Meet Sal: The Hemingway Prize, again, but this time I was sick of it and so this is pornish - a pick-up in a bar and a twist in the tail.

Pretentious Crap

Inspiration: I got this published in the astrosoc magazine. The comment on it was something along the lines of "a challenging contemplation of the universe and her relation to it". I still think it's pretentious crap.

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