“Hello. I’m the first line of your novel.”

Edinburgh Expeditions

Last week, whilst at a Jazz festival with friends, I was hit with a line, a phrase, a sentence. Somehow it managed to stick in my mind, mutating, growing, digging itself into the part of my brain that ought to be reserved for PHP and PHP alone.

“Hello,” it said to me after six days of maturation. “I’m the first line of your novel.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Tell me about yourself, future novel.”

“I’m chick lit. Or at least more female-focused-fiction than you’re used to, Ms. John-le-Carre-and-Patrick-O’Brian-are-my-favourite-authors.”

This is where I spat out my tea and wondered if my painkillers were a lot stronger than my GP said they were (swing dancing accident–water, concrete and two enthusiastic lindy hoppers don’t mix particularly well. I didn’t break anything, thankfully).

Nope, they aren’t. It’s just the story that needs to be told.

I haven’t been able to write fiction for months, not since I arrived in Edinburgh. Whether it was the change of scenery, the stress of coursework or a general reprogramming of the brain, fiction slipped to the backburner in favour of my recording everyday life, the adventures and the misadventures.

Turns out, though, that my opening line, combined with fodder from my day-to-day-life would make for a potentially hilarious, snarky and above all, entertaining book on life and love in the 21st century. Or some other cliche. Regardless, I’m excited to start writing…but why does the Muse need to return when I’m up to my ears in coursework?

International Women’s Day in Edinburgh

Edinburgh Expeditions

For the last three years, I’ve been in Europe for International Women’s Day. The first one, I had no idea what was going on. There were women carrying flowers through the streets of Florence, lovely bright yellow ones. I found out what the meaning was (indeed, what the day was) after asking one of my professors.

The second was also spent in Florence, this time whilst my family visited my sister. We didn’t realise it until going to one of the local museums, and it was free entry for myself, my mother and Holmes. My father was a bit surprised when he had to pay! I translated the handwritten sign for him and we went on our merry way, enjoying the museums and the fact that we’d each saved about 12 euro (to be spent on gorgeous handbound journals in my case).

This year, I attended a lecture given by University of Edinburgh* alum and best-selling author Dr Philippa Gregory. I’ve only read one of Dr Gregory’s books–Earthly Joys–and while I didn’t love it, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to attend her lecture! I love listening to authors speak.

I found Dr Gregory to be a wonderful speaker. She was funny, engaging, intelligent and goes on the list of people I’d love to invite for a dinner party. It would be a very interesting discussion, I’m sure.

Now, below is the lecture. I invite you to watch it–its very good (if long, just over an hour). And yours truly asks a question, because I cannot resist asking questions in lectures!

*My uni. Also the uni that both authors I’ve seen speak are attached to in some way.

The Improbability of University Life

Edinburgh Expeditions

Sometimes, I feel as though my life ought to be a movie. There are moments that are so improbable, so scripted, that if I didn’t partake or witness them myself, I would scarcely believe that they had happened.

One of those days happened Monday. My swing dance group was tapped to perform in a flashmob (we do this a lot) to advertise for an upcoming jazz club night. It was only supposed to be a few minutes, to get some photographs for our society and for the club night. My friends and I grinned and danced, wearing t shirts and cardigans despite the cold. We had the soft sounds of an iPod to dance to, only enough to catch the rhythm and make up the rest from there.

My friend and I started dancing, rock-step-triple-stepping, lindy-turn, rock-step-triple-step-step-step-triple-step. We laughed at the ridiculousness of dancing to the music we could hear (sort of), but the rest of the world could not.

We were ready to stop after a few minutes. Our silly group attracted a few bystanders.

The sound of a solo saxophone cut through the chilly night.

Our little group looked up, surprised. What was this sound? Were we to continue?

“Great!” said one. “Music!”

All we could do was continue dancing. We couldn’t resist live music, even if it were just one saxophonist.

I switched dance partners. As I spun, I noticed someone wheeling a double bass case. I thought nothing of it as I continued to dance, focusing on not twisting my ankle on the concrete. The thump-thump of the bass strings joined the saxophone.

An entire jazz band sprouted from the pavement. A trumpeter materialized, another saxophonist joined the throng. Finishing off this spontaneous band was a percussionist on cymbals.

Through it all, as we twirled around the main university square, more and more people stopped to watch, intrigued by the musicians and the dancers, two crazy groups out on a cold, early March night.

If it were to be filmed or presented in a novel, it would be considered a contrivance, a plot device, something to initiate the ‘meet cute’ between the hero and heroine, or the climax of the (undeniably cheesy happy) story. No one would believe something like that could really happen.

Appraising the Year to Date

General Geekiness

It’s March now. Beautiful, sunny March. My second semester is half finished, leaving me surprised, wishing I could turn back the months, to go back to December 30th, when I returned to Edinburgh, refreshed and ready to enjoy a short holiday before classes began again.

But now it’s March. The hectic part of my semester started last week, our Innovative Learning Week, where I learned how to do some minor hardware hacking and play with a nifty device called an Arduino. Then a PhD workshop (yes, I am planning on starting a PhD in either 2013 or 2014). After that, I locked myself in my building, coding my life away, taking breaks only to eat, sleep, and swing dance.

A Girl Who Reads…

The Twirl and Swirl of Letters

A poem by Mark Grist.

I had to share this. Because girls who read are brilliant (if I do say so myself).

I do feel like a bit of a fraud. I’ve only finished one book since January, Barry Miles’s London Calling: A Countercultural History of London Since 1945. In my defense, it was several hundred pages long (and I’m working hard on my degree).

But I am a girl who reads. A reader of fiction both literary and pulp (and where the two crossover), of histories (mostly pop), of biographies, of critical theory, of academic articles. And you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way. As much as I love television, movies, even the internet, I wouldn’t trade reading for it.

Not reading for myself hurts. It aches as my brain grows weak, my attention span dwindling, when all I want is to read and find I can’t.

I still wander through libraries and bookstores, my eyes lusting over the beautiful book covers, the words on the pages…I long for the day where I can read for myself again (I may end up cheating a bit and reading before going to bed. All PHP and no books makes Beth a dull girl). Just today, I found myself at both Blackwell’s and the Edinburgh Central Library, perusing the shelves, holding books in my hands.

And yes, I gave in to temptation. I couldn’t resist. I never can. The printed word entices me, it draws me in, it is irresistible. I picked up a couple at the library, and am considering buying one for myself from Blackwell’s (Catriona Child’s Trackman). Perhaps as a reward for surviving this first round of submissions.

And, as a girl who reads, I have to say there’s nothing sexier than a guy who reads.

Maybe I’ll write a follow up poem.

Further Adventures in Lindy Hop

Edinburgh Expeditions

Yesterday, I took my first flying lesson. Me, the happily grounded, afraid of heights individual, decided to take an aerials workshop.

This is what aerials look like:

Given that my programme leaves me little to no time to travel, I decided to take the ten pounds I would have spent on a RyanAir flight or in a disgusting hostel and put it to a more productive use–learning to fly.

In my first aerials lesson, I learned four–a basic frog jump (I think), a frog jump rotating 180 degrees (I jump and my leader turns, so that when I land I’m 180 degrees away from where I started), a tandem Charleston jump, and…the backwards somersault. Or backsault, as they called it. Needless to say, I’m rather stiff and sore from using muscles that I usually neglect.

I’m looking forward to next Saturday’s follow up lesson. It’s going to be a lot of fun.