Me
S'up, my name's Rachel, I'm a twenty-two three four! FIVE (ugh how did I get so old) six HELLO LATE TWENTIES year old medical student DOCTOR, YO. You may offer me your congratulations on having reached this, the highest pinnacle of nerditude. My defining characteristics are a disgusting love of pink (it's stealth ninja, okay - I have a theory. A ( Read more... )

I didn't mean to tell anyone in my scriptwriting class what I did and, after last week, I was hopeful that in a group of such self-centred individuals it wouldn't even come up. Alas, someone asked me right out and I said 'doctor.' I can't lie for shit. Never could. He added, "Of what?" and like a douche I said 'medicine ( Read more... )

I had my first scriptwriting class tonight ( Read more... )

God, you guys, all this chat about old HP BNFs and stuff has stirred up so much nostalgia for me. I remember a time when my biggest, no lie, ambition in life was to have a friendslist of over 500 people. And ... I really have no idea why. Safety in numbers, maybe? I know that, by the time I achieved it, I'd lost all interest in it as an ambition. ( Read more... )

I thought, "Why not try writing a Regency romance? You love Austen and you like Heyer, plus it would give you the excuse to buy this awesome book. Also, fools like Julia Quinn write Regency romances that get on the NYT Bestseller list, so you could probably afford said book by doing it."

Then I read an excerpt from a Julia Quinn.

a woman with ( Read more... )

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Helen has deserted me to go back to her (questionably deserving) family for Christmas. This is quite tragic for me, although less so for them. The most memorable part of her visit - which I mention because she threatened to anyway - was me accidentally crying at the ending of Hercules. HI HELEN ( Read more... )

So ( Read more... )

I am returned from London, which had sunshine and books and a Helen, to Ireland, which has rain and a non-starting car and a miniature flood. My intention to take in a lot of Cultural Sites was negated by lolling around on bookshop floors discussing poetry and gaylit for hours and hours; I think in the end ours was by far the better plan. The only ( Read more... )

I read the Sunday Times book review. (That counts as 'reading the paper', right?) And it strikes me how utterly POINTLESS so many books are.

Like: a personal history of jigsaws. Not even a history. A PERSONAL history.

Or: Allegra Huston's memoirs. Bearing in mind that Allegra Huston wasn't even technically Allegra Huston, why is her memoir worthy ( Read more... )