#london writers

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

i vote that next year instead of reading Dracula we do a Jeeves & Wooster Book Club. those two never got the rabid tumblr shipping fandom they deserved (disqualified for the sheer technicality of being published a century too soon). we must correct this injustice

[wield-the-mighty-pen]

LADRIEN PANIC ATTACK PART 2?!?!!?!?!?!?! LADRIEN PANIC ATTACK PART 2!!!!?!?!?!?!

LADRIEN.

PANIC.

ATTACK.

PART 2?!?!!?!?!?!?!

[logophilist1982]

William Shakespeare

[doraminatook]

We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)

2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot.  Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)

Because I’m a storyteller and have a dark sense of humor, I began to wonder if I would somehow have a Christ-like-figure-moment within my thirty-third year of life.  (Not long after my birthday, I told my mom that I just had to make it to 34 and then I would have “beaten” Jesus; being a good Lutheran woman, she did not appreciate this joke.)

Now, I may be reaching or forcing figurative imagery into the literal world (isn’t that what artists do?), but I think I did have a “death” and consequential “resurrection”.  

I’m at a strange place in my writing career in that I am not famous (by any means) but I’m also not considered emerging.  Recently, I was told by a theater that I should “sit this contest out” and give someone else a chance but at the same time my work has not been produced enough to catch an agent’s eye.  (It doesn’t help that theatre companies have an intense fixation on world premieres.  They want to be the first one to do the show, apparently assuming that as soon as a piece gets produced once, that means it’s finished.  But that’s a rant for another day.) 

Currently I live in Milwaukee and for a long time I thought (or at least hoped) that I could maybe just make it work here; it is technically a theater town.  Add to that the fact that my whole family lives in Wisconsin, my financial situation was not ideal, and my best friend (platonic soulmate) had made it fairly clear to me that she did not wish to move away from Milwaukee.  When I was honest with myself, I knew that I wanted to get out, but there were so many things holding me back from making the jump.  

As soon as the thought of moving away entered my head, Anxiety would perk up.  Always eager to be the backseat driver, it would shout things like, “Isn’t life here good enough for you?  You’ve got a roof over your head, a job that allows you to pursue your passion, and you’re perfectly healthy.  Be grateful for what you have and stop expecting something more!” 

I attended a workshop for other playwrights from the area and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I didn’t have a lot in common with many of them.  Discussions and questions whirled around about how we find time to write, where we get inspiration, and how we format a script properly.  Some of the writers present had never even finished a full script.  I certainly am not bringing this up in order to shame anyone, but it was an eye-opening experience for me.  Was I a proverbial big fish in a little pond?

My anxiety had an opinion for that, too.  

“Wow!  Way to be egotistical, D!  You think you’re so much better than everyone here?  Get over yourself!  You’re not special.  You’re just another ‘artist’ who thinks they’ve got something special to say!”

A few weeks later I was at my cousin’s wedding and after the ceremony, he approached me to offer congratulations for all the success I’ve had…only to then immediately cut me off guard with the question, “So when are you moving to New York?”  As the groom, he was quickly called away for photographs and I never really got to answer his question.  

If this moment had been in a play, the spotlight would have hit me right then and there and I would have begun some contemplative soliloquy where I openly pondered, “New York, eh?  Maybe I should go to New York!”

Obviously, as a theatre person, the idea of moving to New York had crossed my mind; it’s the theatre capital of the US for obvious reasons.  But, at the same time, New York just didn’t feel like me.  (I have a lot of opinions on NYC, especially when it comes to the outrageous ticket prices.  When it costs a small fortune to see a Broadway show, art becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.  But that’s a rant for another day.)  It certainly seemed daunting, and every good dream should be at least a little daunting.  But New York was daunting without being exciting.  It felt like something I should do…something that was expected of me.

LA didn’t do it for me, either.  Nor Seattle.  I considered many locations, but nothing really made me sit up and take notice.  I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into debt and throw away a good thing unless it was something that truly excited me…something that was enticing enough to spark a change.  

Again, Anxiety spoke up, “Calm the fuck down, D!  New York?  Even if that is what you wanted, they’d eat you alive there!  You’re a soft midwestern girl who can’t take criticism and cries at the drop of a hat!  You really think you could handle New York or LA?  Also, the cost of living in any of those places is way more than you will ever hope to make!  Stick with Submission Helper.  Stick with the contests and the festivals.  Go back to dreaming only as big as The Milwaukee Repertory Theatre.  Sit down and shut up!”

It may have gone on like this…if not for the summer of 2023.

Close your eyes and picture it: WGA strike, Barbenheimer, The Eras Tour, OceanGate, the Grimace Birthday shake…and in the midst of it all, I was having an epiphany.  

A favorite television show of mine dropped its latest season and I eagerly pulled out the Chardonnay and the popcorn to binge it all.  The vast majority of the show takes place in London and features several actors whom I admire greatly.  Between the giggles, sobs, and various twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster that was Season 2, something all at once occurred to me.

This is what I want.  

That’s where I want to be.  

I want to move to the United Kingdom.

Was it daunting?  Hell yeah, it was daunting.  

And it was exciting.  

It was a dream that excited me.  

It burned inside me.  

It raged.

It burned so hot that I didn’t know what to do with it.  I paced around my tiny apartment, simply stunned by the prospect of it all.  

Anxiety was in the process of drinking a quad shot espresso con panna and promptly did a spit take upon hearing this new idea.  In a frenzied panic, it bellowed, “Are you nuts?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?  YOU can’t move to the UK!  It would be so difficult!  You’d need to apply for a Visa…or something like that!  Do you even know how to apply for a Visa!”  

“No,” I metaphorically replied, “but I could learn.”

“I bet it’s super difficult!” Anxiety shot back, trembling in fear, “I bet it’s expensive and complicated and you’ll never figure it out!  I bet your sense of humor wouldn’t translate!  I bet you’d end up broke and living under a bridge and crying because you threw away this good thing you had!”

For a split second, Anxiety almost won…but somehow, prompted by the promise of this new dream, I dared to ask, “But what if it worked out?  What if I could figure it out?  What if I somehow scraped up the money and did the research and filed the paperwork and just made it work?”

If it were a play, I would have been standing center stage, staring out into the audience like some kind of dramatic hero and whispering hopefully, “Yes…what if…?”  

It has been a long road to get here, but, despite what Anxiety likes to tell me, I did figure it out.  The process has been stressful enough to induce atypical Shingles and a few anxiety attacks, but it’s happening.  It’s actually happening!

This October I’m going to grad school at the University of Essex where I’ll pursue my masters degree in Scriptwriting.  I’ll hone my skills as a playwright while learning the ins and out of writing for film, television, and radio.  I’ll take the train into London on the weekends and see every show I can at the National Theatre.  I’ll get new life experiences.  I’ll do my best to explore every inch of that beautiful island.  I’m going to do something new because it’s scary and, most importantly, it’s exciting.  

(To add to the awesomeness of this new adventure, my best friend (platonic soul mate) is moving with me and pursuing her own dreams of studying acting…also at the University of Essex.)

My “death” was not as dramatic or world-changing as Jesus’s, but it gave way to a new life for me.  The power of storytelling combined with a newfound confidence was enough to catapult me into something new, something different.    

And I know you’re wondering what show I was watching that prompted this sudden change; if you know anything about me, you’ve probably guessed it already.  

Along with seeing as much theatre as I can on my visits to London, I also plan to have surreptitious meetings at The Bandstand, feed ducks some frozen peas at St. James’s Park, and maybe help avert an apocalypse (or two).  My birthday is in January and it just so happens that Season 3 is scheduled to begin filming around that time; perhaps on my winter holiday, I’ll put myself onto a train and take myself up to Edinburgh.  I have so many thoughts on what could possibly happen next to my favorite angel and demon…but that’s a rant for another day.

(Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.)

[lyrical-swift]

Taylor Swift - So Long, London

[galina]

I need auto writing, I need touching my pen to the world

[pommedepersephone]

Me: I should really finish these three 00Q fics I have started before I start any more...

Daniel and Ben:

Me: Well fuck me very much, time for a fourth one then.

[sbrown82]

Marsha Hunt, circa 1969

[the-clay-quarters]

failure text for trying to teach the kolomans chess- i love how its specifically Bad kreuzberg haha. wait-

thats?? not supposed to exist yet????

[marisol-holme]

[Ad for myself because I back myself]

Might be shouting into the void, but if anyone is looking to hire a freelance experienced writer for their business, and happen to be on Tumblr, then lucky you!

Reach out to me on here, or follow my instagram (linked below) and we can do a quick zoom and a haggle over service charges.

Serious enquiries only please, I am a busy human.

I am UK based.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marisolholme?igsh=MTBib2ZnYTNzYjAxaA%3D%3D&utm_source=qr

[nr1-logo-design-inspiration]

"Castle + book" logo concept ☆

Contact & inquiries:

Creativelogodesigns01@gmail.com

[rivusapoems]

i would've died for your sins, instead i just died inside

[bs2sjh]

May 10 - Choice

John chose to be angry. He chose to interpret Sherlock's actions in that way. He chose not to give his friend any opportunity to explain, and he chose to walk away. And now he was choosing to grab the whisky and pour an unhealthily large glass before slamming the bottle down on the worktop. 

Sessions with his therapist were a trial, but today was worse. He made a choice to tell them about what had happened the night before. About how he had confronted Sherlock. How he had demanded an explanation. 

His therapist interpreted everything differently. Had John considered that he had pre-chosen his course of action? That no matter what Sherlock had said, John had already chosen not to listen? That John had chosen never to trust Sherlock again even though he had been given no reason not to in the intervening ten years?

John also made the choice to be angry at the therapist. To walk from the session early having not heard what he wanted to hear. That his choices were valid. That he had a point. That he had acted appropriately. 

He knocked back the whisky and made to refill the glass. Only the sound of his daughter arriving home from her friend's made him choose to stop. He chose to turn his back on the bottle. 

This one upset Grammarly a lot. I use Grammarly for my copywriting work, and this 221b upset it massively. So enjoy as I butcher the English language for dramatic effect.

All for @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge.

All previous parts, along with today's, can be found here

[motherofplatypus]

Watching London Special's trailer be like:

Like, you can have opinion on NY, Shanghai, and Paris special, but at minimum they presented something new which fits their position as special.

London special doesn't seem to be planning on giving us any of that, but instead pull another Derision that, instead of acknowledging it as either a good thing, bad thing, or ambiguous, they wanted to justify it to spite us.

And to make it worse, it seems that this special is kinda necessary to start off S6, which defeats the whole reason of a special. If you need to watch something outside of the main story to understand it, then you already failed at its concept.

[wren-was-here]

watching Aliens of London knowing that ✨Dr. Sato✨ was in fact not a doctor at all and had no idea what she was doing makes it so much funnier

because like, the doctor thinks she knows a lot about medicine but nothing about aliens when really she deals with aliens daily but has little to no idea what a pig’s brain is actually supposed to look like

also just the fact that she found the doctor before jack did. like i know that version of the doctor couldn’t’ve helped him because he hadn’t met jack yet but still it’s funny

ianto was also at the very least in the same building as the doctor at one point (canary wharf), and that version of the doctor absolutely did know what was wrong with jack, which means that two of his employees encountered the doctor before jack did

gwen didn’t meet him until after exit wounds, but her family still came into contact with him before jack did

it also means that the only torchwood employee that didn’t meet the doctor was owen and that makes me sad

[thecrownnet]

Imelda Staunton and Jim Carter

The Downton Abbey alums showed their support for SAG-AFTRA at a London Equity event on July 21.

Credit: Mark Thomas/Shutterstock

Actors hold an Equity banner at a rally in support of SAG-AFTRA strike, London, July 21, 2023 (Source)