Long time, no type

Two weeks at home came to an end several hours ago. Back to the ghost town of Southampton, I'm tired, hot and a third thing I cannot think of right now.

Back home, time, pace. It has a different rhythm to city life, not too quick as the former, nor does it go at a snails pace of a village. Not good, not bad, just home. I weighed the pros and cons between home and uni, I can sleep there but no gym to go to. I got bored, ate terribly, went through three seperate tubs of Ben & Jerrys, had plenty of free pub grub. The first week, I don't know what I was doing but I acheived next to nothing, so much for finishing my second draft of my screenplay and starting my third draft. As I type, I am twelve days away from the hand-in and I didn't even bother doing the other work, yet. But to be honest, that just feels supplementary. My final mark means nothing to me, my screenplay does.

I slowly but surely got around to finishing the second draft over the course of the last week, I luckily got upto 20 pages for two days, but in between slogged to progress but I wasn't feeling it. Sometimes I need to warm myself into it, other times I just know it isn't working and do something constructive like sit in front of the television, eating digestives.

The script slowly came along, tighter than the first draft by a while. If my first draft was a car, the engine would have dropped out after a mile. My second draft, that can get you to the shops, think about calling a taxi back. I created some great moments, I feel it could become a film, and has all the potential in the world to have a sequel.

I finally got around to reading my Cormac McCarthy omnibus, nowhere near finished. The Border Trilogy. I bought it because, I've seen several adaptions of his work, but I didn't want to read The Road or No Country for Old Men. So I got this, It took some time getting used to in the way it was written, abstract description, lack of grammer. I'm used to Ellroys Staccato sentence structure. I love it when writers change the way a novel can be written. Cormac just gives me a clear sense of Mexico in the first of the trilogy (All the Pretty Horses, which I am still reading). Rawlins, and John Grady Cole, two teenage ranchers from Texas travel to Mexico on a sense of adventure in the mid-1900s. Sometimes it is better when a character cannot explain themselves in that of an English Lit postgrad, uses the intelligence of the characters to tell the world through their eyes, yet maintaining a third person perspective all way through. Skipping over conversations with summaries where as another might just be a monologue of several pages. I can tell I am going to regret finishing the book, I don't want it to finish. The book creates a world free of Western movie tropes and just tells a story, a simple one, told well and with style. 

I wrote something pretty cool, where this paragraph currently is. Then I decided, I'd rather one of my characters says it. If you see any typos, fuck you, I'm tired, I thought regret and wrote recreate (edited). You want to read something good? Read the extract below this post.