Help?

After being in limbo about which professional direction to take as a writer, I've had an epiphany.

Like most sudden realisations, the idea had been staring - no, slapping - me in the face since as long as I could remember. Metaphorically, it was as though one day I'd passed a mirror and stopped to make sense of all the stinging hand prints and big, purple, bruises. Oh, that one was for when I bought my first songbook, I'd say to myself, rubbing a mark on my cheek, and this red patch must have been winning that competition... and that whopper on the end of my nose must have been from that comment from the girl from Prague, which went something like "You are such an inspirational person. There are no words to describe these lyrics... You seem like one of the extraordinary people."


In actual fact, my cheeks are unharmed, and my epiphany happened halfway through a conversation. I've been complaining about the lyrics in chart music for years - how "yeah, yeah, yeah, let's go out tonight", is a pitiful excuse for a chorus, and where in God's name was the depth, or the story? - claiming also, that I could do a much better job, but never had I ever really considered how it would feel if I actually did a better job. How I'd feel hearing my lyrics being blasted through the radio waves instead of the garbage which is out there at the minute.

My actual words were: "Imagine hearing my lyrics on the radio... that would be just... I can't even express it."

Why don't I just do it? I can't put lyrics online without receiving anything but positivity, I've been a front-runner in competitions - the most recent resulting in my winning of the title of "Best Writer" out of a website with 46,951 total members - I've got people telling me I'm talented who live on the other side of the world... Why am I not doing anything with this?

So, returning to the point of this post, I've decided that I'm going to be a lyricist. Notice that doesn't say "hope to be" or any desperate, starry eyed, bullshit, I'm actually going to properly send books of my work off to record labels and make an honest go of this until I make it. Dreams of super-stardom aside, I'd feel so entirely soul satisfied to be completely unknown, and have a pop artist, or boy band, or girl group sing the words I've written instead of bleating on about the same old nights out, and the same old breakups. Let's bring the 80's storytelling lyrics back to pop.

Returning even further to the point of this post... I've titled this "Help?" because as far as physically sending my work off to producers and etc, I'm in need of advice. Especially with the covering letter, and do lyrics need to be in the same format as books when they're being sent away? How far do my lines need to be spaced for notes? Do I need to go through an agency before sending them to labels? I'd appreciate any help I could get, because I've heard so many conflicting opinions from sources which don't have much experience in the area either, and I really want to shed some light on the situation as soon as possible. Thank you to anybody in advance who even as so much as tries to help!!

Please email me on catherine.chapman.cc@gmail.com, or just post a comment if you want to contact me. Thank you!

Braking & Eggs

Inspired like every true Monster of the "Little" kind, by the mind-blowing Marry The Night epic, I've actually got another blog post in the pipeline about a story from my past I've neglected to share with anyone. So, because that's about halfway through and therefore not ready to be put online yet, I felt like writing a little update on my life since so much has happened.

December 1st is officially my lucky day. Not only did I pass my driving test, but I got offered a job. A job! That's right! I'm finally busy going somewhere, at least. Ironically it's a health apprenticeship in a stop smoking service, and that dirty little habit has been something I've picked up recently. I feel like Rebecca Bloomwood - working for the Financial Times and being thousands of pounds in debt at the same time. (The Shopaholic series by Sophie Kinsella is my favourite series of books ever!)

Honestly, I'm so happy. No, speaking to nicotine addicts over the phone and getting paid less than minimum wage for it isn't exactly how I envisioned my first job to be, but it suits me, I think. I like people and I'm sure I'll hear some stories.

So... my last couple of weeks of being a slob are going to be absorbed by car shopping and Christmas. Oh, and not forgetting the occasional sesh like the one we had last night. Buying that drinking game roulette table was a brilliant idea. (On the flip-side, blasting Heavy Metal Lover at 4am, chain smoking and doing shots like a badass, only to throw up as soon as the song finished was not. My tummy hurts.)

When we sesh... We SESH.

Two words. Jesus Christ.

I felt it necessary after this weekend to make a post dedicated to the ancient art of seshing. A "sesh" is slang in my area for a group of friends getting together to drink gallons of booze and to smoke various oddities (including bread sticks... yep, tried it) until we collapse in bed completely obliterated at 6:00am. Seshes aren't something which can happen often... it's only every now and again you feel like drinking and smoking yourself into a senseless stupor, but on some occasions it's absolutely necessary. And, if there was any occasion more perfect than my boyfriend's 20th birthday - one of the greatest seshers who has ever lived, might I add - then feel free to slap me around the chops with that greasy hotdog we found on the cooker yesterday morning. (It was disgusting.)

I don't mean to brag, but if there's a sesh happening, I'm in it right until the end. If I'm not the last blubbering drunk on the kitchen floor in the early hours of the morning, then it hasn't been a true sesh. I think I speak for everybody when I say that when you're in it until the early hours, you form a wonderful kind of connection with the people your drinking with which won't ever be forgotten - no matter how many shots you try to wash it down with at the time. Nobody likes a sleeper, is what I'm trying to say.

On Friday I had my first "every stage of drunk" cycle. Usually all I do when I've had a few drinks is dance like a woman possessed, attempt to sing, and stagger around telling everybody how I believe in them, as though I'm some kind of philosophical master. But, for some reason on Friday, for the first time I went through the textbook stages like a swot in a science lesson. At first I started to get loose, and then came the dancing... all of a sudden I was smoking two at a time, and the confusion reared it's stupid head. I couldn't understand why my boyfriend was getting people to thump him on the back of the head to wake him up... and as a result, I slapped him around the head myself. Stage 5: Violence.

After a little depression session on my own next to the amp - iPod in hand and The Sex Pistols blasting - I was carried upstairs to bed like a sleeping baby in heels. When I realised that the sesh wasn't actually over and I'd just been taken to bed because I'd been depressed for the last fifteen minutes, I stumbled downstairs hardly dressed and ended it how only a true sesher would - one of the last three remaining musketeers, drinking the last glasses of everybody's leftover booze, sitting cross-legged on the floor and dressed proudly in just tiny shorts and a vest - not giving a flying fuck about the fact that it must have been below freezing outside.

I've managed to piece that night together through pictures and stories, but there's a middle part I can't remember for the life of me. Who knows... I might have got even more embarrassingly "violent" and then uncharacteristically quiet and sad. The videos mostly tell a different story (one featuring both a sailor suit and "New York City Boys" blasting, then another partyboying to "I Just Had Sex"), and I'm glad - if I'd of spent the entire night as I'd done for that strange and completely out-of-character fifteen minutes, then I wouldn't be able to say it was the best sesh I've ever been to. It absolutely was!

A true sesh is all about perseverance. As it turned out for me, a little bit of quiet time sorted me out and avoided any arguments which may have ensued if I'd of remained boozed-up and flailing my fists around... Honestly, if someone filmed me, I'd have the video on this post. I'm so ashamed but at the same time find it absolutely hilarious because I'm the least violent person you'll ever meet.

Finally, after pacing yourself and lasting until you're in the final crew at the end of the night, you have to deal with the aftermath the next day. Any tips for sesh hangovers? Well... sleep. Just sleep the fucker off. Oh, and it is a fucker to sleep off. I didn't get out of bed until 5pm on Saturday, but apart from my tummy feeling a bit fragile I was okay. Sleeping naked with a good-looking man for an entire day is the best hangover cure I could possibly recommend.

... Y'know what? That's the best cure for everything, let alone hangovers!

Thanksgiving

This time last year I probably wouldn't have considered writing this post, but as over the year I've met a lot of new American friends (one in particular who writes his blog with me, so here's your shoutout Eric!), who have inspired me to write about what I'm thankful for.

Well, at this present moment, I'm rather thankful for Lady Gaga's new holiday EP "A Very Gaga Holiday". It's the parter EP to her Thanksgiving special, airing later today which I will probably get to watch tomorrow. Her jazz covers are absolutely beautiful, and the acoustic versions of both Yoü and I and the infamous The Edge of Glory (infamous for it's sheer brilliance acoustically), are... outstanding to say the least.

I'm also thankful for the very kind people at the health department of... a "secret organisation" I wish to protect as it will probably reveal whereabouts I actually live so fuck you, rapists... for phoning me up yesterday and basically offering me a job. You know when I applied for it? Ages ago when I was making the daily lists. I can't actually believe how much good came from those little scraps of paper.

So, I wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving and hope you all eat like pigs and enjoy yourselves. Think of me while I'll be having an average day in England, wishing I'm gorging on Turkey like there's no tomorrow. Have a brilliant day!

... Notes: You can buy "A Very Gaga Holiday" on both iTunes and Amazon, and I highly recommend it to non-Gaga fans too, who purely appreciate a beautiful singing voice backed by a big band. Trust me on this - at least give it a try or a preview. You won't be sorry.

And, while I'm here, please check out my friend's blog too. His name is Eric, and we've been writing them together since the dawn of Busy Going Nowhere. He posts exactly the same witty crap as me, except he's in college, not unemployed, and is on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Give it a read here! http://sdfeitherway.blogspot.com/

LISTEN to this, I beg of you! Orange Colored Sky:

Whatever Happened to The Killers?

I loved this band. Sam's Town even replaced American Idiot as my favourite album of all time for a while. In a magazine I bought for when I was on holiday (to be honest I hardly read magazines any other time... unless there's maybe an appearance made by Mother Monster) there was an article on how they're writing their new album. It's about Vegas and slot-machines, apparently. Right up my street!

RELEASE IT for God's sake! I miss them so much.

English Test

Imagine you’re in an English exam. 

You turn the page over, and find that question one is an essay question.

“In 1,500 words, describe a person you love.”

You think of... your best friend, Erica.

It’s an essay question, and you’re getting marked on your writing ability, so you think of all the things you find special about your best friend and your mind goes wild – all the fun trips you’ve taken, all the stories and laughs you've both shared, all the times she’s been there for you and vice-versa – and then organise them into neat paragraphs so that the essay itself will flow and make sense. 

When you finish the essay, proud of this achievement, you move on to question two. 

“In 500 words, describe the same person who you have written about in question 1.” 

You stare at the paper, confused. But, what would the point in that be? You’ve just written about your best friend in a lengthy format – how much more does this question expect? 

After thinking about it, you decide that this must be testing your ability to pick out key points in an essay and how developed you are at re-evaluating your own writing.

Turning back to the essay, you re-read what you’ve just written and choose only the most defining reasons for loving your best friend, then combine them with just your most favourite of her qualities instead. For the rest of the question, you include the odd phrase which suggests the points you further explained in question one, however do not completely finish the idea. For example, “Erica and I have enjoyed thousands of amazing trips together, from nipping to the shops in college to holidays in Spain. Our Spanish holiday...” is shortened to “Erica and I have enjoyed thousands of amazing trips together, both at home and abroad.” 

Happy with your final answer, you decide it is time to move on to the last question. 

“In poetry format, describe the same person who you have written about in questions 1 and 2. 

The poem must contain no less than 4 stanzas, and must be in an alternate rhyme scheme.”

This scenario reversed is a metaphor for what I seek when I’m analysing song lyrics.

What I as a listener get to play with is a song with a typical lyrical format (intro, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, bridge, pre-chorus, chorus, chorus, outro), A.K.A “the poem” in my little metaphor. All I get is the end result, but what I’m trying to achieve is “the essay” in question one or even better – the thought process behind the essay before it was even written.

"Magic Boots"

Lately I can't tell if I'm actually being a horrible person or that I'm just stubborn. While shopping with my parents last weekend (a treat I don't get to experience very often), I acknowledged that on top of being a stubborn arse, I'm nearly incapable of changing my mind in a short space of time.

For example, I wanted a new pair of boots. I'm a nightmare to shop with - I either want everything or will refuse the most beautiful pairs of shoes because they're not directly similar to the specific design of a pair I've cooked up in my mind (which, to be fair, probably don't even exist in the first place). In this case it was the latter - I decided that I wanted a new pair of winter boots and that they would be a major investment instead of something trivial I'd pick up for £30 and would wear out in a month. In the whole of York I spotted two pairs that I loved.

One pair were in a rich chocolate brown, and would go with everything. The others were jet black and covered in laces - and I loved them purely because they were a work of art. Thus began a little battle in my head: should I make a sensible choice or blow my money on the beautiful pair?

Of course it was going to be the beautiful pair. Of course it was. Nevertheless, as I was trying the brown boots on, I felt angry with myself. I should be making the sensible decision and buying these boots which go with my new coat, but, I knew I wasn't going to. It killed me.

It killed me to the point where I was actually angry when I bought the black pair. "Great, now I'm going to need a new coat, a new scarf... eventually spend a bit more money I don't have." Yet, I was absolutely making the right decision by buying the ones I loved the most. I've been wearing them with pride all weekend, staring longingly at them whenever I sit down with little hearts in my eyes, and clicking my heels together as though on top of being beautiful, they are magic boots which are going to take me to meet Dorothy and the Munchkins.

So... the point of that lengthy anecdote was that I wanted to explain how even though I was doing something brilliant, I was in a certain negative mindset about not making the sensible decision, and couldn't manage to get out of it while I did something which was supposed to make me happy. I felt the same way about a situation a bit more important than boots (yes, it's possible) earlier in the week.

It's a person. He's... back. I said my goodbyes, I came to terms with what happened and moved on. I'm sorry to say it's nothing juicy like a love affair (I'm always annoyingly happy with that sort of thing), but it's equally as important and to be honest it's screwed me right up. Am I being horrible by ignoring him? Is it that I'm just stubborn and find it hard to change my mindset so quickly? I came to terms with the fact that he'd gone. When somebody dies, that's not a bloody easy thing to do.

It's even harder to bring them back to life when they wake up.