We’ve been together now for twelve years but all good things must come to an end, and so must this blog. I’ve struggled to post anything, as you know, for three or four years. The initial problems were health issues and depression; I recovered, but the blogging routine was gone. I tried several times to get it going again but I had lost the sense of fun, so I have decided to officially call it quits.
Inside, I’m crying
After completing the MA, I didn’t write anything at all for well over two years, until a good friend asked me to join her in a project: we would set each other daily writing prompts and have a rapid turnaround. Not expecting much, I said, sure, why not? That was nine months ago and I am now writing an average of six poems a week.
Yes, I have gone back to my first love. I’ve been feeling guilty for a while, like I’ve cheated on all of you, but the heart wants what the heart wants.
I have set up a new blog, Poetry Fluff. It’s aimed at people who dislike or are afraid of poetry: basically, it’s this blog’s silliness in rhyme. I do hope you’ll check it out but I’ll understand if you don’t.
Thank you to all of you who followed me, interacted with me, encouraged my silliness, met me in person, sent me gifts/cards/jokes, mourned with me, answered polls, liked, and commented…you are precious to me and I will not forget you. You brought me real joy, people I never met (and a few I did).
Thank you.
Love,
Tilly Bud
PS Maltesers are my preferred going away gift. Obviously.
Hello, dear reader! (I’m assuming I only have one left now, so long have I been gone). I’ve been busy since September and here’s an article I wrote, first published in October on the Write Out Loud website, to explain why:
My student ID pic
Since graduating with a BA in literature in 2008, it has been my dream to complete an MA in creative writing; specifically, poetry. I knew I needed to mature as a writer, and that happened to coincide with having no money. I was able to apply to Manchester Metropolitan University this summer, however, because a couple of years ago the government introduced student loans for a second degree.
Reader, I was accepted. I was overjoyed, particularly as the news came at the end of Freshers Week, when I was wondering why I hadn’t yet received my rejection email.
A welcome email arrived on the Thursday, from the writing school’s manager; followed by the offer email on Friday, around five pm. I was excited and panicked at the same time: I have to apply for student finance? (You certainly do!) When do I start? (Monday?!). Will I be allowed to attend class if my finance isn’t in place? (Yes). Where do I go? (The old Cornerhouse). What do I do? (Not panic…oops, too late).
My first degree was with the Open University so I was excited to go to a “real” i.e. brick university but, oh, how at first I wish I hadn’t bothered. Two weeks in and it was all YOU OWE US MONEY GIVE US MONEY YOU WILL BE SANCTIONED IF YOU DON’T PAY THE MONEY SHOW US THE MONEY.
I understand that education is big business these days, but please, MMU, don’t invite me at the last minute so that I miss out on the helpful information; leave me to flounder; and then nag me to the death of joy. Truthfully, at this stage I’d be happier with my notebook and pen and just the one degree, thank you very much.
From the ridiculous to the sublime: three weeks in, the course is fabulous. It is challenging and difficult and I am surrounded by so much talent I can’t help feeling they made a mistake when they sent out the offer letter. But you’d have to pry it from my cold, dead Gmail account first.
You know you’ve never had it so good when one of your professors is Michael Symmons Roberts and the other is Carol Ann Duffy. And when the poet laureate hands out free books, takes you across the road to the pub and buys you a drink and, when you ask for some advice says, “That’s what I’m here for,” you know you’ll say: “Here’s the money! I had to sell my children to get it, but it is totally worth it!”
Excited? Yes. Terrified? Yes. Fed up with officialdom? Always. Would I want to be anywhere else? What do you think?
This is a slightly edited repost from 2013, but I’m out of ideas so I thought I’d share it again. It contains some good advice for new bloggers.
Let’s start with a poem I wrote some years ago:
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The Thing About Poetry Is
Titles are vital
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The same is true of blog posts. Titles are vital to lure unsuspecting readers to your blog, where you will dazzle them with your wit and wisdom and encourage them to waste time they could have used for eating, watching TV, and sitting on the couch.
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How Not To Write A Post Title
From my blog:
Joke 648
Unless you are looking for 648 jokes, it’s rather dull. However, it does tell you exactly what you will find: a joke; the 648th joke in a long line of jokes.
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Be Specific
The Value Of A Good Blog Title
is not particularly interesting but it will attract people looking to improve their blogging. I know this because
Seven Tips For New Bloggers
still attracts readers, years after being posted. List titles like this are also popular, for reasons I’m sure psychologists could tell you, though I can’t.
A word of caution, however: don’t be tempted to make it 147 Tips For New Bloggers, because nobody’s attention span is that long. I know this from experience.
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Be Topical
It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
Posted in December, it’s seasonal and likely to attract Christmas fanatics like me. In November, it makes me the blogger who’s ahead of the game; in June, it makes me quirky and will, hopefully, make the reader curious. But beware: posted in January, it’s the blogging equivalent of the guest who won’t leave when the party’s over.
Sometimes, being topical leads to dumb luck:
Some Snow Facts
A fun factual post a year earlier led to my best-ever day – 4,720 hits – when Google Doodle celebrated the 125th anniversary of the discovery of the World’s Largest Snowflake. I’d have been happier if just one of those people looking for the Google Doodle had left a comment but, hey, I’m not one to look a gift spike in the mouth.
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Reference Popular Culture
Here are some posts of mine which still receive hits:
Twilight: I Hope Bella Remembered To Shave
Seven Of Nine, And Not In A Good Way
Robert Pattinson With Small Hairs
Being up to date with the news helps:
What Really Happened To Gaddafi
brought in hundreds of people who thought a housewife in Stockport could tell them what 24-hour news channels and thousands of dedicated reporters could not.
Adding the word ‘Review’ to a title is another good way to attract readers. However:
It irritates them if you use the word ‘Review’ and then don’t review whatever it is you claim to be reviewing. I know this from experience.
Reviewing books and movies four years after they’ve been released is unlikely to make your post a bestseller (I was surprised to discover).
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Use Keywords And Phrases
Here are some posts that still receive hits. One was written six years ago:
You’re Only As Old As The Woman You Feel – old jokes and clichéd phrases are popular searches as ageing people begin to lose their memories (I know this from experience).
Smile And The World Smiles With You – the word ‘smile’ is the top search that finds this blog, with over 10,000 visits.
A Is For ‘Arguments’ – the key word here is ‘A’. Bizarrely, the letter ‘a’ comes in at Number 7 on my search list, with 1,044 hits.
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Sweaty Armpits (Photo credit: mricon)
Have Fun!
After all, if you’re not trying to change the world, it doesn’t matter who reads your blog so long as you are enjoying yourself.
Here are some of my favourite titles from posts that I have written:
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Famous With Sweaty Armpits
Okay, Tesco: I Forgive You
So Many Jokes, So Little ClassI like this one for its searing honesty.
If I Break Wind, I’ll Write About It The previous title refers.
I Have To Kill My Kindle
Love Many, Trust Few And A Canoe
I’m Three Mugs Of Tea Away From Becoming A Feminist
It’s Time To Give Up FoodI like this one for its absurd premise.
Ten Don’ts For When I’m Dead Another list post.
Bring In Arms Fat Mummy
Hula Hoops. Very Proud Of The Queen. I can’t claim credit for this one as it was from a comment by another blogger.
Vasectomy Dog And A Frog Disease Called Awesome
Camping: The Art Of Staying Wet Indoors
Flying To Spain In A Manky Cardi
A Labled Easy To Follow Leg
Sandra Bullock Has A Sex Change And Retires To Norfolk
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A Final Tip
Related to blogging but not to titles in particular: ask an open-ended question. A question as title will pull in the curious and the opinionated (I know this from experience). You don’t have to use it as a title, however; you can use it as a closing sentence. It never fails (I know this from experience).
Before I begin, let me just say that this is the first time I’ve used the new-look New Post feature and I HATE it. It’s all white space and missing or moved buttons. Wassup with that, WordPress?
I’m in a bad mood. I have discovered the point of philosophy, a question which has puzzled me since the summer of 2003. That was the first year of my Open University degree. I attended summer school in Manchester – seven minutes away from my house by train; and I chose it for just that reason, having a sick husband and two young children at home. Plus, I was a wimp in those days. Travel alone in such a lawless country as Britain? Forget it.
It was a glorious summer (the sun always shines on happy memories) and I had a blast, spending all of my time in lectures and learning, singing in the choir that was composed of almost the whole cohort of students, and playing Medea’s daughter in an amusing stage parody. I was disappointed not to get two weeks, à la Educating Rita, but loved any break from my adorable family.
I attended a lecture on the piece of music which was the subject of my next assignment and it was so good, all I had to do was transcribe my notes into coherent sentences, giving me one of my best marks that year. It’s not cheating if you’re just paying attention in class.
Music was not my best subject but Philosophy was definitely my worst. I just did not get it. I remember sitting in a tutorial that summer and asking, What is the point of philosophy? The tutor looked startled and then annoyed, and he didn’t have an answer. I rest my case.
I wish he was here now, because today I learned the answer: philosophy exists to enable desperate poets to cope with the vagaries of Microsoft.
My Word stopped working. I don’t know why. I don’t know what version it is. I don’t know why I didn’t read the dialogue box that came up every day for a week or more which probably would have told me. But that doesn’t matter because of course it’s Microsoft’s fault: it is the creator, and we always blame the creator when things go wrong. That’s my philosophy.
I haven’t been around the blogosphere much because I’m nearing the end of phase three of my second poetry collection: the editing process. The editing process is my favourite part: the research has been done; the poems have been drafted from thin air; I don’t yet have to brutally cut some of my favourite babies, or put out for a publisher. All I have to do is neaten, tidy and completely re-write until I’m sort of but not quite satisfied with the work that’s already done.
I edit, therefore I am happy.
I type, therefore I am busy.
I think, therefore I am using the education the Open University gave me.
I stay at my computer, therefore the Hub doesn’t have to see me.
I lose Word and my life falls apart: what am I supposed to do with my time if I can’t edit poems? I might have to talk more to the Hub [shudder]. What if the world never gets to read my genius because Word owns me?
Tain’t right; tain’t fitting; tain’t proper (how I miss you, Ross Poldark; please come back to my TV and be gorgeous again).
I may just be losing it…it’s only been thirty minutes since Word said Get lost and I’m babbling like a woman who just lost her Word.
On the plus side, I now have time to read your blogs.
Sidebar: the architecture block of the 2003 course was fascinating but the only thing I remember is how to identify columns. To this day, I have a weird finger thing I do to remind myself of whether a column is Doric, Ionic or Corinthian. Identifying a type of Classical architecture is a totally useless skill for me to have but I love that I can do it.
What’s your useless skill?
A Poem to Mourn a Great Loss
I miss Word. Word has gone.
How will my work be done?
I’m editless; I’m numb.
This poem is the sum of my madness.
Return, Word, and all will be gladness.
Now you see how good a poet I am, you’ll understand why I’m going crazy here.
I signed in to my blog to visit all of yours, and discovered a comment which needed approval:
You may be interested to know that we have written a review of the anthology In Protest, 150 Poems for Human Rights: http://www.margutte.com/?p=5629&lang=en
That’s the same poem which was read at a memorial meeting for Nelson Mandela, and I learned of it after the event.
It seems it’s not just my kids who are going off having lives of their own.
By the way, I’m chuffed! I love the idea of my poem taking on a life of its own, making new friends, learning new languages. It has a way more interesting time than I do.
But at least it won’t break my heart when it moves into student accommodation in September.
It’s not that I’m vain, or anything, but I do occasionally Google my name (okay, I am vain; but can you blame me with this hair?). At least I don’t check to see if I’ve got a Wikipedia page – no, really, I don’t, honest…
I have to Goggle myself when I’m submitting poems, because so many editors exclude poems already published online, even if it was on my now defunct poetry blogs which can no longer be accessed.
I Gaggled four poems and my name this morning and I was disappointed to find one of them in the 2010 comments section of a poetry blog, which means I can’t use it.
The Haggle brought up a pleasant surprise, however – which isn’t always a given when you Giggle yourself; all I’m going to say is tea bags/washingline/shame…. Fortunately, I’m such a prolific blogger that the embarrassing photo is hidden way down in my Boggle listing.
I discovered that a poem published by English Pen last year in their Dictionary of Made-Up Words was featured on their website earlier this year, as part of an ongoing promotion of the book. I didn’t know it was there. I’m chuffed!
Even better – it was retweeted! It’s nice to be twit.
You may say it was coincidence, but I think it’s strange that I didn’t come across this poem until I had my hair cut. I’m like an anti-Samson: all of my power was consumed by my long hair; now it’s short, I’m discovering my work in the ether and being invited to take part in poetry events which may or may not come off so I can’t say anything at the moment…except that the invites were issued after the haircut…
So, do you Wriggle yourself? Or are you afraid to discover dirty little secrets of yours hiding out there in the ether? Are there photos of you drunk at a party? Taking an illicit beach day from work? Wearing flares?
Last Thursday, I gave another poetry reading at Walthew House in Stockport – my third. They have asked me back for a fourth visit. One chap (he’s a chap because he’s from the older generation; if he was my age, he’d be a man; Spud’s age, he’d be a lad. Isn’t language funny?) told me that they had talked about me long after I left last time; then hastened to assure me he meant, ‘in a good way.’ Hmm.
It wasn’t me so much, but the poetry. They are a wonderful, lively group called Talking Heads, and that’s what they do: talk. A lot. The poems I read caused much debate. The group leader had asked for poems on the theme of ‘spring’ so I had prepared about forty poems (I was due to read for an hour), including some of my own. The topics of mine varied from cleaning to seduction to dog poo, but all mentioned spring.
They enjoyed one poem so much – six lines on World War One military equipment – they asked for the name of the poet…which was me. I was delighted to send two people home with copies of the poem – the first time that’s ever happened.
The chap who asked, Vincent, told us it reminded him of a poem he had written when his son was serving in Iraq during the Second Gulf War. He wondered if he could read it to us, but the memory of his emotion at the time – the absolute fear from having a child in a war zone – choked him up so much, it was fifteen minutes before he composed himself enough to read it. It was worth the wait: lovely; touching and heartfelt.
After some talk of Thomas Hardy (none of whose poems I had read, but that will show you the meandering nature of the discussions), Vincent mentioned that his son’s best friend had sent him a collection of Hardy’s poems, underlining The Darkling Thrush in the Contents as his favourite poem. A couple of days after receiving the book Vincent, unable to stay in the house and listen to war news on the radio, had taken an evening walk and came across a lone thrush, singing a solo symphony in the evening air. Vincent was entranced.
Returning home, there was a phone call around 11:30 that night. Shaking, he answered. It was his son: Dad, I’m home! He didn’t have time to talk because there were several people he had to call with the news, but his Dad had been first on the list.
Next evening, Vincent took another walk and came across the same thrush, singing in celebration, it seemed. Vincent said he yelled at it: You knew he was safe last night, didn’t you? You could have told me! Neither Vincent nor the thrush took any notice of the people staring at the barmy man yelling at a bird in the tree.
What a wonderful story, provoked by a poem. And that’s why I love poetry.
I promised to tell you about the poetry reading I gave. It was an interesting experience. I learned how to ignore people, and that’s always good; I’ll try doing it to the Hub.
There is a place called Walthew House here in Stockport, It supports people with sight and hearing problems. They asked me to do a reading at one of their lunch groups. After some discussion over the phone with Ben, the group organiser, we decided to go with my Apartheid collection. I spent an evening preparing for the reading and a month worrying about it.
I shouldn’t have. The group was lovely: warm, friendly, inquiring.
It was the Others…
The lunch group sat at the front of the hall; the Others sat at the back. And talked. And talked and talked and talked. They talked over light poems, dark poems, black and white poems, poems about witchdoctors’ penises and poems about death, murder, bombs and violence (a lot of those).
Fortunately, I had a microphone. Unfortunately, I also had a folder and needed to turn pages regularly. Ben had provided a table but I like to stand when I read, to project. After some serious folder wobbles I had to put it on the table and look down at what I was reading. Looking down while reading aloud is a dreadful way to perform, but I figured the one bunch couldn’t see me and the Others didn’t care to. I tuned the Others out and earned my free lunch over the fifty minutes I wittered on about me and my life and the male genitalia I have met.
Here’s how I did react
I invited questions and there were quite a few from the lunch group. We talked more over lunch. The Others did not eat. I think they may have been the people who brought the lunch group to Walthew House. Their attitude appeared to be, if poetry be the food of driving, talk on.
Despite my complaints, I enjoyed the experience. The group was warm and welcoming and the microphone was on full volume. I’m going back in October.
Now I have to prepare for Saturday: I’m running two poetry workshops at my church Fun Day. No microphones; no lunch; and an open gazebo. I must be mad.
I thought I’d take advantage of the peace and update my poem folders. I had a list of roughly 1500 poems which needed to be categorised. I did that with the hard copies months ago but never got around to updating it on the computer. The title of this post will tell you why.
I moved all the As last week; then the Bs to Rs. I still have the Ss to Zs to move and I can’t put it off any longer.
Once that’s complete, I’ll avoid matching the hard copy folders to the computer folders for as long as I can, but it will have to be done eventually.
Wake me up before you leave.
Go here for more Six Word Saturdays. I recommend that you do – they’ve got to be more interesting than this post.
It has been almost four months since I last updated you on my 101 tasks in 1001 days challenge, mostly because it takes almost four months to write out the name of the challenge.
Do NaNoWriMo
I did do NaNoWriMo, sort of i.e. I got bored and gave up half way through. I suspect than means I won’t complete the next challenge on the list:
Win NaNoWriMo.
English: Animated cartoon on a exercise bike (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Ride my bike twenty out of thirty days
We are at Day 708 of the 1001 days and I have ridden my bike a total of zero times.
On the plus side, I have told 708 jokes.
Expose myself to twenty new experiences (12/20)
Only had one new experience in sixteen weeks: wore a granny outfit and then shared the look with the world. My post on the velour track suit refers.
Hit 250,000 visitors on my blog (289,099/250,000)
I completed this challenge and posted a photograph to prove it. Things have slowed down since then: WordPress made it possible to comment on blogs via email, without having to visit.
Nice, WordPress – find a way to reduce everyone’s stats; I’m sure we all love you for it.
I need to set a new target; what do you think it should be? There are 43 weeks left so please make it realistic, given WordPress’s propensity for scaring away actual visitors.
Free verse poem about loo roll theft, toilet, the office, Hackney, London, UK (Photo credit: gruntzooki)
Write 1001 new poems
I have written 688 so I am only 20 poems behind. I usually catch up in April, which is National Poetry Writing Month.
This is the one challenge above all others which I am determined to complete.
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Make thirty submissions to competitions or publishers (29/30)
I have submitted five times in the last sixteen weeks, counting multiple poems to the same publisher/competition as one. If I have had success, you’ve heard about it. I’m not one to hide my light under a bushel; I’m more likely to set the bushel on fire in my enthusiasm to share.
Films & Books
I reached my target and then some to watch 101 new films (114/101), but I am only halfway to my target of reading new books (51/101). I have done lots of reading, but it tends to be of books that I love. If I want to reach my target, I have to read 1.15 books a week between now and the end of the challenge. It’s doable, but I’ll have to give up movies.
the Biggest loser strategy (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)
I feel terrible.* Janet’s birthday was on 12/12/12. She mentioned it on her blog and in my comments but I didn’t read either in time to respond.
I am quite literal: because Janet is too polite to say, Oi! I want a poem! I didn’t write a poem for her birthday. Remember, if you want a nonsense birthday poem, you must tell me in the comments or via email. Maybe I need to set up a separate page.
Fortunately, Janet got over her politeness to demand, Oi! Where’s my poem?
I first met Janet when she emailed me out of the blue to tell me that my gravatar was not linked to my blog. We’ve been firm friends ever since.
Janet’s first language is Chinese but you’d think it was English. She has a lovely, clever son of twelve, called Ben, who has his own rather impressive blog. He could teach us all a thing or two about history. Janet is sweet and kind and well worth a visit.
Happy Birthday JANET (Photo credit: ali eminov) You can find anything on the internet – even virtual cakes for friends!
A Birthday Apology To Janet Williams
Not elated I’m belated She’s deflated
On her birthday that’s not good I’d time travel if I could I know she’d understood
Battling with my tenses This poem is nonsens- ical’s my consensus
The kindest girl on the planet is my dear, sweet Janet whose name rhymes with ‘pomegranate’
Umm, one more thing, chum: you are a great mum I mean it, by gum!
Happy birthday, Janet. You have the honour of receiving my most nonsensical poem yet. 😀
*Don’t worry: I can assure you that Janet will assure me that I have nothing to feel terrible about. She’s that kind of person: kind.
There sure are a lot of birthdays in December. I guess we know what bloggers’ parents like to do in March.
This is Rosie the Riveter. In America, she’s a famous World War II icon.
My friend Janie Jones, who has a birthday today, is not really called Janie Jones; it’s a pseudonym. She uses Rosie the Riveter’s picture, sort of: it’s a facsimile she drew to make sure the nasty SOPA people (remember them?) can’t lock her up:
I can see her building planes and munitions because she’s tough, after the things life has thrown at her; though she’d rather tell a joke – usually dreadful, and therefore hilarious to me.
I have always liked her blog but I liked it even more way back when I was awarding Cowabungers (remember them?) for the blogger who left the best comment of the week in here. To stay clear of the SOPA police (you must remember them), she didn’t use the image that was her award which I had stolen from elsewhere on the internet; instead, she drew another facsimile:
Janie put it in her sidebar and gave it the title:
Winner of the Coveted CoWAbunger Award, October 10, 2011
See that? COVETED.
I like Janie Jones a lot.
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I Like Janie Jones A Lot: A Birthday Poem
I like Janie Jones a lot. Of plenty she’s not got. She works real hard though it be ard uous to raise alone a tot. Dedicated parents are scarce in this selfish universe, but selfish she is not.
I like Janie Jones a bunch. One day I’ll buy her lunch. I might even tease her with a single Malteser she won’t be allowed to munch. Dedicated poems can be ard uous to write but not hard this time. This line is the punch.
Sorry for the weak ending, Janie. I know it’s kind of lamey.
Happy birthday, Janie Jones. I hope the future’s rosy.
Happy Birthday Single 7″ (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Since hubby forgot my birthday last year, maybe I can at least get a birthday poem. December 4 is my birthday.
To ensure he doesn’t forget again, I have written a cautionary tale.
Candles spell out the traditional English birthday greeting (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A poem sung to the tune of, When Santa got stuck up the chimney
When hubby forgot her birthday she began to shout: You naughty boy won’t get any toys when your day comes about! My birthday’s flat My mood is black My fist is itching, too Because you forgot my birthday: Yes you, yes you, yes you!
It was on the night of her Big Day When Benzeknees began to sway Into the chimney she pushed her bloke He felt smothered, began to choke Oh, what a terrible plight, no joke She left him there all day
Her hubby she pushed up the chimney He began to yell I’m so sorry But don’t you worry I promise I’ll behave well! My head was up there in the other where I know it made you blue I’ll no more forget your birthday Love you, Love you, Love you!
Happy birthday, Benzeknees! Hope it does the trick.
If you would like a nonsense poem for your birthday, leave a comment with some details.
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
The Laughing Housewife 
Thanks for your contribution.
Best regards,
Silvia Pio (editor)
That’s the same poem which was read at a memorial meeting for Nelson Mandela, and I learned of it after the event.
It seems it’s not just my kids who are going off having lives of their own.
By the way, I’m chuffed! I love the idea of my poem taking on a life of its own, making new friends, learning new languages. It has a way more interesting time than I do.
But at least it won’t break my heart when it moves into student accommodation in September.