Notes on a maturing student? Ha ha - that seems like a life time ago. Job done, MA completed, distinctly happy with outcome bit now onto real life. Struggling to finish the book I started, thought I would have endless time and now be onto another. Ha! Life got in the way. Attempting to pick up the threads, again, and have set a deadline for Christmas.

"Nuff said" is the appropriately crass terminology to sum up recent events that peaked with a catastrophic nosebleed in the school playground in front of very small children, but not mine thankfully. Tiredness and a retreating cold resulted in an impressive Hammer House of Horror fountain of blood that refused to be quelled.

Onto better and so much brighter things. I am writing a new story for my MA - and not because someone "didn't get it." It's a risk that has already earned me the accolade (in the eyes of my more youthful fellow students) of a formal warning; I prefer to see it as a gauntlet.

I'm enjoying the process - not that I've written much of it yet; I've spent the time planning, thinking and working out an outline. Today I met a lovely lady called Tiny who was a land girl in Cornwall during WWII. I have discovered in myself a genuine desire to find out about these (once) young women who worked so hard for so little reward or recognition - it was shocking to learn their efforts were only formally recognised last year, over 60 years after the war ended.

Anyway, notes on a maturing student. I've definitely aged over the last month, but not for the reasons I expected - I've felt myself out there and exposed. But with maturity comes perspective and from that vantage point I've found some truly great and lovely people in the fantastic students I have been lucky enough to learn alongside these past 10 months.

Notes on a maturing student? Thinking of re-naming it to those of one regressing...I have stopped in whatever tracks I may have been making and cannot find the motivation to continue with this whole being a student again when I should really be thinking about my future - pensions, rocking chairs and the like.

It all started with a presentation of my novel for the MA - I cannot present. That is what I have always told myself and so that is what I believed. Except this time I secretly whispered to myself that it would be different - I am a grown woman for goodness' sake with four children and a hefty mortgage; I can do this. I prepared, I thought a lot about it and made loads of notes, whittled them down and practiced saying my spiel out loud. I even enlisted the help of a talented friend from the Fine Art BA course to provide some beautiful pictures. But it just wasn't enough.

My hand shook when trying to double click on the tiniest of arrows magnified enormously on the screens behind me to progress my carefully crafted presentation. That was okay, because it was keeping my shaking voice company along with my quivering lips and forced cheeriness. Relieved to have finally finished I turned to the panel in the hope of a few gently probing but ultimately encouraging responses about my proposed story only to be met with: "I don't get it?"

Instead of responding maturely and calmly talking through the points that could have brought a knowing look of illumination and appreciation for such a fantastic idea, I recoiled, retracted and almost agreed that I didn't get it either!

Oh to have the maturity to match my years and my natural hair colour. Maybe the fact that I had decided to disguise it only days before, resulting in a less than attractive orange which then had to be severely cut short to minimise its impact had something to do with it. Sadly, the repercussions are ongoing - not with my hair, that will grow to be dyed another day. My confidence is snuffling around way below floor level as my poor show means I lose the chance to present my idea to an invited agent, but that's okay as I'll get to watch all the really good other less mature students do it instead.

Put your pens down

Time flies when you're busy not writing blogs. The sweetest words were said to me today - don't write anymore until I say so. First I claim to have sought permission to write and now I am looking for permission to stop. Just for a day at least. And I've made good use of the time - I made a dalek with Harry out of cardboard, plastic bottles and a whisk - the whisk was a nice touch. Harry loved that. Have you seen the gun on a dalek?

This is the same Harry that fell back onto the pavement at the weekend and cracked his skull. Shaking, the pair of us, he asked me sorrowfully if he was going to die. Not today darling, was as much as I could say. Once he had had Calpol and cuddles and a trip to casualty ruled out, he rallied enough to show disappointment that he wasn't actually able to see where his head was cracked open.

Fishing at the Book Fair

Go to the Book Fair, they said, found out about the market, they said, get a feel for what's out there, they said. Well, Books is what's out there. Piles and piles of them, none of which were being read by the hoards of people swimming around them, in tight shoals, making deals, shaking hands and then fencing themselves off after hours to drink on it. Great for reinforcing that small fish, big pond thing.

It was bewildering but saved for us fledgling writers by the mostly great seminars that took place on the periphery. The over-riding message I took home with me on the train this evening: "write the book that's inside you - stuff the market." It's good to be savvy, but if you try simply to fill a gap you'll be filling it with poor quality filler that won't weather the storm. Not sure I'm entirely confident that whatever brand of filler I eventually mix up, it won't crack at the first editorial hurdle.

Back from Narnia

Back to London for a week. Feel like we have all been to Narnia and had this great adventure but when we come back nothing has changed. Such a cliche but it is like we have never been away - I imagined people would be stopping me in the street asking me to share insightful gems on life outside the city and gush about what a great time I have been having for the past almost two years. Not a bit of it - nodding acquaintances of old are still nodding as if they saw me only last week. Obviously it is different with friends, but arrogantly I wanted my dramatic change of life to mean something to everyone!

How easily we have all slipped back into leafy south east London; we even had a Chinese takeaway! If that sounds lame you clearly don't know the scene in Truro. I've been given copy-writing work since arriving back and asked to come in for a meeting - I'm wondering if I should remind them that I have actually left to make a shiny new life in the south west. Best not, good work can only happen if you live and breath London; one couldn't possibly write something topical and incisive amongst all those pasties.

Blogging? Blog off!

Blogging. Still not sure I am convinced of the merits - I email my friends and talk to them. That really is as much as they would like to know about my life, and as much as I would like to share. Blogging seems self indulgent, arrogant and weird. Who reads this really - anyone who doesn't know about me? Of course not, not unless they have stumbled on this by mistake. A publisher? I don't think so.

It's good writing practice, say the MA tutors, like playing the piano. Hmm..I write every day - I copy-write for a living, I try to write radio scripts (badly it seems at the moment) and more pages of my novel (hopefully less badly), I email friends and I am trying to get to grips with a website for me and my fellow students. I write all the time - if you don't believe me ask my children:

"Mummy? Will you...can you...please can I...?"

Stock answer: "Just a minute, Mummy's busy, writing..."

"Can I do some writing on your computer? Will you help me write a story about pirates?"

"No, go away." I used to be a nice Mummy.

I also used to go running beside creeks, taking our bonkers dog, loving the fresh air and beauty of it all. Now I sit and try to imagine and then write about other people doing exciting things with their lives while I scoff the kids sweets, drink too much tea and coffee and get lardy, pasty and irritable in the process. Blogging? I'm too busy writing.