Oh Dear Diary, We Fell Apart

They say every teenage girl, or person, even, should keep a diary or journal. A place to record your feelings and secrets, and let out your frustrations.

I started keeping a diary before my thirteenth birthday, and ended (so far) just after my fifteenth. I filled up two ring binded Paperchase notebooks. Those rings would become bended and twisted from being shoved in my schoolbag every day. Scrawls of red, pink, blue, black ink that changed colour with the yellow pages of my first notebook.

All my adolescent angst and turmoil was spent during my First and Second years of secondary school, when I was thirteen and fourteen. Some of that has been recorded here, if you're willing to look or have been around long enough. Those diaries were filled with the usual stuff, like 'why won't anyone be my friend? I can't be that unbearable' and 'I HATE THEM ALL THOSE SELFISH BITCHES'. I'm not quoting directly or anything, that's just the gist. Then there was more personal stuff, like 'I thought I was supposed to be smart, so why am I so bad at everything at school?' I wasn't that bad, really. Just terrible at maths, but the next year I would go from Honours to Ordinary, so happy ending there. But lots of people, a few with letters and initials after their names, had told me when I was in primary school that I was really clever, and then I didn't feel clever anymore. I didn't know what to think.

So there I was, pouring all my problems out into my diary, fulfilling the stereotype. People say that's a great way to look at your problems, out there on the page instead of all muddled up in your head. But after a while, I started to realise the opposite - as I wrote them down, my problems left my mind, and in doing so entered the real world. I could not deny them anymore, for they existed. It made them all the more terrifying and unsolvable, and made me all the more unhappier. I didn't like it.

I didn't mean to stop writing my diary, it was completely unintentional. During the Christmas holidays of my Third Year in school, a month after I turned fifteen, my school opened for about a week for girls doing exams to come in and study for a few hours a day. I went in and each day I would spend the bulk of my time studying and about an hour writing in my diary, but the diary-writing time grew day by day. I'd gotten news of a play I was going to be involved in, and I was so excited, but I had a plan. I wasn't going to just write it in my diary, I would print out the email I'd gotten and paste it in, for posterity! So each day I would hint at it, and agonise over leaving my friends, and become unbelievably excited.

I never stuck it in.

I'm glad I got over my angst back when I was younger, and that it didn't stick around. Of course I'm still worried and angry about things now, but only sometimes, and I know how to deal with it. I know that I have power. And people to talk to. Those days I only had friends outside of school, and while they're great and everything, they're not really that much use to you on a daily basis. (I DON'T MEAN THAT I LOVE YOU)  What I needed was friends in school, and for whatever reason, my own... I don't know what it was, or maybe I don't want to know, but I didn't have them. At the start of Fourth Year, which I finished back in June, I thought 'Okay, I don't need people anymore... but it'd be cool to have them.' I didn't need friends, I just wanted them. And they were there.

I think.

Those diaries are now in a box in the shed, which I refer to as the Archives in my head. Whenever I read them, which isn't very often, I feel sad. But that's only natural.

And sometimes I still want to write my feelings down, or what's happening, down on paper, where I can scrawl, and it only belongs to me. But I don't want to get back into the habit again. I want to leave it behind.

Moments of Transition (Year)

February

Today's the first, and this morning I was woken by a nightmare in which Joseph Goebbels was a teacher at my school. It was terrifying. He kept putting me in detention because I have brown hair and brown eyes and chose to learn French instead of Spanish. I can't remember what happened in those detentions, but it wasn't nice. None of the other teachers changed their behaviour, but they treated the methods of Mr. Goebbels as perfectly normal. And there were horrible rumours going around about Mr. Goebbels too, but you could never be sure if they were true or not, because everyone was afraid. When I woke up this morning I was terrified that I'd go into school thinking everything was normal until I had Mr. Goebbels first thing, so I said to myself 'OK Eleanor, let's sort out if Goebbels actually teaches you or not.' I promptly fell asleep and was woken again by my mother.

What does it mean when you dream of a Nazi?

********

September

I'm about to open an envelope. This envelope contains my Junior Certificate results. Everyone else has crowded around each other outside, it's a lovely day, but I ran off behind a wall. This is private, it's mine. For now, at least.

I try to take care as much as I can with the seal. I thought it would be an A4 sheet, not something this small. But where did I get that idea?

And the very first result listed -

English. D.

Ah, shit.

I knew on the day that I wasn't going to get a great result. I completely lost my head, but it's a matter of pride still. It's the first D I've ever gotten for English, because even with poetry, which I'm shit at, I can usually articulate something. I've still passed, but...

I've never really liked 'school English', whatever that is, but I only realised then how much I had let it become a label. Eleanor's Good At English. Which means she's one of the Creative Ones, which must mean she's bad at Maths, because that's how it works, isn't it? If you're creative and good at art/writing, it means you have to be bad at maths or business or science. But I'm not good at English in school. The only thing I can really do is the drama bit, because that's the bit that makes the most sense to me. But that doesn't mean I'm hopeless. Most of the content on my CV is stuff I've written.

Just because I didn't get the mark I had hoped for, but the mark I knew I would get when I finished Paper One, doesn't mean I'm suddenly incompetent. I'm still good at this. I am a semi-competent writer! I got that award, didn't I? That was just one day. Jesus Eleanor, calm down. You've still got ten other results! You haven't looked at them yet!

I scan down the page. There aren't any other Ds. I've got two As, three Cs, and the rest are Bs, including French and History, which I was really worried about. Excellent! Time to join the others and squeal a bit. Lovely.

Although it would be cool to get a C or something for the Leaving. Just to satisfy my own useless pride. And for the points, of course.

********

October

God, I'd forgotten how much swearing was in this play.

My Adult For The Evening, my cousin Eimear, is fidgeting in her seat beside me. She's twenty four, a primary school teacher, and she's my Cool Older Cousin, so I thought she'd be best to bring along to this night-time event in a pub.

But then I remember how I've always been her Baby Cousin Eleanor. And that I'm still only fifteen. And these people in the room, a lot of whom I seem to know quite well, are all older than me, and drinking, and some of them are shifting the face of each other on the projector. And my mother and her mother are waiting for us back home, and they'll want to know everything. And the dancing girl sitting with her friends at the front, the drunk one in the play, is getting a bit louder and a bit louder all the time. And apparently she's my friend.

And I come to appreciate a little bit more how trusting my mother and father must be.

Seems I'd also forgotten how much sex is discussed, and all that business with the condoms and everything.

The drive home is going to be very awkward.

********

March

I have known John Kennedy for one year and two months.

It is a very strange moment when, at Fishamble's Young People's Tiny Plays For Ireland reading, I am introduced to him for the first time. We're both from Kilkenny!

'Actually we do sort of know each other already...'

'Oh really? How?'

And, for some reason, we're standing there nodding and grinning inanely at each other. And I don't know why I'm not saying anything like 'Well, John here wrote a play called Shifting for the Devious Theatre Company back in Kilkenny, and it was completely sold out over it's six night run and received rave reviews, because it really was a brilliant play you know, and it was directed by that man over there in the blue hoodie, John Morton, beside the lady with the long brown wavy hair, no, below that row, and I was assistant director. And that's how we know each other.' That covers it. But we're not saying anything. It's very strange. Why aren't we telling him?

But eventually we say, at the same time, 'We worked on a play together...' Which is also the truth. And it'll do for today, because, and it seems strange, but we don't need Shifting today.

And the well-meaning person who introduced us but whose identity I have forgotten says 'Oh!' and escapes, leaving us to stand nodding and grinning inanely at each other.

********

December

It's the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. Everyone's exchanging cards, and all of a sudden she hands me a wrapped present.

I don't have anything to give her. Just a Christmas card with some song lyrics paraphrased inside, and what good is that if I've done it wrong and she can't understand it? And then she goes and gives me beautiful chocolates.

And they're Lindt chocolates. Everyone loves Lindt chocolates. I'm not the only one who's received them of course, but I can't remember the last time I got a Christmas present from someone that wasn't a relative.

A friend?

********

March

Today is World Book Day, and so a group of us have been entertaining some children in one of the local bookshops. We've dressed up as characters from Where's Wally for the occasion, and it's been loads of fun. Now we're walking down town to get lunch in our madcap gear. (Our madcap gear consists of red/white striped tops, blue jeans, hearts on our faces, and assorted accessories.)

I'm in a group of five and I'm doing my usual conversation thing where I stay on the edge and dodge the kerb and stone benches and listen to the others talk, and one of the girls is fiddling with her super-cute pigtails self-consciously. This girl is one of the kindest, most sincere girls I know, and I don't like seeing her uncomfortable with herself. So I try to tell her to relax.

In my classic, Eleanor Roscuro empathetic fashion.

It doesn't really work, because I haven't mastered empathy and all that stuff, so it's just me telling her that she's fine and she doesn't have to care about what other people think, all that easier said than done stuff, until eventually, a little voice in my head says 'You know what you should try? Paraphrasing that Henry Ford quote that Bill Cullen likes. That'll work!'

'If you think you're ugly or not ugly, you're right.'

'Really? You think that?'

And, oblivious to her body language or the tone in her voice, I do what I always do: concentrate on the words and plough right through.

'Yeah. I do think that.'

Suddenly, we all draw to a stop. There are boys ahead. They've just come out of the nearest boy's school. We go to a girl's school, so we don't know them... We take a breath, brace ourselves, and then carry on, our eyes raking each uniform for a familiar face. There's got to be about fifty, and I don't know any of them. Dammit.

She starts fiddling with her pigtails again, worse than ever, and I tell her to leave it, but she doesn't, and we've stopped talking. This is ridiculous! It's not the Charge of the Light Brigade for God's sake! Yet their attitude is infectious, and I can't help but expect... something.

Eventually our paths meet.

This is what I was wearing that day -

Note - awesome mask. Happy (unaware of camera) face.

I love this mask, and I'm enjoying walking around the street in it. Until it was assumed by a subset of the boys in uniform that since I am wearing a mask, I must be extremely unattractive. Hideous, even.

It could have been so much worse. I know that. But I wasn't expecting it all the same. And it doesn't make me feel good.  I don't know if I was supposed to hear, but it was quite loud, and it doesn't make me feel good. But when I'm older, maybe this will be a part of life. I don't want it to be, but that's not up to me, is it?

And she's still worrying about her pigtails, and she was passed by unscathed, and the one who didn't care was marked down, how's that for irony? And the moment to say something back has passed. And then it dawns on me that I may have called her ugly, in a backwards way. And I feel awful, because I've hurt the feelings of the nicest girl in the year. And I feel awful, because some strangers have hurt my feelings.

And when I tell them half an hour later what they said, when I get sick of the bloody pigtails, no one says anything. We change the subject. When we're older, in college maybe, and it gets worse, we probably won't know how to handle it.

********

February

I'm on a night out!

Well, technically. It could be said. I'm in Kilkenny, at night, and I'm with adults, but nice ones who invited me here, and there is alcohol present, but not in my hand or my gut.

Yeah, I'm on a night out.

I'm upstairs in the Watergate Theatre, at the launch of the new Devious Theatre production. They're going to remake Night of the Living Dead in July. I'd been aware of it since work experience in November, but it only registered tonight. The night is starting to draw to a close. I'm standing beside my older-super-cool friend Alex at the bar. John's leaning over the other side to us, like we're smugglers in one of those taverns three hundred years ago where you'd be sure to find all the criminals singing drinking songs, plotting, and drinking. But instead of planning our next robbery, John is telling us about getting into drama courses, something that seems just as foolhardy and dangerous. Well, it's all for Alex's benefit, she's the one applying this year. I just arrived in the middle of the conversation and quietly slotted myself in. We're both nodding solemnly as John gestures and points his fingers on the bar for emphasis.

The Mid-Term Ball is on Monday. I've no real interest in going - I've had my fill of monster discos since the Junior Cert Results. I've having a great night here. Everyone is so nice. I know most of them already, which is good, and I've even mentioned Gormenghast, and people have listened! And my pretty dress has been admired. That's always good. And there's buns and cake, and they have nice orange juice. And I was invited  and everything!

Apparently they don't look at your Leaving Cert marks in the colleges, not really. Just at what you show them at auditions. Wow.

There's a little voice in the back of my head saying 'It'd be nice to get the points anyway...' and I have a small memory of staring at a page behind a wall. Oh, the Junior Cert English thing. I'd kind of forgotten about that. It isn't such a stab to my pride as it felt like at the time. Hmm. That's good.


********

January

Today is a great day.

I'm in McDonalds on Grafton Street, finishing up my meal with my friends. We've come up to Dublin with the rest of the year to Trinity College. My older-super-cool friend Helena is studying Business and French there, and she was able to point me in the direction of the Drama and Theatre Studies talk that had started as we got off the bus, so after sneaking away from the group (!!!), I made it for the last five minutes. Then I met another older-super-cool friend Ruth who was at the talk and we had a lovely chat. Then I was able to discreetly insert myself into the group, go around the different stands, and then we went for lunch. Now we've got back onto Grafton Street and I'm turning right to go back to Trinity, but the others go left.

'Hey, where are you going?'

'Shopping. We've seen everything there.'

'Oh, okay. I'm going back to Trinity, I'll meet you later so - '

I wasn't expecting them to look that horrified or gasp that loudly. Or to chorus:

'You can't go back there on your own!'

I start to feel a little irritated. Up until last September all I did at school was go around on my own! I'm not desperate for human contact, but I really like their company, and I'm fine going around Trinity on my own. It's fun, and I'm meeting so many people I know, and I could look at the things I find interesting while they do their shopping. It's just thirty seconds up the street. I don't see what's wrong.

'No, really, I'm fine - '

'No, you can't go back there on your own... You can come with us if you like!'

'But... I don't know when I'll get there again, and I've been to Grafton Street before, and I'll be seeing it again at some stage. It's just up the street... I can look after myself!'

I know I shouldn't have said that as soon as it's out of my mouth. I've done it again. I don't know whether to turn and leave, or listen to what they've got to say next. Whilst I'm deciding, one of the group steps forward, not one I'm particularly friendly with. She sighs.

'Lads, it's alright, I'll go back with her...'

NO!

Because I don't want to be 'her', someone that has to be babied and minded, someone that's always getting in the way of everyone's fun! And I'm not, and I wouldn't be, if only they would let me go! But what am I supposed to say? I don't know what to say. I'm stuck now. The others don't look happy about the prospect either, and we all say:

'No, you don't have to, it's fine!'

But she's coming with me now. The other girls look as downcast as I feel. 'Well, if you're sure... We'll see you later so.' And they turn and walk off. We walk silently back to Trinity.

I feel bad about giving her the slip when we get there, but I do it anyway.

********

April

'Anna, why don't we ever do anything Irish?'

We've just filled out our evaluation forms about the last Kilkenny Youth Theatre year. This was something that had occurred to me when I was remarking on how I enjoyed the fact that with Gormenghast, we weren't confused by British slang or place names that we knew nothing about. Instead, we referenced places like the Hall of the Bright Carvings, or the Tower of Flints. Most of the youth theatre plays we read are by British playwrights.

'You mean a play?'

She goes on to explain that:

1. She really would like to do something Irish, but:
2. There are very few Irish plays written for a teenage production.
3. Those that do exist either don't have an ensemble cast or a cast large enough to accommodate sixteen-ish people, or are not very good. Or both.

Which is a shame, because I had been hoping for some to read, but I know Anna spent most of her career working with children and teenagers in theatre, and would know best out of all the people I could ask. I've been reading some of the British ones in the school library whenever there are no seats for me in the canteen, and there are some I love, and some I hate. But I'm Irish. I want to see something Irish.

It just makes me more determined. (Determined to do what? says the stupid voice.)

********

May

It's the last day of Transition Year. It's glorious outside, so we're sitting outside in the grass. We're making daisy chains, and writing on each other, and eating, and chatting lazily.

This is the day I have been waiting for all winter, all spring. It's brilliant. It's heaven.

********

November

I've come to a sudden stop outside the Butler Gallery. There are tourists, couples walking around the park. One passes me, and we smile. The weather's beautiful for a November morning, warm, with a soft breeze, the sort of day I like. And you wouldn't expect to find these many people in the park today, but they're here.

Today is the first day of my work experience with the Watergate Theatre and everyone's been so nice and I've got leaflets of a ballet, Scherezade, to drop into local businesses around Kilkenny and I've been doing that and last week I did work experience with Devious Theatre which was wonderful and I'm so lucky to have gotten what I wanted.

Today is my sixteenth birthday and the weather is beautiful and I'm not in school I'm on my work experience and I know that this year, this year is going to be brilliant.

********

Dear L.N.R...

A few days after this blog was created. A post about this event here - http://apostrophe-rules.blogspot.com/2010/01/ive-been-very-sad-recently.html 

At Musings' first birthday, November 2010. Forgot to get any cake.

In which I get the knack of smiling in photos. March 2011.

Insert photo of present self here.

Dear L.N.R...

This is the moniker you like to go by, isn't it? L.N.R. - Eleanor! If I've done this right, you should be reading this just as you're starting your blog, Musings of an Undiscovered Genius in November 2009. It's your birthday soon, isn't it? You're going to be fourteen. Wow.

You're probably wondering who I am, right? I'm Eleanor Roscuro. Sixteen. February 2012. I know, that seems so far away, but it came, and we're here. And I'll be eighteen next year and everything! I know! Amazing! But anyway. 

Listen. Between where you are and where I am now, things are going to change. Huge changes for us, and for the country. I can't say too much, but here's just some tips.

• Twitter's fun, isn't it? You know that American girl who's followed you for some reason, The Vintage Vixen? She has a blog too. Read it.
• When was the last time you re-read Harry Potter? When you're done, go onto that website Tumblr and search it. Also: Have a little think about Slytherins. Just because there was a really bad batch of them during Harry's years doesn't mean they're all... evil.
• Start going to more plays. Even if it looks really serious and boring. That usually means it will grip on your heart in a way you never imagined, and there's nearly always some funny bits. 
• There's this young theatre company in Kilkenny, Devious or something. When mum asks you if you want to see the play with the poster in green, pink and orange, go. For fun. Also: Just because they're so big and older than you and everything doesn't mean they're scary. Only at first.
• There's absolutely no need to be some kind of martyr. I know you want to seem professional and everything, but not being a martyr will make you more professional. Funny how that works.
• If you are unsure about telling mam (or dad) something, it is probably best not to tell them. Imagine it was your daughter.
• No one's out to get you, not anymore. If you are extremely patient, they will flock to you, but for now, be the kind of person that has loads of friends already.
• They're not bitches, they're dizzies. It's nicer.
• Keep writing. On Musings, in your diary, poems and stories, everything. Keep it all for when you're my age and even older.
• You may have heard of a man named Michael D. Higgins. He's a TD, a really arty one. He's got a few books out too, read them. Remember him.
• When people laugh at you for boycotting Penneys, don't mind them. Research sweatshops and child labour more.
• Don't seek out romantic entanglements. Let all that stuff come to you.
• I know you're secretly in love with that other youth theatre, but they don't mean to upstage you. You'll  get to know them in the end, and you won't even have to leave KYT to do it.
• I know you love Paramore, but don't let them be your favourite band. Explore. There's a whole world out there (on the internet) you still have to discover.
• There's nothing wrong with how you look. Keep experimenting with your hair colour and cut, and you're going to lose that weight. How, I have no idea, but it happens.
• You're going to love blogging. You're going to love theatre, not just acting. You're going to love Kilkenny even more than you do already. You are worthy of all the good things that have happened and are going to happen to you. 
• Be your own best friend. I know it sounds silly, but you have to enjoy yourself. I'll say it again, it's that important: BE YOUR OWN BEST FRIEND. That's the secret.

I know I'm only sixteen, and I still have loads left to learn, but I feel much happier than I have since primary school. Things are going to be brillliant. 

The most love in the world,

Eleanor Roscuro

Welcome To Apostrophe

Hello? Is anyone there?

Oh, thank God. I was beginning to get worried.

Everything looks different, doesn't it? All white, and a bit less red (although you're reading red at the moment. It's my favourite colour) and blue and look! A new name! You see, I warned you this would be coming.

Apostrophe.

Less of a mouthful than Musings of an Undiscovered Genius, isn't it? Cuts to the chase, which is what an apostrophe does.

Shit! What am I going to call Music at Musings now?! SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT GIVE ME SUGGESTIONS PLEASE

Of course, this blog has a new URL, http://www.apostrophe-rules.blogspot.com. Apostrophe.blogspot.com was taken by some blog with one post from 2000 entirely consisting of the words 'testing....mic check'. That was extremely annoying. But remember now, it's APOSTROPHE-RULES.blogspot.com. Or dft.ba/-apostrophe.

And now, onto matters at hand.

I am typing this at 05:42 on 30th December 2010, early Thursday morning. New Year's Eve tomorrow. Some of you might remember this time last year, when I said...

'I don't believe in New Year Resolutions. But I do have a List Of Things I Am Going To Try To Do And That I Won't Beat Up Myself About If I Don't Happen To Do Them. I haven't thought of a catchy name for it yet as you can see.'

A few days later, I rejected that in favour of a 'dreamboard' with some catchy slogans, nice shots of cities like Paris and New York actresses and singers who inspired me, and still do (eg. Saoirse Ronan, Emma Watson, Florence Welch) and some random models that I thought looked cool. This is how it looked the last time I updated it, a few months ago.

Two hours ago, I decided to take it down, without a replacement.

You see, when I made it, I made it with the intention that it would inspire me. For the past twelve months it's been on my wall beside my bed, and it hasn't been inspiring me at all. Not that I haven't had a year without inspiration, I've had plenty of that! I'm just disappointed with the dreamboard, because for me, it didn't serve it's purpose. Besides, now I have room to put up my copy of the Irish proclamation of independence! It was fun making it and everything, but that was it. If you want to make one for yourself, don't let me put you off! Show me when you're done! But anyway.

I haven't really made New Year's Resolutions before. (Aha! 06:00!) I just didn't think there was anything I needed to drastically change. Of course, there's nothing wrong with me that I need to drastically change either. However, I have decided that I need rules, otherwise I will explode, and bring everyone else down with me. This must not happen.

The Apostrophe Rules

Rule #1 - I will make myself lots of rules, which I will stick to. These rules will be inscribed onto one of the walls of my bedroom in chalk.

Rule #2 - I will try not to worry too much about exams. I will allow myself a brief, sensible period of worry the week before the exams, but that will be all.

Rule #3 - I will find something to do during lunchtimes at school.

Rule #4 - I will try to eat less sweets and more apples. The fact that they hurt my braces shouldn't count.

Rule #5 - I will try to read books more. 

Rule #6 - I will stop watching reality TV shows, to leave more time for relaxation.

Rule #7 - I will finish what I start.

Rule #8 - I will keep my promises.

Rule #9 - I will not be an annoying and/or irritating friend.

Rule #10 - I will try to go to the cinema more often, especially now that I can watch 15 films (although there is the matter of whether I look 15 enough to be let in...)

Rule #11 - I will try to get enough sleep.

Rule #12 - I will learn first aid, because it is about time.

Rule #13 - I will take more photos.

Rule #14 - I will cycle more, at least twice a week to start with. Weather permitting.

Rule #15 - I will get rid of the books that I don't read anymore, and read the books I've been meaning to read.

Rule #16 - I will not say things I don't mean and things I know will be bad to say.

Rule #17 - I will not start drinking or smoking, because I've gone this far already, and I can't afford it, and I would be disowned, and alcohol doesn't taste nice (I've tried it enough times to know that) and I know better.

Rule #18 - I will stop whining on my blog.

Rule #19 - I will learn new skills, and be the best version of myself I can be (without being perfect of course, that's impossible) in 2011.

Ta da!

I'm not sure if this is my last post of 2010 or not. Wow. I'm never any good at writing thank yous or anything, because it just sounds fake to me. But I hope you all know and appreciate how highly I value you. Thank you so, so much for all your kind words, and for reading, and for making me a better person, and for allowing me to see things differently. You rock.

Take care.

This has been Eleanor Roscuro...

This Is Musings of an Undiscovered Genius

So last Sunday I was going to put this as my Quote of the Week...

Thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered - either by themselves or by others.


Mark Twain

And I thought that'd be great, since Mark Twain is usually quoted a lot and it mentions undiscovered geniuses and everything, but something made me read it again. And again. And again.

And now I've just realised that I need to change the name of this blog, even though I don't want to. Labelling myself as an Undiscovered Genius is automatically saying to myself 'Eleanor, you're fantastic and everything, but let's make sure no one else knows about it, OK?' And I don't want to do that. The name Musings of an Undiscovered Genius was incredibly easy for me to come up with when I first created this blog. I just thought 'OK, my blog needs a name... Musings of an Undiscovered Genius! Yes!' And I thought I was being kind of cocky and confident about the genius part, which I am (both cocky and confident and a genius) and the undiscovered part simply meant that... I'm not sure. I think it meant that I wasn't really well-known, (which seems incredibly superficial now that I'm fifteen and wiser) and that my potential still needed to be... discovered. Musings was created at a time in my life where I wasn't exactly bouncing around with happiness. And 'Musings of a...' has been used SO MUCH. Ugh.

But finding a new blog name is going to be really hard, and that's why I'm reluctant to change. And Music at Musings worked so well, it was simple and there was alliteration! But I NEED to change this name. And I'm so afraid I'm going to eventually pick a completely rubbish name that won't appeal to anybody (because something I've noticed about blogs is that the best blogs have rubbish names and the worst blogs have absolutely brilliant names) and I can't just call it Eleanor Surname because I'm still only fifteen. Safety and all that. Oh God.

I don't know whether to thank Twain or dance on his grave.

Oh, and this counts as a Quote of the Week.

Quote Of The Week #30

The destinies of wizards and princes might seem more certain than those carved out for the rest of us, yet we all have to choose the manner in which we meet life: whether to live up (or down) to the expectations placed upon us; whether to act selfishly, or for the common good; whether to steer the course of our lives ourselves, or to allow ourselves to be buffeted around by chance and circumstance.  Birthdays are often moments for reflection, moments when we pause, look around, and take stock of where we are; children gleefully contemplate how far they have come, whereas adults look forwards into the trees, wondering how much further they have to go. This extract from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is my favourite part of the seventh book; it might even be my favourite part of the entire series, and in it, Harry demonstrates his truly heroic nature, because he overcomes his own terror to protect the people he loves from death, and the whole of his society from tyranny.


J.K. Rowling - The Birthday Book (in aid of the Prince's Foundation for Children & the Arts)

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TOMORROW BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY I'M FIFTEEN YEARS OLD TOMORROW OMG

I know I keep talking about it, but how can I not? It's not like turning forty-seven, after all. It's an important milestone!

So I haven't told you what happened the day I turned fourteen, even though I said I was going to. Thing is... I did tell you. It's on this very blog right now. But I didn't have any followers then, and I doubt you've read that far back, so I'm going to give you an excerpt from my past self. Are you ready?

For my birthday I decided I wanted to go to Tramore with my family. So we brought Theo, our Jack Russel aswell. The waves were huge. It was terrifying. They were like the life-threatening ones you see in Hawaii.

So we got chips from Dooly's and sat on a wall happily eating them. We were watching a man play with his dog, throwing a plastic bottle. They were having great fun and it was lovely to watch.

The man was still grinning at us when the wave hit him.


He didn't see it at all.


His head bobbed out of the water a few times. Then nothing.


We sprang up, as did ten other people who were there. Someone got the nearest lifebuoy, but the rope attached was tangled up and people were wasting time untangling it.


Then, without thinking, I started running.


I ran halfway down the promenade to get another lifebuoy. But I'm not a fast runner. It was only when I stopped at the lifebuoy that I realised how tired I was. I started running again, but I was slower. Then a girl ran up to me. She held out her arms and I gave her the lifebuoy, then she started running. I ran back too.


Four men balanced on the wall, risking their lives to get the man in the water to grab the lifebuoy. My 
mother was screaming 'Someone hold those men! They're going to fall!' My dad was talking to 999.


The man was pulled out of the water. He was awake and conscious. Then the Gardai came and asked a lot of questions. An ambulance arrived eventually and took the man away. We left then, not knowing whether the man was going to be OK.

It wasn't one of my best birthdays.

But then we went to Waterford City, and there was an old-fashioned merry-go-round there, and I love old-fashioned merry-go-rounds! So I hopped on, and then we went home. That part was nice.

BUT THAT IS NOT THE END OF THE STORY! NO WAY!

That was Saturday, 14th November 2009. Flash forward to Wednesday, 22nd March 2010. At an English class. We were reading To Kill A Mockingbird and Boo Radley, in a fit of adrenaline, had just saved Scout and Jem from being murdered. Our teacher was talking about adrenaline like that, and how it can make you do stuff you'd never be able to do normally, giving an example of a man saving a child from a train on the London Underground a while ago. I put up my hand and started innocently talking about the man, and the day at Tramore, when I started sweating and shaking profusely, and I couldn't talk properly, and I didn't have any breath, and I felt really dizzy, and it was very scary and I didn't know what was happening or why. I'm getting a little dizzy typing this. That's one of the reasons why I copied the excerpt from an earlier post up there, so I wouldn't have to write it out again. That, and I wrote it only a few hours after, so the memories would be fresher and more clear.

I'm going to get some water. Back in a second. While I'm gone, you can watch this.



OK. I'm back.

Since then, I've been getting what I can only describe as panic attacks? I don't know what else to call them. I don't like it. It's very distressing.


Anyway, it's 23:59...

Damn. It wouldn't let me post at 23:59 because of some HTML errors, so now it's 00:05, which isn't as good. But still, I'm fifteen now.