A Love Letter To The Geeks And The Nerds...

David Tennant describes himself as a geek in real life.  THUS HE IS PERFECT.

Okay, guys.  It's time to talk some serious honesty.  And not just because I'm a bit tipsy on Disaronno right now and this feels like a good idea...

IT'S TIME TO PRAISE THE NERDY GUYS.

I am so tired of having images of stereotypically "sexy" men thrust in my face, as though attraction isn't remotely subjective and we're all supposed to drool over the same kind of person.  

Just as the type of women that men are supposed to be attracted to is massively stereotyped (big boobs, flat belly...), so are the men that are presented to we ladies as "hot."

You know the type...

This was literally one of the top results for "hot guy" on Google.

That guy above?  Does literally nothing for me.  He has a nice pair of lips and good hair and I do appreciate a little bit of stubble, but I don't look at him and think "ooooh, THAT is what I want."

Because it isn't.  Rock hard abs have never been on my fantasy wishlist and I doubt they ever will be.  And frankly, that guy might well take longer in the bathroom than I do and I need my time spent in front of the mirror, desperately willing my face to behave.

One of my number one celebrity crushes is Graham Coxon from Blur.  If you're reading this and you've no idea who that is, here you go:

Be still, my geeky heart.

But it's not just about looks, obviously.  As much as I do tend to go for guys who differ from the standard definition of "sexy," it's important to note that nerdiness/geekiness is not simply about a certain aesthetic (although I do have a thing for glasses).

In my eyes, nerdiness/geekiness is about being passionate about something.  To quote the fantastically nerdy Simon Pegg: "Being a geek is all about being honest about what you enjoy and not being afraid to demonstrate that affection.  It means never having to play it cool about how much you like something."

And that, ladies and gents, is precisely what I find incredibly attractive in a man.  Being unashamed to openly declare a passion for something they love, regardless of whether that thing is something that might not seem cool.  Be it a TV show, a band, a sport, or something else entirely, if someone can happily chat for ages about how awesome their favourite thing is, then I'm pretty much hooked.  When you can see that someone is excited by something (not like that, you filthy animals), that excitement becomes contagious, whether you are into the same thing or not.  

Add to that the fact that we nerdy types have often experienced what it's like to be mocked and have therefore adapted ourselves to be somehow both more sensitive and yet sharper and self-deprecatingly funnier than most and you've got a winning combination.  

I'd be more interested in a guy who could list actors who've appeared in his favourite TV/film franchise, than I would be in a guy who had abs that you could grate cheese on.

I'd be more interested in a man who can talk for ages about the kick he gets from whatever he's passionate about, than I would be in a man whose face looks like it could adorn magazine front covers.

Even fictional nerds are hot.

Sure, there's a lot more to it than simply being nerdy/geeky.  I could meet a guy who was wonderfully nerdy about something, but also cruel, or selfish, or boring.  And if that was the case - or if there was no chemistry whatsoever - then the geeky side of things wouldn't be enough by itself. 

BUT...

...I want someone who's passionate about something.  I want someone who's not ashamed to express that passion, regardless of whether it's cool or not.  In fact, I want someone who doesn't care if he is cool or not.

To finish that Simon Pegg quote: "Being a geek is extremely liberating."  And not only is that true, but being around geeky people is liberating, too.  Because when one person feels able to declare their love for something seemingly silly or trivial, others soon join in.  Sharing that honesty and that emotion is nothing short of joyous.

So embrace your inner geek.  And if you are a geek... Call me.

Bedtime Story (10/6/2015)

Apologies for using a VERY old photo!

Well, in honour of the Women's World Cup having started recently, I'm recalling my football-playing days with this story...

Charlie The Champion of Chestnut FC

School days for Charlotte were never much fun.

She'd sit at her table, feeling really quite glum.

For Charlotte - or Charlie as she was known to all

- was much happier outdoors, kicking a ball.

Charlie longed to play for her school team,

Chestnut FC; yes, that was her dream!

But the boys on the squad would give her a glare

And yell "you're just a girl!"  It didn't seem fair.

So Charlie would practise, all on her own,

Dribbling and striking until she ached to the bone.

Practising step-overs and nutmegs in her own special dance,

Wishing Chestnut FC would just give her a chance!

Charlie attended all of their games,

Cheering from the sidelines, calling out the boys' names.

A more loyal supporter, the team couldn't find,

But playing for them was on Charlie's mind.

So one day, she begged and pleaded some more.

"Please let me play and I promise I'll score!"

The captain, Billy, shrugged his shoulders and said:

"Okay fine, you can sit on the bench."

Charlie was thrilled - she'd be the team's sub!

And she'd sure show those boys, if her number came up.

The boys secretly snickered; they didn't need her.

But Charlie was so giddy, their words were a blur.

The day of the match finally came.

Charlie was ready to play her first game!

She sat on the bench and awaited her call,

But the team played so well, it didn't come at all.

By half time, the team were leading five-three.

Charlie sighed, as she thought: "they don't need me."

But soon into the second half, the other team scored.

Suddenly five-three had turned into five-four!

Within a few minutes, a player took a dive...

"Penalty!" The ref shouted.  That made it five-five!

Billy the captain slipped over and... No!

He'd twisted his ankle; he had no choice but to go.

"Charlie," he shouted.  "You and I need to switch!"

And with a frown on his face, Billy limped from the pitch.

Charlie rushed to her feet; it was her time at last!

She dashed onto the pitch and called for a pass.

She darted, she weaved, she passed and she ran,

Charlie was a player now, not just a fan!

She struck the ball as hard as she could,

But it wasn't easy; their opponents were good.

The match carried on and the score stayed the same.

But Charlie was desperate to win her first game!

As the final few minutes began to tick by,

Charlie ran faster, with a fire in her eyes.

She soon got the ball and she ran down the pitch,

The other team tackled her, but she didn't flinch.

Charlie could see the goal and she wasn't done yet,

With one huge strike... SHE HIT THE BACK OF THE NET!

The crowd all went crazy, the boys on the team, too.

"Charlie!  We couldn't have won without you!

You're on the team for good," they cried

And Charlie felt proud and ecstatic inside.

She'd proved she was every bit as good as the boys,

By showing her skills, her talent and poise.

Now, she was finally what she'd dreamt she could be;

Charlie, the champion of Chestnut FC.

THE END

What Makes You Beautiful...

Let's get this out of the way: the title of this blog post is not an admission that I have succumbed to the lure of One Direction.  I am not, dear reader, about to suggest that you and I might like to dance all night to the Best Song Ever, nor am I concerned that everybody wants to Steal My Girl.

No, I'm merely using the song title because... Well, it kind of works.

I've been thinking a lot about attraction, recently.  Specifically, I've been thinking about how brilliant is is that our tastes are so individual.  Oh, sure, there are plenty of celebrities out there who are considered beautiful (or handsome) by the majority of people.  But when it comes down to real folk, like you and me, beauty really is incredibly subjective.

I wouldn't say that I have a type, as such.  My longest-running celebrity crushes (James Dean Bradfield, James Bourne, Danny Jones, Matt Smith, David Tennant and Graham Coxon - yes, there are a lot, don't judge me) don't exactly share a whole heap of physical features.  They range in height, weight, eye colour and hair colour.  

One of my friends told me last night that in her opinion, my "type" is "cute geek."  Granted, that doesn't cover all of those celebrity crushes, but I did applaud my friend for her general accuracy.  I'm a bit nerdy and I think I do subconsciously find myself being attracted to men who look like they might be, too.

Exhibit A:

Damn right, they are.

This weekend, my best friend and I were discussing the fact that when you like someone, as cliched as this sounds, they become more beautiful in your eyes, the more you find out about them.  That dude you think is "kind of cute" might become "gorgeous" if you find out he spends his spare time volunteering at a shelter for orphaned puppies (who am I kidding; I would marry that guy).

The phrase "you're beautiful to me" always used to sound suspiciously like a back-handed compliment to my ears, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.  After all, people really are more beautiful in the eyes of those who love them most.  When we care for someone on a deeper level than just "PHWOAR!" then the physical characteristics that might put other people off (insert your own turn-offs here) cease to be even noticeable.  Or even become attributes that we find ourselves helplessly attracted to.

Being single, I don't currently have anyone to love my less than appealing physical attributes.  But the more I look at the couples I know, the more I realise that those things don't actually matter.  I might think my nose is massive and awful, but someone else might think I'm so awesome that they'll happily look past that (as long as I'm not turned to the side; it pretty much blocks out the sun when I do that and you literally can't see past the damn thing).

We live in a rather shallow society, in which people (especially women, if we're honest) are airbrushed to "perfection" in magazines, giving us all a ludicrously high standard to live up to.  But in reality, there are billions of us living on this planet and we don't all fancy the same types of people.  I don't fancy any of my friends' partners.  None of my friends fancy my crush.  And if we're brutally honest with ourselves, we've probably all got at least one person we know, whose partner we've seen and thought: "What the heck does my mate see in them?!"

And the reason for that is that real beauty - as corny as it is to say it - does come from within.  Give me a man with a brilliant sense of humour above a guy with a six pack any day.  Looks are just our initial hook; it's personality that makes us truly want to be with someone.

Basically, what I'm trying to say in writing all of this, is that I'm kind of done with being down on myself about my looks (massive conk, aside).  And I don't give a stuff whether the kind of men I find attractive "in real life" make anyone else I know go:

And those realisations are good things.  Because we shouldn't care whether the object of our desire makes anyone but us swoon.  And because the most attractive qualities a person can have are not found on their faces.

A sense of humour.  A kind nature.  A personality that just "clicks" with yours.  That's so much more important than having the perfect smile, or hair that always behaves.

So, to paraphrase the Raggy Dolls: if you're not at ease with your knobbly knees (or your big nose, wonky teeth or whatever else you don't like about your outer shell), try not to worry about it too much.  Someone out there is going to think you're funny, or clever, or kind.  Or all bloody three.  

And that's what makes you beautiful.

It's Time To STOP Using "Sensitive" As An Insult

I'm going to be honest with you, readers.  I've been feeling pretty down over the last couple of days.  So, I intend to pepper today's blog with gifs of things that I love.  It's more for me than for anyone else, so I apologise if it bugs you (but not sorry enough not to do it...). 

I won't bore you with the exact details of what brought on this current bout of "the black dog."  Suffice to say it was a couple of little things that just tipped me over the metaphorical edge.  I've been really poorly in the last week, not sleeping brilliantly and getting myself stressed out over things that probably shouldn't get to me as much as they do.  

Things do get to me a lot, because I'm sensitive.  Really sensitive.

I don't believe in shying away from talking about personal stuff like mental health; when we do that, we worsen the problem, after all.  So I'm sure I've probably mentioned on this very blog that I have had issues with depression over the years and that I've had periods of my life where I went to some pretty low places, mentally speaking.  Years ago, I had some counselling and my counsellor told me that she felt I was "hyper-sensitive."  She explained that that meant I'd feel lows in my life worse than the average person might, but that I would also feel much greater highs.  She drew me a little graph, showing how the average person's moods fluctuate over time, then how someone with bi-polar might fluctuate to a much greater degree (higher highs and lower lows).  Finally, she added a wiggly line in the middle and said: "This is you.  Much more sensitive to highs and lows than the average person, but not to a drastic point where you need medication for it.  In plain terms, you're just a sensitive person.  And it's not a bad thing."

Several years after that, I had support from a wonderful charity, after leaving an abusive relationship.  My support worker told me: "You're a very sensitive person and that's something abusers prey on.  But it's not a personality flaw."

So, why do I feel as though society thinks it is?

So often, we hear "you're too sensitive" thrown around as an insult.  It's frequently perceived as a weakness to actually feel an emotional response to something.  Maybe it's that stereotypically British thing of the "stiff upper lip."  Maybe it's just that we're scared of being mocked for letting our feelings show.  All I know for sure is that the people who use "you're too sensitive" as an insult are usually the people who could do with being a little more sensitive, themselves.

I'm not suggesting that we should all go around, weeping and wailing at every little bad thing that happens to us.  Nor am I suggesting that the slightest bit of good news should have us dancing a jig and screaming at the top of our lungs.  If we all overreacted to every little thing, life would be one big drama and frankly, that wouldn't be fun.  But that said, it's important to remember that we're not robots.  We're allowed to feel.

There are days when I hate being oversensitive.  I get furiously angry with myself for getting upset over something that most "normal" people wouldn't bat an eyelid about.  I feel ever so slightly stupid for building things up in my head and then crashing back down to Earth because someone or something has slightly dislodged a brick from my imaginary tower.  It's not a good thing to be this sensitive.

But it's not necessarily an entirely bad thing, either.

Sensitive people are some of the most caring folk you'll ever meet.  I'm not blowing my own trumpet there, I just know it's a fact.  If you're sensitive, you recognise emotions in other people - both good and bad.  You can tell when someone is struggling and needs a friend.  You recognise when someone is holding in their tears, as well as being able to tell when they're holding in a massive squeal of delight.  So you're able to know how to respond in the way they need.  

Be it: 

Or:

Being sensitive means that you often understand emotions on a deeper level than others might.  You think - admittedly, sometimes too much - about how your words might affect someone, so you consider what you say and how you say it, right down to the wording of a simple text message.  Yesterday, it took me roughly half an hour to send a tweet, because I wanted the wording to be right.

Being sensitive means that someone over thinks more than just words, of course.  We over think actions, lack of actions and reactions.  And if that sounds like a nightmare - too much effort, if you will - then yes, I can confirm that it kind of is.  And that's why the word "sensitive" really shouldn't be used as an insult.

If you're a sensitive person, you don't need to be reminded of the fact.  Especially since your oversensitivity isn't something you can just switch on and off like a light switch.  In the last couple of days, I have vehemently wished I could stop over thinking things and feeling everything quite so deeply.  But the fact is, I can't.  This is how my brain works; I have a skin the thickness of tissue paper.  You make a casual remark about me that could be taken badly and mark my words, even if I laugh it off and don't react to it in any way, shape or form, I'll be awake half the night, thinking: "Why did they say that?  What's wrong with me?"

And that sucks.  It's hugely, massively annoying and obviously, very upsetting as well.  It makes me feel miserable and if I can tell that other people are worried about me because they can tell that I'm upset, then I wind up feeling even worse, because I'm causing them concern.  So, believe me when I tell you that using "you're too sensitive" as an insult is kind of pointless, because most sensitive people know they are and they're already beating themselves up about it enough as it is.  If I could switch off the part of me that takes everything to heart, I probably would.

But then again...

The lows of oversensitivity are horrendous.  Like I said, one bad comment can ruin my day, regardless of whether I externally show it or not.  But the highs of oversensitivity are bloody amazing.

Imagine you're going to see your favourite band in concert.  You're bound to be excited.  When they play your favourite song, you'll probably want to sing along and you'll feel good.  When I go to see my favourite band in concert, I am ridiculously excited.  When the Manics play Design For Life at the end of a gig, it's like I'm flying; the sensation is just incredible.  It's as though the music is washing over me and I'm not even aware of the rest of the world in that moment.  My highs are so high that I wouldn't want to lose them.  The sense of awe I get from looking out to sea, or the thrill that completely overtakes me if someone I like (in that way) gives me a smile is second to none.

And speaking of that last thing... Sensitive people love incredibly deeply.  And not just in the romantic sense (although yep, that's a given).  If we love someone - in any sense of the word - we feel that love with every fibre of our being.  Today, my best friend came round to cheer me up (like I said, I've had a hard couple of days) and at one point, I looked at her and genuinely just wanted to squeeze her and yell "LYDIA, I LOVE YOOOOUUUUU!"  I didn't (I'm sensitive, not scary), but that love was totally there and always will be.  And when it comes to romantic love - or even just lust - it's fair to say that when I fall for someone, I fall hard.  

Sure, falling hard can be a pain in the arse, especially if you're not sure whether the person you're swooning over is either interested or available, but feelings are meant to be felt and I'd rather have that rush of giddiness when I look at someone I like, than simply shrug and think "yeah, he's fit."  Even though being oversensitive means that having a crush can floor me as easily as it can thrill me, when things go right, feeling so deeply is a beautiful thing.  

I didn't mean that kind of feeling deeply, but... Aaaanyway...

What I'm trying to say, in my own rambling way, is that being sensitive isn't something anyone should be ashamed of.  No, it's not always a great thing to be, especially when we get upset over something trivial and yes, I have spent a lot of my time on this planet so far, trying to build up a thicker skin to certain insults and remarks.  But on the whole, being sensitive just means we feel things.  It just means we're open about our emotions.  If we're sad, we're not afraid to cry.  If we're happy, we'll feel it wholeheartedly.  And if we love, we love completely.

Being sensitive means that we consider the feelings of others.  It means we want to show people that we care, or support those we love when they're having a hard time.  It means we consider how best we can be there for someone, without adding to the pain they're already feeling.  It means we're considerate, open and real.

None of those things should be considered insulting.  Think of the opposite; being inconsiderate, tactless or refusing to let ourselves truly feel anything.  When I think of it like that, I know I'd much rather be sensitive than insensitive.

I might feel bad things horribly deeply.  But I feel good things deeply, too.  And that makes it all worthwhile.  Being sensitive doesn't make me "weak."  In fact, in a lot of ways, it makes me strong.  So let's stop using the word as an insult and start opening ourselves up to our emotions a little more.  

I'm sensitive.  And for all its downfalls, I don't think I'd be me if I was any other way.

Damn right, Freddie.

Bedtime Story (3/6/2015)

Because sometimes my stories are inspired by holidays...

This week's children's story was dreamt up as a result of what feels like a million different things.  Last night's blog on self-confidence was a factor, as was my recent weekend away.  Whilst on holiday, I spotted one shy young lad, who didn't seem as keen to join in with dancing as all of the other kids.  This story is dedicated to him, whoever he may be!  And to everyone else who, like me (unfortunately), have two left feet!

Henry's Dancing shoes

Beach View Academy was a hive of activity, as Henry trudged down the corridor at home time.  The teachers and students were excitedly preparing for the end of term disco.  Brightly coloured balloons were being hung all around the hall and an array of beautiful decorations adorned the walls.  Yes, everyone was looking forward to the school disco.  Everyone except Henry.

Henry Williamson had two left feet.  Every year, he pleaded with his mum: "Can't I just stay at home?"  But every year, his mum insisted that he went to the disco, if only to look after his little sister, Rosie.

Rosie loved to dance.  At weekends, she attended ballet class.  On Thursday nights, she had tap dancing lessons.  Sometimes, she even went with her mum to Zumba!  Rosie had rhythm flowing through her veins.  Henry, on the other hand... Did not.

Henry would sit and watch Rosie dance around the house, wishing he could join in.  It wasn't that he didn't want to dance.  He just didn't know how.  Every year, when the end of term disco took place, Henry would get up to dance and the same thing would happen.  He'd wobble a little, awkwardly shake his hips, hear some of the meaner kids in his class giggling at him and then he'd hurry back to sit on a bench at the edge of the dance floor, wondering why something that was supposed to be so much fun was always so terribly hard.

This year was Henry's last year at junior school and secretly, he was rather glad.  No more junior school meant no more school discos and that could only be a good thing!  As Rosie darted around the house that evening, tying pretty ribbons into her hair and practising her dance moves, Henry sat thoughtfully in his room, trying to think about literally anything else.  

He packed his school bag for the following Monday.  He made his bed.  He polished his glasses and then polished them again for luck.  But try as he might, Henry couldn't shake the feeling that this year was going to be just the same as every year before; another embarrassing display on the dance floor.

Henry barely picked at his dinner.  And when Rosie rushed upstairs to put on her best dress, Henry shook his head at his mum.  "I hate school discos," he confessed.  "Everyone laughs at me, because I can't dance."

"Oh, sweetheart," his mother sighed.  "It's your last one.  Just enjoy yourself; it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks, as long as you're having fun!"

Finally, the time to leave for the disco arrived.  Rosie was ready, but Henry shuffled his feet, anxiously.  "Where are my trainers?"  He asked, glancing around the hallway.  "I can't wear my school shoes; everyone will laugh even more than they usually do!"

"Are they in your wardrobe?"  His mum asked.  "Quickly, go upstairs and check."

Henry dashed up the stairs and hurried into his room.  He flung open the wardrobe doors and pulled out his slippers, his wellies and his football boots...  But no trainers.  In desperation, he sunk onto his knees and reached into the back of the wardrobe.  His hands flailed as he sorted through bags and hats.  But still no trainers.

"Henry!"  His mum called up the stairs.  "Come on, it's time to go!"

Henry sighed and was about to stand up, when his hand brushed against something unusual.  He peered into the wardrobe and his eyes widened - there was a little handle in the back of the wardrobe!  How had he never noticed it before?!  Henry turned the handle very gently and a secret door sprung open.  Blinking, Henry reached into the compartment beyond and was stunned to pull out a pair of blue shoes.  He slipped his feet into them and was amazed to discover that they were a perfect fit!  Henry rose to his feet and bounded down the stairs, faster than he had ever gone before.

"Where did you get those shoes?"  Rosie asked, as they all left the house and climbed into the car.

"They were in my wardrobe," Henry shrugged.

As their mum drove Henry and his sister back to school, something strange started to happen.  Henry couldn't stop tapping his feet.  It was as though they had a mind of their own.

Once they arrived at school, Henry leaped out of the car and, with a quick goodbye to his mum, he grabbed Rosie's hand and ran towards the hall.

"I thought you hated school discos?!"  Rosie shrieked, as Henry burst into the hall and confidently strode towards the dance floor.

The music started and a strange feeling seemed to take hold of Henry's feet.  It was as though the secret shoes were wearing him, rather than the other way around!  His feet twitched, then his legs began to move.  The feeling spread upwards into his hips and then his arms.  Before he knew it. Henry was dancing - actually dancing - around the hall, without a care in the world.

His classmates whispered amongst one another.  "When did Henry learn to dance?!"

But Henry wasn't listening.  His mum was right - he was having so much fun that he didn't care what anyone else thought!  He was too busy gliding around the room, twirling, stretching, moving with a perfect rhythm.  He jumped, he kicked, he pointed, he span.  Henry felt freer than he had ever felt before!  People began to clap.  Henry began to beam.

But then, just as the song was coming to an end, Henry felt a snap.  He glanced down.  The sole of one of his special blue shoes had begun to separate from the rest of the shoe.  He inspected it closer and to his horror, he could see his socks through the huge hole.  He slumped down onto a bench and took the shoe off.

"Henry," Rosie called.  "Come back and dance again.  You were amazing!"

Henry shook his head.  "I can't," he insisted.  "You know I can't dance."

Rosie pulled a face.  "What are you talking about?  You just did!"

Henry slipped off the shoe from his other foot and sat, staring at his socks.  His mouth drooped and he let out a long sigh.  "It wasn't me.  It was the shoes." 

Rosie took her big brother's hand.  "Nonsense," she said.  "It was you."

Henry rose to his feet, aware that everyone's eyes were on him.  He walked with faltering footsteps back onto the dance floor.  A new song started and suddenly, Henry felt the strange, twitching sensation in his feet again.  His legs began to move, his hips began to shake... He was doing it!  He was dancing all by himself!

For the rest of the night, Henry whizzed around the dance floor.  Nobody laughed at him, or called him names.  In fact, everyone wanted to copy his moves!  With every new song that played, Henry felt another burst of energy that seemed to come from nowhere and take over his whole body.  He didn't feel nervous or shy - he felt free and fantastic!

By the time their mother had picked them up and brought them home, both Henry and Rosie were tired, but elated.  Henry's feet were tapping all the way home, as he hugged the broken blue shoes to his chest.  He danced through the door and up the stairs.  He jigged along the corridor and grooved into his bedroom.  Quietly, Henry opened his wardrobe and slipped the blue shoes back into the secret compartment.  

Henry had no need for dancing shoes, anymore.  He had dancing feet!  And whenever he felt happy and free, Henry knew he'd be able to move just as well as anyone else.

With a great big smile, Henry turned out the light.  He hopped into bed and danced into his dreams.

The End

There Are NO Grey Areas When Defending Abuse

No copyright intended.  Because I'm NOT a twat.

So.  It's happening.  EL James is releasing a rewritten version of Fifty Shades of Grey, as told by the "hero" (excuse me whilst I try to keep my lunch down) of the trilogy, Christian Grey.  It's being released on June 18th (which is apparently Christian Grey's birthday) and has already topped bestseller lists.  So if you're looking for evidence that the world is populated by sheep and money-grabbers, look no further.

Now, anyone who has read this blog for longer than a few months will know that I am not just anti Fifty Shades.  I am breathless with rage over it.  And I'm asthmatic, so that's pretty bad for my health...  If you're a newbie to my anti Fifty Shades blogs, then let's clear up a few things straight away:

• I am in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM anti consensual BDSM.  Fifty Shades is about as close to being well-written, consensual BDSM as I am close to being James Bourne's wife.  And both of those facts are equally depressing.
• I am in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM anti erotica/prudish.  I've read and enjoyed erotic novels.  There are sex scenes in the novel I've written, for crying out loud.
• I am in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM "jealous" of EL James' success or "talent" (bwahaahahahaaaaaa).  If I could only become a millionnaire writer by ripping off someone else's story, writing it badly and being arrogant enough to not only refuse to allow anyone to properly edit it, but to point blank refuse to listen to one iota of (justified) criticism, then I'd genuinely rather stay poor and unheard of.

I am also more than happy to talk openly about why I believe Fifty Shades portrays an abusive relationship, having been in an abusive relationship and having been horrendously triggered by the books, upon reading them (because yes, I have read them).  I've written extensively about the emotional abuse, manipulation, stalking, threats, coercion, outright ignorance of consent, unwanted control, physical assault and gaslighting that occur throughout the trilogy.  My best-known blog on the subject can be found here (I still find it mind-blowing that that blog has something crazy like 200+ comments on it and has been read more than half a million times...).  So, if you're new to this and you think "eh, this girl hasn't a clue; Fifty Shades is a beautiful love story," please do give that a read, just so you have a bit of background to what follows...

Pictured: EL James in small boy form.

Now, EL James - fine, upstanding member of the community that she is (she once sent a RAPE SURVIVOR a gif of someone violently throwing a book at a person's head in response to the survivor asking why she'd trivialised abuse, so forgive me if I treat her with the contempt she absolutely deserves) - has apparently dedicated the boringly-titled Grey to the many fans who begged her to write it.  I have two pretty major issues with this.

Firstly, EL James rewrote chapter 1 of Fifty Shades of Grey from Christian's perspective as a "gift" to her fans at the end of book 3 (I seriously hope she kept the receipt).  It flopped.  Hundreds, if not thousands of fans hated it.  Why?  Because they suddenly saw Christian Grey without Ana's rose-tinted glasses.  Without the female narrator telling the reader how impossibly "hot" he is and how much she lurves him, he came across as cold, uncaring, arrogant and plain nasty.  Or, to put it another way, he came across exactly the same way he does in all three books, except this time, even the fans recognised it.  Such was the disappointment of many readers, that I find it very hard to believe that this was the real reason behind EL's decision to rewrite the entire book.  It's more likely that Fifty Shades is a cash cow that EL and her publishers just weren't quite ready to stop squeezing...

But it's the second issue that worries me most of all and it's the second issue that I believe is much more of a true reason for writing this book.

When Fifty Shades became absurdly popular, people began to voice concerns.  Abuse charities began to speak out against the books.  Survivors of abusive relationships (myself included) began to recognise their experiences being glorified.  It suddenly seemed as though women were being sold a man who stalks, threatens, manipulates and controls them against their will as a romantic ideal.  Many of us who've experienced a relationship with such a man were justifiably horrified, not only because these personality traits were being exhibited by a "hero" readers were expected to fall in love with (and worryingly, millions of women did), but because in creating such a poorly researched piece of plagiarism, EL James was falling back on incredibly dangerous abuse myths in order to defend her beloved character's vile behaviour.

"He doesn't know any better, because he had such a terrible childhood."

"He acts this way because he's scared; he's never let anyone get this close to him, before."

"If she can only learn to love him the right way, he'll change for her and give her the happy ever after she's longing for."

Bullshit!!!

These are the lines that are trotted out again and again by fans of Fifty Shades, often in direct response to abuse survivors who have bravely used their own experiences in order to speak out against the trilogy.  Not a word is true.  Whilst a person's past does undoubtedly have the capacity to affect their present and their future, there is always a choice between abusing someone and not abusing them.  In short, there is literally NO excuse for the way that Christian behaves.  Survivors of abuse who've received proper, professional help will eventually come to know this.  Charities who support survivors know this.  Psychologists who work with perpetrators of abuse (should!) know this.

Unless you have severe psychological flaws that inhibit cognitive reasoning, you are always able to make a choice between harming someone (emotionally, sexually or physically), or treating them with love and respect.  Abusers choose to harm their partners.  They then choose to take no responsibility for their own actions, by using excuses just like the ones EL James and her fans take such pleasure in trotting out.

My own abuser used the first two excuses.  I used the third, because I believed the first two.  

"Poor him," I'd sob, whilst ignoring the fact that he'd told me I was pathetic, clingy, disgusting and fat.  "He had such a terrible childhood, he doesn't know any better."  And when he'd forcibly slap my hand away if I was trying to be affectionate, or call me a slut for trying to initiate sex (despite expecting it on tap when he wanted it), I'd shake my head and remind myself "he's only pushing you away because he's scared of how close you've gotten to him; he told you that himself and it must have been so hard for him to admit..."  And then I'd try to work out how best to be there for him - to love him the right way - so that we could eventually move forwards and have a proper, healthy relationship.

But there was no right way.  There was no way, because he didn't want there to be one.  If he moved past his issues, he'd no longer have an excuse to treat me the way he did, after all.  I clung to the belief that he'd change if I loved him the way he wanted me to, because I desperately wanted it to be true.  It's what keeps so many abused women (and obviously men) in their damaging relationships; that desperate longing for their abuser to turn back into the nice, charming, lovely person they first met.  And we place the responsibility for making that happen squarely on our own shoulders, just like Ana does throughout the Fifty Shades trilogy.

EL James has claimed - utterly ridiculously - that those who see abuse in her books are "doing a disservice to the women who experience it" in real life.  Again... Bullshit!!!

In many cases, it is those women who've experienced abuse in real life who recognise it in Fifty Shades and feel compelled to speak out.  But that quote from the author is mere evidence that she is utterly unable to comprehend criticism and will not listen to a word against her "perfect man," regardless of who it comes from.  Even in her press release, announcing the imminent arrival of Grey, EL James made subtle digs at those who justifiably criticised her leading man's behaviour, insisting "there's two sides to every story" and reminding readers of poor ickle Christian's "troubled past."

And that is what has caused my biggest concern about this book.  That is the reason that my stomach has been in knots since I heard the news about it.  Because with just a few words, EL James has made it inevitable that Grey is not merely "for the fans," but for the critics.  It's going to be a justification of Christian's appalling, abusive behaviour.  It's going to be excuse after excuse.  It's going to be played for sympathy, so that the fans who already use those tired, outdated, rubbish lines about how abusive people "can't help it," feel justified in doing so and use them all the more.  It's going to be something to wave in the faces of survivors and charities, so that EL James - with her far greater audience than we could ever have - can say "look, it's all so understandable now!  He really doesn't know any better!  Read this and you'll see how pained he is, poor thing!"

And she may as well smack every survivor of domestic abuse in the face with the bloody book whilst she's at it, because she's peddling yet more lies, yet more dangerous myths and, since it's my word of the day, yet more bullshit.  She's telling those survivors that their abusers didn't know any better and couldn't help their actions.  She's telling those survivors that if they'd only been as wonderful as Ana, their abusive lovers would have become the perfect partner they always dreamed of.  And there is nothing more sick than that.  

"It's fantasy, Emma, get over it," the fans will cry.

But in writing this book, EL has made it more than just fantasy.  She's made it a justification for some of the most deplorable behaviour a man could ever display towards a woman.  Bruising her body without consent, stalking her thousands of miles away when she's asked for space, telling her to "deal with" her feeling that she's being abused...  Grey, if my fears are correct, will be a book that explains away abusive behaviour and attempts to elicit sympathy for the perpetrator.  It will be a book that, without any research to back it up, claims that an abuser can justify their actions based on their own past experiences.  It will be an attempt to silence her critics, rather than a "gift" to her fans.

I hope I'm wrong.  I hope that when this book comes out and I read it (via detailed chapter recaps online, because I am not giving EL James a penny of my money; I'd rather donate it to a domestic abuse charity), that it doesn't go for the sympathy vote, or try to justify Christian's abusive behaviour.  I hope he comes across as appallingly badly as he does in that first, rewritten chapter.  I hope the fans read Grey and recognise him as the abuser he is, without giving him any excuses for his actions.  But given the three books that came before...  I don't hold out much hope.

Self Confidence & Me

Pictured: ME.

They say that self-confidence is one of the most attractive qualities a person can have.  And every time I hear that sentence, a small part of me wants to go and hide under my bed and weep over my unlovable personality quirk.  You see, I have some issues with self-confidence.

Oh, I can be confident in some areas.  I can do my day job and bring out the "jazz hands" with the children I teach and the parents I deal with on a daily basis.  I've done radio and print interviews, whilst publicising my ABC Animals series of children's books, during which - hopefully - no interviewer would ever have guessed that I have the slightest problem with self-esteem.  I know I'm good at certain things, like writing and other creative activities and I always feel confident when I do them.  I know I have fantastic friends and a close family who all think positive things about me, so I am genuinely confident when I'm around them.  Sometimes I really am the chatty, friendly, confident person that I appear to be.

But not always.

Sometimes I really do just want to hide under the bed.

I'll be honest with you and say that the absolute biggest area in which I suffer from a lack of confidence is my looks.  And therefore, by extension, with the opposite sex.

Between the ages of 11-14, I was told I was "hideous," "disgusting" and "unlovable" every day of my life by school bullies.  When I was between 14 and 15, I started a new school and on my very first day, a new school bully loudly shouted: "Eurgh, that is our new girl?!  Look at it!  Gross!"  

I was used to forming crushes on the few boys that didn't pick on me, only to be told that the crush wasn't remotely reciprocated, once the object of my affections found out (usually because someone else told them).

I was 18 before I had my first boyfriend.  When that relationship ended 10 months later, I got used to going out with friends and being the one that nobody chatted up.  I was the bag-carrier.  The one that blokes would dare their friends to talk to "for a laugh" (no word of a lie, I had that happen to me more times than I care to reminisce about).

I had a big crush on a guy called Rob for years during my early twenties, but funnily enough, when I finally plucked up the courage to ask him out (and I genuinely don't know where that came from, because I've never found it since), he said no.

I got into an abusive relationship when I was 27.  The man I loved (because yes, despite it being an abusive relationship, at the time I did love him enormously) would tell me I was fat, short and unworthy of commitment.  

So it probably shouldn't be a shock to anyone that my confidence in my looks has never been massively high.

Oh, I have confidence in me (and yes, I realise I sound worryingly like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music by saying that), just not the package that me comes in.

Unless I wear a mask of James Bourne's head.  Then I'm SEXY. 

Sure, sometimes I do look at myself and think I'm not that bad.  I've even been known to think I look bloody great.  I reckon I usually dress quite well and I'm pretty good at doing my make up nicely.  That's the thing with me; I like who I am on the inside, so I want to think nicely of the outside, too.  And sometimes I genuinely do.

But making the leap from me thinking I look quite nice to hoping that someone else thinks I look quite nice is close to impossible.  A little voice in my head will tell me "don't be stupid.  They wouldn't be interested in you!"

On Saturday night, I was away with a friend and we were having a few drinks in a big entertainment venue.  Now, for the last couple of months, I've had a bit of a "real-life crush" (i.e. not a celebrity) on someone who works at the place we were holidaying at.  He was there, with his friends, looking ridiculously gorgeous.  At one point, he smiled over and I smiled back.  And then I did nothing.  Because why, oh why would someone ridiculously gorgeous be interested in me?   Maybe he wasn't even smiling!  Maybe he had wind!

I did actually manage to hold a conversation with him less than 48 hours later, but mainly because he initiated it, otherwise I would have been stuck in "I WANT TO TALK TO YOU BUT I FEAR YOU WILL BE REPELLED BY MY FACE" mode.  Ironically, once he had said hello and started chatting, I was absolutely fine and dandy.  I asked my friend afterwards whether I came across as nervous or under-confident in any way and she was adamant that I didn't.  Although no, I didn't so much as hint that I had a crush on him, or ask him if he fancied getting to know each other better, or even whether he was single.  Because my brain did the "he would be sick if he knew you liked him" thing.  And I'm scared of vomit.

Emetophobia.  It's a real phobia.  And I have it.

Photo courtesy of beatyourfears.com

So, what's the point in writing this blog?  Well, mainly to show people who also have low confidence in their looks that they aren't alone.  And that talking about it honestly is the best thing to do.  After all, when you keep things in, they bubble up until they become bigger issues than they need to be.  It's vital to be open, otherwise people don't understand the way you might react to things.  For example, some of my friends genuinely can't understand why I won't just go over and initiate conversation with someone I like the look of and it's really important for me to stress that I just can't fathom why that person would be interested and that if they were to reject me, I would only see it as confirmation of what I already think about my dodgy face.

Yes, I can see the stupidity of what I just said - I'm essentially letting the fear of rejection stop me from getting the possible good result I want.  I'm not a total idiot; I can see that that's ridiculous.  And as the friend I was with this weekend pointed out on Sunday night (when I didn't see said crush out with his mates again), I always feel horrendous when I realise I missed what may have been my only opportunity to take action.  But - and this is a really important "but" - knowing that doesn't necessarily help me in that moment when I'm crazily paralysed with fear.  It doesn't give me the confidence in my looks that I need - and lack - in that critical moment.  The fact is that I can do my make up nicely, get my hair to behave for a change and put on a dress that flatters my figure and I can feel like I look good, but if I lose that confidence even for a split second, then I'm not going to be able to wander over and say hi to that guy, no matter how much people plead with me to.  Because I just don't believe that there's any point; I don't think my interest could possibly be mutual.

The other reason I'm writing this is because it's really important to me that nobody thinks I'm fishing for compliments when I put myself down.  If a person who really suffers from a lack of confidence in his or her looks says "ugh, I look a state," they're doing it because they believe it, not because they're trying to push someone into gushing "oh no you don't; you're gorgeous!"  Because someone like me will always find a way to believe that you're only saying it to be nice, rather than because it's true.

It's a slightly bizarre but true fact that I accept compliments on my looks better from strangers than I do from people who know me, because strangers have no reason to lie to make you feel better (unless they're just saying it to get you into bed and that's a whole other issue...).

In the end, it's really important to finish this blog post by saying that if you do feel as though you have very little confidence in your looks and it's affecting your ability to do simple things like say hi to someone attractive (unless they do it first - thank you, crush :-P), then you do need to build that confidence, somehow.  Wear something you feel fantastic in.  Treat yourself to a new hairdo.  And remember that even if your physical attributes don't fill you with esteem, then there will always be something about yourself that you do like.  For example, I think I'm quite funny.  And I'm a sensitive, kind and thoughtful friend.  And I'm fun to hang out with.  See?  Confidence.  I do have it!  

And you know what?  I probably look okay sometimes.  In a dark light.  If you squint.

Hmm, confidence.  Yeah, it's a work in progress...