#typing mind map this much made me think of the mind palace from sherlock and i viscerally cringed

[thegirlwiththelilactattoo]

No. 6, or a Writing Process

Once upon a time, my writing process was as follows: write an entire paper based on vibes and evidence from readings. Let the argument develop organically. If at some point I didn't like the writing style, argument, or anything else, delete the entire paper and restart. It didn't matter if I had 1 page or 8, if I didn't like the paper, I would rewrite the whole thing from scratch.

Most of the forms of taking stock of ideas before writing haven't worked for me. Outlines in their I/II/III/a./b./c. are too structured to be hold the all the ideas happening in my head that cannot be made sense of in roman numerals. For me, the process of writing is where I start making connections and synthesizing ideas. It's the part that I like and enjoy. I need to dump fully formed ideas, musings, considerations, secondary and primary data on a page and only then can I make sense what all the information is telling me. I couldn't tell you how one idea builds into the next or where one ideas flows into the other because I need to write it first. I need to experience it and make the connections, and develop the ideas.

As a college student, this manifested in my terrible habit of writing and deleting thousands of words until what I had on the page was as if someone had lovingly made sense of the red stringed conspiracy board in my head. This worked fine for me in college. Like was it entirely inefficient? Absolutely! Did my papers suffer for it? Nope!

It's only in grad school that I've had to reevaluate this process. In No. 4, I talked about imposter syndrome. I never used to be an anxious writer. In college I felt very confident about my skills as a write, it wasn't until grad school that I started to feel like an imposter. I'm hyperaware of how my own writing style fails to match up to scholars in the field or my peers. I am compelled to self edit constantly to emulate "good" prose and that makes writing feel impossible. It's another thing grad school has taken from me, the joy of writing confidently and unashamed.

Now that I am responsible for writing a 60,000 word document in the next 13 months, I have tried to find ways of working that support my writing and thinking process.

Mind Mapping

Mind mapping is one of my first steps to dealing with anxiety. With a mind map I am dealing with the known. The data I already have and my general ideas. It's also the most legible outline I have to convey to my committee members that thinking is happening.

My first step before writing is to summarize the points that I want to make in a paragraph. I try to cover the main ideas in broad strokes and craft a short thesis. For me, this has to be as open as possible. If it's too specific and maps out each move, I feel restricted and anxious.

Once my summary is complete, I make a mind map. I'm in the social sciences and working quite interdisciplinary, so the mind map helps me to organize my thoughts and the breadth of data visually. This is a must for me. It's very similar to an outline, but something about the blobs feels much less stressful. I've used MindMup (free) and am currently using MindNode (paid).

I basically use the mind map as a quasi outline to get the general idea of the logical path of my argument and the main pieces of evidence I'll use to craft my argument. This also serves as the basic structure of the chapter organization.

Because the mind map is relatively general, I feel free to explore various lines of thought, which then leads me to my Zero Draft!

Note: I also use a similar mind map in the literature review process either through an app or on a bulletin board like how I describe in this post.

[Alt text: Screenshot of a mind map. The original content has been covered with boxes to generalize the categories. The first node says Argument One which leads to another node that says Literature Review. It then branches off to three child nodes that say Data 1, Data 2, and Data 3.]

Zero Draft

I'm currently at the Zero Draft phase of my first chapter. This topic is mentioned in Joan Bulker's Writing Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a day, where most of her advice for writing your dissertation is to just...write.

This is the part of writing that is really fun for me, the infodump. I use a zero draft to do all the messy thinking and linking of ideas. I leave ideas unedited and clunky. I move from section to section at my leisure. I delete things. I write notes to myself about ideas I want to develop or lingering questions that I want to address.

It's the draft where I feel free to just say anything without justifying myself. As such, I don't really make any concrete arguments in this draft. It's kind of like sculpting the body and later I figure out what the head will look like.

The zero draft is for messiness that I will then refine in a later draft. Once my zero draft is written, I have a good sense of what I actually want to say and can rewrite my first draft to most effectively say it. It's essentially like doing a reverse outline.

Closing Thoughts (???)

Writing can be such an opaque process and academia thrives on this "figure it out own your own" mentality. I've never really found writing advice that spoke to my own particular neurodivergent way of thinking, so I hope this is helpful to at least someone else!

[janeofcakes]

Chapter 74

*** Brief mention of non-con immediately after the second asterisks. And torture. My poor John.***

(Irene Adler walks into her study for a file she needs to carry out a very sensitive business matter. What she finds instead is a very quiet, very sexy Sherlock Holmes holding said file. She enters the room with a smile on her face that is somewhere between pleasant surprise and annoyance, closing the door behind and taking a few steps forward. She strikes a pose with a hand on her hip and raises a brow.)

I: Sherlock Holmes. How do you always find me?

S: Homing device. I planted it on you long ago. (He gives her his exaggerated friendly smile.) I would’ve thought that was rather obvious.

I: (unamused) Cute. What do you want?

(She casually walk to the bar and pour herself a drink.)

S: I think you know.

I: (pouring a whiskey with her back to him) I can’t help you with James Moriarty.

(Sherlock cocks a brow and narrows his eyes. She turns around to face him, leaning her hips on the bar, and taking a sip from the short glass.)

S: Can’t or won’t?

I: (with a tight smile) The last time I helped you, Jim paid me a visit and gave me something to remind me why no one crosses him.

S: Surely you don’t bend to his will.

I: No, I don’t, but I have a significant interest in preserving my life. And I have officially retired. (with a condescending smile) Again. It’s no secret that I don’t mind your company, but you really need to stop visiting.

S: (straightening to his full height) I am sorry if my appearances cause you any inconvenience, but there is nothing in this world that will stop me from getting John Watson away from Moriarty. He is my life.

I: How long has he been missing?

S: Just over six weeks.

I: (near spitting the whiskey right out of her mouth with laughter) He’s not yours anymore. He belongs to Jim Moriarty now and he’ll make his mark to prove it.

(She places her drink on the bar and toes off one of her startlingly sharp stilettos. Sherlock furrows his brow in thought. She can’t possibly know about the word Moriarty scrawled on John’s arm. She raises her eyes to meet his and twists her foot so he can see its sole. The detective’s eyes widen. The letters JM have been burned into the skin.

She turns her foot again and slips it back in the pump, grabbing her whiskey while she does it and speaking before Sherlock can say a word.)

I: It was a fairly minor transgression as Jim saw it, so he didn’t kill me. (She sips from the glass casually.) You’ll be lucky to get John back without one of these, or much worse. You’ll be lucky to get John back at all.

(Sherlock doesn’t reply, but looks at her somberly.

I: I can’t help you, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I only wish I could. (She takes another drink.) I hope you find John. I really do. He doesn’t like me, but he’s a good man and he loves you.

(She walks toward him to stop just outside of his personal space and takes the file from his hand. Looking up into his silver eyes, she stares him down with an unparalleled intensity.)

I: Maybe you should travel once he’s safe. Relax a little. You could even marry. Mycroft must have a private island full of prickly pears somewhere.

S: (raising a brow) Perhaps.

(They scan one another’s eyes for a few seconds longer than is normal, then Sherlock steps back and strides to the door. He opens it to leave, but stops and looks back.)

S: Thank you.

I: Ciao.

(And he’s gone.)

***

(Sherlock hails a cab and quietly pieces together Irene’s clues as he travels to Baker Street. He also pulls his mobile from his coat pocket to summon Greg and Molly with a text. Once he has finished, he looks out the window restlessly. It is covered with drips and streams of water from the heavy rain of London. Sherlock watches as it falls on the pavement and the people who hurry though the city upon it. What is it like where John is? What has Moriarty done to him? Has he burned him like Irene? What will it mean if he has?

Sherlock is lost in thought when the cab stops and only emerges from his mind palace when the cabbie prompts him. He pays, gets out of the car, and walks to the door of 221. He pauses, his eyes falling to the knob. God, how he wishes John was inside waiting for him. Sitting in his chair with a newspaper in his hands and his feet propped up, legs stretched in between their two chairs. Sherlock would cross the room and look at him haughtily, but only for show. John would know in an instant that Sherlock actually wanted to sit on his lap and snog him senseless. He would slowly close the paper and make a smart comment, and then Sherlock would pounce.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Sherlock unlocks the door and takes the stairs two at a time. Once he is inside the flat, he strides through to the dining table, grabbing his laptop along the way, and placing it on the table. After a few minutes of expeditious typing, he hears the footfalls of Greg Lestrade on the stairs up to the flat. Sherlock glances his way as he enters the room and stops next to the detective. Greg looks over his shoulder to see a map of the Mediterranean just before Sherlock zooms in on Italy and the surrounding area.)

G: (referring to his text) What makes you think he’s in Italy?

S: I did not say Italy. He’s not in Italy itself. Too obvious. (to himself) Somewhere close.

G: Sherlock, do you have any idea how many countries are around Italy?

S: (shortly) Yes, I do know and, even if I didn’t, I am looking at a map of the area now.

G: Right, right. I only meant we have to narrow the field a bit.

S: (glaring at him and snapping) Haven’t we had this conversation before?

(They stare at one another for a few seconds and then hear the front door to the flat open and close. Molly’s footstep echo as she nearly runs down the hall and rushes into the room.)

MH: Have you found John? Where is he?!

G: Italy.

S: (returning his attention to the map and mumbling) An island.

MH: What - Sicily?

(Greg shrugs in annoyance. She turns her eyes to Sherlock, whose are eyes are roving over the laptop’s screen.)

S: A private island. It has to be private. (He is almost whispering now, eyes scanning carefully.) In the Aeolian Islands.

MH: The Aeolians? How can you be sure?

S: Prickly pears are native only to the Americas, but have been introduced to many areas with arid conditions. It has to be an area in which Italian is spoken or she wouldn’t have said ciao. While a word or phrase from a foreign language suits her personality, she does not make it a part of her speech, thus making it purposeful. (Molly exchanges a confused look with Greg while Sherlock continues whispering.) She made reference to a private island. A private island, a private… It’s uncharted. Damn it!

(He pushes himself away from the table and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. Resting his palms on the top of his head, he looks up at the ceiling and lets out an angry breath.)

MH: Just who have you been talking to about this?

S: (ignoring the question) Even on the most current maps, there is nothing. There has to be some way to find it.

G: What about Mycroft? Would he be able to find out anything about it?

S: Possibly.

(Sherlock lets his arms drop to his sides and stalks away from the table. As he nears the fireplace, meeting the eyes of the skull on the mantle, he twirls around and points at the other two, an idea on his lips.)

MH: What is it, Sherlock? Where is he?

(Before he can answer, Sherlock’s mobile sounds, but he ignores it and begins rattling off deductions. Greg listens intently and Molly means to do the same, but her eyes fall to the mobile on the table. She darts forward and grabs it, then takes a few steps and thrusts it at Sherlock.)

MH: Look! Will you shut up and look!

(Sherlock glares at the woman with every intention of loosing his tongue in full fury, but remains silent when he reads the call’s origin. He steps closer and takes the phone from Molly’s hand, reading Italy as it flashes and sounds again. Looking at the other two, he hastily swipes his finger over the screen and puts it to his ear.)

S: John?

(There is a long pause. He can hear someone breathing and listens carefully for any other sound, anything that could clue him in to where the caller is. He hears a sharp inhale of breath.)

MM: Sherlock Holmes?

S: Who is this?

MM: A friend of John’s.

S: (trying to remain calm) Where is he?

MM: On a private island.

S: In the Aeolians.

MM: (obviously startled) Yes. How did you…

S: Where is it? It’s uncharted.

MM: Five miles northeast of Filicudi.

(She gives him the coordinates before he can even ask and he commits them to memory in a split-second. He wants to ask who she is, how she knows John, if he has been injured, but she cuts him off uttering one last word before ending the call.)

MM: Hurry.

***

(John squeezes his eyes tightly shut and prays it will end soon. Every time since the incident at Parliament has been more and more violent. John has not seen Mary since he gave her Sherlock’s surname. He has, however, had Jim as a near constant companion. John tries to keep from suspecting her, but cannot shake the feeling that Mary may actually be working with Jim after all. Why would she disappear at precisely this moment when he has the most hope of escape? He tries to convince himself it is only because Jim has not left his side, but his wherewithal is getting thin. Jim’s presence and torture and assaults are quickly becoming too much to bear.

Jim snaps his hips again and again, grunting and shuddering.)

JM: Look at me, John. Look at me!

(He presses a hand on John’s ribs hard, forcing John to open his eyes and meet his own. It pushes Jim right over the edge, crying out and coming into John. John scrunches up his face in pain and stares at Jim, hating every fiber of his being. His hands are fists at his sides. He wants to hit him. God, how he wants to get his hands around Jim’s throat, but no word from him means Sherlock’s death and John will not allow that. Whatever he must endure, he will not allow Sherlock to be hurt.

Jim moans loudly.)

JM: Tell me you love me. (He presses harder on John’s ribs when he doesn’t answer.) Say you love me!

J: (through clenched teeth) No.

(Jim presses his lips to John’s and bites. He pulls back with a mad grin on his face and wipes blood from his mouth. Then, very unexpectedly, he sits up and leaps off the bed. Finally free, John closes his eyes in anguish and rolls onto his side, his arms wrapped around his aching ribs. It takes a full minute before he realizes he is whispering desperately.)

J: I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry.

(Suddenly Jim is back, tossing pants and pajama bottoms at John. He has put on jeans and a t-shirt that reads “You should see me in a crown”.)

JM: Put these on.

(John reaches for the clothing and slowly pulls them on, pain shooting through his body with every movement. He falls back onto the bed as soon as he finishes and stares up at the ceiling, breathing hard. Every breath burns and pain radiates up his left side. He clenches his teeth and traces his fingers along his ribs cage, searching for the broken ones, certain he’ll find at least one.

Meanwhile, Jim climbs back on the bed and straddles John’s waist, pinning him down again. He takes advantage of John’s search to wield a knife he collected in the kitchen and slashes John’s right shoulder. Taken completely off-guard, John cries out in pain and grabs at the wound. Jim snatches at John’s arms and pins them down at his sides beneath his knees. John grunts in pain and anger, knowing full well Jim can only manage it because of John’s injuries, which is exactly why he has them. Jim is smart and has no problem using pain to give him the advantage.

John looks up at his captor with furious eyes and sees a spray of his own blood across Jim’s white tee. Jim is still wearing that mad smile. He places the point of the knife in the center of the deep slash with extreme care and begins pushing in slowly, his black eyes staring down at John. John’s eyes go wide, his mouth open and gasping. He strains against Jim’s body and clamps his mouth shut, barely able to swallow his screams.)

JM: Say you love me. (John can only shake his head.) Say it, John.

(He pushes the knife deeper.)

J: (whispering) No.

(Jim pulls the blade up a bit and then thrusts it deeper. John screams.)

JM: SAY IT!

(John struggles and only increases the pain, unintentionally forcing the knife in further. He swallows hard and tries to quiet his mind, pull himself together. Licking his lips, he chokes out the words.)

J: Why do you want me to say things I’ll never mean?

JM: Because one day, you will. (He leans in close and pushes at the knife as he goes. John’s face crumples. Tears he can’t stop fall from his eyes when he closes them.) Say it, John, or I’ll bring Sherlock here and flay him while you watch.

(John’s eyes fly open to stare at Jim in fear. His mouth falls open. Completely gutted, John blinks his eyes a few times, tears falling from both and running down his cheeks.)

J: (quietly) I love you.

(Jim closes his eyes and sighs.)

JM: See, that wasn’t so hard. (kissing John) I love you too.

(Jim sits up again and slowly draws the blade from John’s shoulder. John’s body tenses and shudders. As soon as the knife is no longer embedded in John’s skin, Jim holds it to his throat, tucked neatly under John’s chin in a silent reminder not to move. He reaches for the table beside the bed and comes back with a folded up cloth he pushes against John’s shoulder to stop the bleeding.)

JM: Just stay still, love. We wouldn’t want this bleeding to get out of control. (After a minute or two of inane conversation, Jim clicks his tongue.) Hm. This isn’t helping at all, but don’t worry. I have a better plan.

(He pulls the knife away from John’s throat and clamps his left hand down on it to hold the man still. John follows the blade with his eyes as it hovers over his face and to the bedside table. Jim lays down the knife and flicks on a handheld butane torch that sits on the table. It springs to life, the open flame dancing before their eyes. Jim picks up the knife again and puts the blade directly in the flame, heating it to a dangerous degree.

John’s eyes widen in panic. There is only one thing Jim could have planned for that blade and the fresh wound on John’s shoulder. He twists under Jim’s body, but only succeeds in causing more blood to ooze from his shoulder.)

J: Jesus! NO!

(Jim speaks thoughtfully as he watches the sharp metal heat up, turning it periodically and grinning maniacally. John continues to struggle, damning himself for being so weak, half wondering if Jim has drugged him as well with just this situation in mind.)

JM: You know, I haven’t been devoting the time to you that I should. My plans for the Ice Man would’ve worked if you had been ready to distract Sherlock for me.

(John takes his eyes off the blade to glare at Jim. He bites out his next words, his voice so low and full of hate that he doesn’t sound like himself to even his own ears.)

J: I will never be under your control.

JM: Really, John, aren’t you already?

J: You will never turn me against Sherlock.

JM: (smiling) We’ll see about that, love. I’ve bent stronger men than you to my will. (He removes the knife from the torch and brings it close to John’s cheek.) Don’t worry, love. It will only hurt for a minute.

J: God, no! NO!

(The moment the metal touches his skin, John’s world blanks into nothing but white, hot pain radiating through his body. His vision blurs with tears flooding his eyes and he hears a distant voice screaming unintelligible words. A few more seconds go by before he realizes it’s his own voice and he’s begging. Begging Jim to stop. Begging Sherlock to find him. Begging for it to be over.

As Jim slowly moves the knife over the length of the slash, John’s mind snaps back to reality. He renews his struggle, thrashing around as best he can. He can tell he’s accomplishing nothing, only tiring himself, but he has to do something, anything he can to resist.)

J: God, stop. Just stop!

JM: (stopping for a moment to heat the blade again and answering in his sing-song voice) You’re only making it take longer. Just calm down, love.

J: No! Jim...AH!!

(John clenches his jaw and groans as Jim begins again, tracing over where he has already cauterized to make sure he made a good pass.

When he completes his work, Jim takes the knife from John’s skin and admires his handiwork. John looks up to see Jim smiling in pride. He glances at his own shoulder, at the line of burned skin, red and bloody. Jim leans down, getting right up into his business, and devours John’s neck. He bites and mouths and licks, finally finishing with a long lick up John’s jaw to his ear.)

JM: (whispering) You are so delicious. When I’m finished with you, you will BEG me to make you come. (licking his ear) And you will rue the day you met Sherlock Holmes.

(He sits up again and grins, looking more insane by the minute. John watches as he returns the blade to the torch. Jim is watching too. His eyes dance as knife burns.)

JM: I know what you’re thinking, but this is the perfect time to put my real mark on you, love. (He meets John’s eyes.) I did your arm, but this is my signature, my brand. No one will ever question whether or not you belong to me again. (He leans down close to John’s face and kisses his mouth, biting harshly at his bottom lip.) Are you ready, love? I promise I’ll be gentle.

J: FUCK OFF!!

(Trying desperately not to panic, John does the only thing he can think of and headbutts Jim. The man reels back, giving John the opportunity to push him off his body and to the floor. Ignoring the pain and exhaustion, John scrambles to his feet and runs as fast as he can.

He flings open the door to his room and dashes down the stairs. He nearly tumbles down them, he is moving so quickly, and throws himself out the front door. Once he is outside, John runs and runs and runs without looking back. He knows there’s nowhere to go, but still, he’ll never stop running. Or so he thinks...

In a few minutes, he finds himself at the same cliff he nearly stepped off of two months earlier and he is suddenly still as stone. John steps to the edge and looks down into the waves crashing on the rocks below. This is his only escape. The only way he can get away from Jim. The only way. John steps even closer to the edge and feels his body sway as the wind blows around it. The world stops. All he can hear, all he can feel, is the wind and it beckons to him, pulls him toward the cliff’s edge and the waves below.)

Voice: John, stop.

(John closes his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek. That voice sounded deep and silky. It pulls him back from the brink and he is almost convinced it was the one man who could actually stop him. But, when he turns to face its source, Jim is the only man he sees. John’s face falls and he clutches at his ribs with his left hand, his right shoulder too sore to move his arm.)

JM: Come back to the house, love.

J: (shaking his head) No.

(Jim starts toward him slowly, pulling a gun from his pocket and training it on John.)

JM: That wasn’t a request. Go back to the house.

J: (laughing defiantly) Or what? You’ll shoot me? Be my guest. I’d rather die. (Jim fires and the bullet whizzes passed John’s ear. He doesn’t so much as flinch.) I won’t be turned against my friends. Against Sherlock. He’s my life. I’ve been dead here without him.

(John squares his shoulders and lets his hands fall to his sides. Jim cocks a brow, a look of panic flashes through his eyes. John takes a deep, cleansing breath and speaks in a low and dangerous voice.)

J: I will die before I EVER set foot in that house again.

(Jim raises his arm so the gun is even with his shoulder, still pointing at John. His eyes are dark and angry, his hair whipping in the wind.)

JM: Get. In. The. House.

(John shakes his head and starts taking a step back, but stops and turns his head in shock as a helicopter flies quickly toward them. It flies overhead as they both watch and hovers twenty feet from the cliff. Jim curses loudly when he sees who is inside it.)

JM: GOD DAMN IT!

M: (voice echoing loudly through the air) James Moriarty. Put down the gun and step away from John Watson.

(John turns back to face Jim, already knowing exactly what the man will do and what he will say.)

JM: I won’t say no one can have you if I can’t. But I sure as hell won’t let him have you either.

(John braces himself. Jim squeezes the trigger. Sherlock appears out of nowhere and throws his body at Jim, launching them both off the cliff and into the rocky waters below.)

J: SHERLOCK!

(Without hesitation, John leaps off the cliff after the detective.

Mycroft sighs and watches him disappear into the swirling water from his perch in the chopper.)

M: Shit.

[fredericksmeg-blog]

Week One.

Here it is, my first official blog post of my study abroad semester. *confetti cannons* As of right now, I’ve been in London for a little over one week. I am full of potatoes and shame. This might be a long one, so buckle your seat belts.

If you don’t know me very well and you’re reading this: Hello, welcome to my mess of a life.   If you already know me really well and you’re reading this because you’re genuinely interested in my life: I’m so sorry in advance. If you’re my parents and you’re reading this: Forgive me for how much money I’m spending right now (see above: shame). Also, Dad, Happy Birthday! If you’re my boyfriend and you’re reading this: Hi Will I miss you. If you’re my dog and you’re reading this: Sunday, I am so proud of you for learning how to read.

For the next 16 weeks, the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea will be my home. This is undoubtedly the most expensive property I will ever, ever live on. Kensington is a beautiful and clean bubble on the West side of central London. I live on the south edge of Hyde Park, and I essentially live across the street from the Royal Family (in Kensington Palace).

I live in a quad in the 6-person basement flat of our building with Natalie, Bri, and Jasmine. It’s nice and secluded. Our bedroom window is conveniently located in the front of the building, so we can hear all conversations of people leaving and entering, as well as lots of families queuing to get into the Dutch Embassy next door every single morning.

In the past week, I’ve been almost constantly in motion and have had about two minutes to breathe. I flew in with my dad and my uncle last Tuesday morning and spent a day with them after we arrived. We got back to our hotel, crashed, and then met up with Will Spangler (A note: there are 2 Wills in my life, and the most important difference is that I am dating one of them and not dating the other one. Use context clues. I believe in you.) to explore Soho via its pubs. I beat jet lag easily thanks to the numerous pints I consumed trying to keep up with my dad and my uncle.

The next morning we went to the British museum, a trip in which I saw the real Parthenon marbles for the first time and had a pathetic and very public little cry in the Duveen gallery. After that, I got to my program, where I unpacked, registered for classes, and went to Sainsbury’s for groceries in a pack of something like 9 people. After that, I headed out with Will (who lives in the same building as me) and an ungodly number of people in our program for some food and a beer. Honestly the first week of this program has felt eerily like my first year of college. 

On Thursday, we woke up and explored Hyde Park for a bit until we had orientation at 2. After we were talked at for a while, we came back to our flat to change and get ready to go to the theater as part of the program. After a very upscale dinner at Pret, we saw The Play that Goes Wrong as the Duchess Theater in the West End. It was actually pretty funny, thankfully. When it ended, we decided to dedicate one night and one night only to a terrible chain of Irish tourist pubs called O’Neill’s. Naturally, it was in Chinatown, and featured a cover band that played Basket Case, All The Small Things, and I’m a Believer in a row. Now that I’ve had that lovely experience, I could not be happier to never go there again.

On Friday, we woke up for an earlier orientation, which was as exciting as it sounds. Around 1, I met my dad and our family friends (the Milnes!), who live about 45 minutes outside of London, in Borough Market for lunch at a place called “Fish!” It was delicious and it was really nice to see them, after probably nearly a decade. I hung around with my dad for a bit before I came back to Kensington for our relatively uneventful welcome dinner. After that a few of us headed to a pub and we just sat and talked for a while, it was nice. I am a big fan of pub culture. 

On Saturday morning we had a bus tour of London, which I am always a fan of. We saw all the usual tourist stuff, good times had by all. We were dropped off outside of the Houses of Parliament, where we had tickets for tours later in the day. In the meantime, we went to the National Gallery (very briefly), got lunch, and walked to Buckingham Palace. Our audio tour of Parliament was actually amazing. I had been in the building before, but I watched the House of Commons meet as a guest in the upper balconies. This time, we walked inside the actual houses, which are the smallest, most ridiculously ornate rooms I’ve ever seen. I’m always amazed by the traditions in this country, and the audio tour was as good as it could have been. We came back to Kensington after our tours and flopped around, made dinner, and decided that we would trek to Shoreditch that night. Shoreditch is the “trendy” neighborhood of East side of London, and it supposed to have lots of great food and bars. We went to a bar that played exclusively 90’s music on Saturdays, which was a great time, and then we explored a few more to try to figure out where we’d want to come back next time. We ended up in a bar that played Build Me Up Buttercup. Blessed.

On Sunday I slept through all of my alarms and woke up less than 2 hours before a very formal afternoon tea, which was amazing (the tea, not the panic that I woke up in). I think I drank 6 cups of tea. I also had the most amazing macaron of my life. After tea we went back to our flat and bought tickets to go to the Harry Potter Studio Tour, because why would I ever pass on that. On Sunday night I met my dad and my uncle for dinner before they left to go back to the States, which was really nice but also sad. I am garbage at saying goodbye to people. Later that night we booked flights for our first trip! We are going to Amsterdam on the 19th. 

Monday was the first day of classes, but I didn’t have any. I was incredibly lazy for the first half of the day, and then I went out to get some productive shopping on High Street Ken so that I have enough food to actually cook meals. Late on Monday night we went to Harrods, which was a complete maze and a work of art in itself.

And of course, yesterday I had 3 classes, each of which was 3 hours long. My first class, British Life and Cultures (everyone in the program takes some form of this course), was actually pretty enjoyable and I had a good time listening to my professor curse casually and tell us which pubs to go to. Next I had my required art class, which is about art archiving/collecting. We went to the Whitechapel gallery on the East side of London and saw exhibits by William Kentridge and the Guerrilla Girls, both of which were very cool. Kentridge’s exhibit was honestly kind of entrancing. He works with film and objects, and one of his works, The Refusal of Time, is 30 minutes long. I shit you not, me and Emily watched the whole thing and it was nuts. It’s a film with an insane score, and in the middle of the room there was a wooden machine that was rigged to make it imitate breathing. It was actually so great. Around 5, we hiked it all the way back to Kensington for our 6 - 9 pm class on British Media, which was mostly about the BBC; very interesting but so long and so late. We talked about Sherlock though, so I was into it.

Today we did so much. I woke up early, ate breakfast, and typed the majority of this blog. Emily, Bridget, Sarah and I went into central London later in the afternoon and walked around the Covent Garden area, checked out St. Paul’s and the Millennium Bridge, and then went into the Tate Modern, which is one of the coolest art museums I’ve ever been in. We grabbed a beer at a pub called The Founder’s Arms, which is situated right on the Thames and it was absolutely beautiful to look out at London at night. And now we’re just kind of vegging.

So. There it is. The First Week.™   

If you want to follow my escapades geographically, let me direct you to this Google map, because of course I did this:

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1qDdsb_E9C_cO6K_ohuqzx0CH1JY&usp=sharing

The places I’ve been before (including my previous trip in 2014) are in red, the places I’ve been before and need to return to are in dark blue, and the places I want to visit are in light blue.

Final Thoughts (Tomi Lahren can eat my shorts):

I’m going to be posting on Instagram stories much more than Snapchat (mostly because I can save them in a better format and it’s overall much better quality). My username is megfred73, if you don’t follow me already (Shameless self-promotion, I’m the worst). 

I also have to run an Instagram for my art class, which is going to be transportation themed photos. It’s all required, but if you’re into that my username is mfred_london.

As always, the ignorance of some of my peers absolutely astounds me. Saying “mind the gap” in a British accent on a quiet tube is not the way to go, especially if you’re going to be living here for four months. To go along with this, I am so shocked that American news is frequently front-page stuff over here. It is absolutely crazy how many more people here follow world events than we do. Example: most Brits followed the US election, the majority of people in the US did not follow the Brexit decision. And it is difficult to follow US news here! I woke up this morning and Twitter was on fire because our President-elect was in a pee-pee scandal?! How do Brits get used to this?

I am having a really good time. I am an anxious and easily overwhelmed human being and I have daily moments where I am absolutely terrified, but I just want to say, I am good. Everything is good.

That is about it. Until next week.