"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter & bleed."

After many a nagging from both partner and father, I finally got around to watch Midnight In Paris, written & directed by the awkward yet ingenious Woody Allen. Dad's been a fan ever since I was old enough to remember watching Woody Allen films with him. I was expecting the expected. The same ol', same ol' enjoyment, freshness and originality. I keep trying to lie to myself, to convince myself that his films and his brillance are all equally overrated. 

It was just a big fat lie. It was nothing short of perfection. 

Each scene into the story tickled my fancy, maybe it's because I'm aspiring to be some form of writer. Every mention of histories greatest, a squeak escaped my throat. Basking in the ambience of such heroes. But who was I kidding? Out of the dozen artists and authors mentioned, I knew only a handful. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Picasso, Gertrude Stein. Yes, I've heard of them, walked by them, possibly read a few paragraphs. I'm sure by now you've established the fact that I am not the most cultural of people. I don't understand much of the abstract paintings hung on marble museum walls, or read many of the dusty books stacked neatly in the literature shelves of lifeless libraries. But hey, my jaw still dropped in a brief awe as I watched each literature reference being introduced in Midnight In Paris. I didn't turn to my father asking, "Who's Hemingway?" So there still might be some hope for me. I am not a complete, literature wannabe loser.  

3 quotes from this movie got me thinking. 

"I would like you to read my novel & get your opinion." - Gill

To conclude, writers will hate all writing except their own. 

Perhaps to be fair, I hate writing that is similar to mine. If we have different styles, sure, feel free, go ahead, write away dear fellow. 

All these quotes just brought back so many memories of my English Literature class back in Bournemouth. It was the year I finally took on Eng Lit as a class, seeing as I never had the chance studying in a local Chinese school. How I got into Literature is a whole other story that I must leave for future blogging material. So basically, there was a girl who, let's just say, we had a mutual unspoken battle between each other. Some of my writing coursework made our professor laugh out loud in front of the whole class, this class containing less than 10 that decreased by the week. He would chuckle his British chuckle, saying "This is brilliant." Gloating in my own little world, I could feel the words Challenge Accepted being thrown across the classroom and hit me on the head. It would then be her turn, and he'd mutter an equally annoying compliment, and I would be sending dagger death threats via brainwaves. 

A brutal battlefield. 

In a nutshell.