16 things to bear in mind after a break up.

Allow yourself some stalking time. It sounds strange and everyone will be telling you the complete opposite – “why are you still staring at his Facebook profile? Block him!” At first, this won’t help. You’re not a robot. You can’t just cut all ties with someone who up until very recently was your best friend in the whole world. If you can delete him off Facebook/Twitter/Instagram, then bravo, well done you. You’re a hero. If not, don’t panic too much. It’s normal to be wondering what he’s up to or how he’s handling the situation. Yes, sometimes you’ll well up looking at old photos of the two of you and yes, other times you’ll want to punch your computer screen just for seeing an image of his face. That’s fine. You’re a woman. We tend to change our minds like that. Just don’t spend all day brooding over photos of old memories. That will just eat you up inside.

Prepare your liver. Your friends will automatically want to take you out and wine and dine you. That’s because they love you, and what better way to show you than by holding your hair back as you throw up the contents of your stomach into the toilets in Babylon? But sometimes, you’ll feel as if you need time on your own. You’ve probably not had a lot of alone time since you’ve just come out of a serious relationship, so at first, it will feel a little strange. You won’t know which TV programmes to watch, you won’t find things as funny anymore and occasionally, you’ll zone out and completely miss what happened at the end of Coronation Street. But it’s important not to spend too much time on your own just yet. You need to be around those who love you, so that will probably involve a tankard of wine.

Don’t slag him off too much. After all, if he really is a “whiny, controlling gay boy with a two inch penis who couldn’t make you orgasm”, why were you with him for so long? We all know that isn’t true – yourself included. Up until a few weeks ago, you were singing this person’s praises, so don’t go full circle and slag him off, calling him every name under the sun. You’ll look bitter, not better.

Buy nice underwear. So, you’ve been in a long term relationship. You probably do have some lovely bras and knickers stashed somewhere in your bedroom, but let’s face it. You’ve worn your comfy undies for far too long. Go out and buy brand new sexy lingerie. Trust me. You’ll feel so much more confident with Victoria’s Secret protecting your nether regions. Even if it just gives you a secret little boost, you’ll feel like you’ve got your shit together. Plus, if you ever went into hospital (fingers crossed you don’t), the doctors will be checking you out as they stuff you into a hospital gown. You don’t want to be the girl they snigger at as they hastily cover up your Mr Tickle knickers on an operating table. You want them to go: “Holy shit. Have you seen this girl? Dayyym.”

Concentrate on your appearance. I’m not saying pay for a boob job or get your lips done. It’s just that you’ve been so comfortable for the last few months that it honestly didn’t matter that you weren’t wearing make up to work or that you’d worn the same dress on the last two nights out. Everybody knew that you were the girl with the boyfriend. You weren’t looking to pull anyone. But suddenly, you’ll find yourself in the spotlight and you might not be used to that. People will look at you differently. Make sure you wear make up, have nice clean hair and pretty clothes at all times. Trust me. You don’t want it being fed back to your ex that you “must have been having an off day” when one of his mates bumps into you at the pub.

Pamper yourself. That’s right. This is the fun bit. My personal advice would be to go to Boots, spend at least £30 on Soap & Glory products – bubble bath, shower gel, body butter. You name it. Maybe indulge in some new make up. Buy some hair dye. Be brave and book yourself in for a bikini wax or an eyebrow threading session. If you’re in the position to be able to, dedicate at least half of your wages on treating yourself. Seen a gorgeous pair of shoes in River Island? Buy them. Feeling a little bit pale? Fake tan. Hands looking a bit plain? Get your nails done. Not only will you look better, but trust me, you’ll feel like a prin. Nothing says “ha, fuck you, look what you lost” than a mani/pedi and a strong eyebrow game.

Forget about dieting. The heartbreak diet will take care of that all by itself. What’s important at first is to make sure you’re putting something inside your body. That sounds repulsive, but I’m just referring to food. Even if all you fancy is a whopping slice of chocolate cheesecake and a family sized bag of Doritos, indulge. Your eating will be all over the show for the first few weeks, maybe even months, so you need to eat if and when you can. You’ll still burn it off and you’ll probably be eating 50% less than what you were guzzling when you were in a relationship. Either way, you’ll drop at least half a stone without trying. Once you’ve got over the wobbly bit (the first eight weeks of a break up), then you can actively try to lose weight. It will fall off you and I can’t stress this point enough – nothing is better than running into your ex and have him tell you that you’ve lost weight. Just smile, say thank you and walk on.

Do not sleep around. There’s two things that tend to happen when a girl becomes newly single. You either cut yourself off from all men and practically tie a sandwich board round your neck that says “I’m still hurting. Please don’t talk to me. I just want my ex” or, even worse, you sleep with everything in sight. Either of these scenarios aren’t particularly great, but you definitely do not want to do the latter. Meaningless sex might sound ideal. After all, you’ve gone cold turkey after having sex on tap for a very long time – but you’ll feel empty and insignificant afterwards. Not to mention risking the whole unwanted baby/sexually transmitted disease malarkey. Imagine bumping into your ex as you’re leaving the GUM clinic? Exactly. I’m not saying abstain. But maybe just give it at least two or three months before you put yourself out there again. Nobody wants to be remembered as the girl who lay there and cried during a one night stand, whilst sobbing into a pillow: “That’s not how my ex does it”. Time is a fantastic thing. A couple of months later, you won’t be ready to date, but a little bit of rumpy bumpy might be just what you need.

Throw out your ex boyfriend shrine. Not straight away. You need a few days to grieve. But the earlier, the better. If you’re having a low day, you’ll feel even shittier if you reach under your bed and pull out last year’s Valentines Day card. Bin the presents. Burn the cards. Throw away his comfy hoodie. It will be like a breath of fresh air. And if you really feel as if you can’t do it, enlist the help of one of your mates. They’ll do it without you having to see, and they’ll probably love every second.

Ignore stupid people. I can’t begin to tell you the amount of times people said to me: “There’s plenty more fish in the sea”. At first, I used to smile and nod and agree. After a while, I would snap back at them: “But I want that fish! My fish! Fuck you!” I’m not ashamed to say, I was an ogre. If it wasn’t for the wonderful people of Carphone Warehouse call centre, I genuinely think I’d still be a mess. My team were wonderful, protecting me from questions I didn’t want to answer and deterring unwanted male attention away from my desk. Approximately three days after a break up, you will receive a message from a repulsive male, claiming to be asking how you’re doing. Don’t fall for it. He’s trying to get you to trust him, so he can take advantage of you when you’re at your most vulnerable. Don’t even message him back. You’re hurting, and you’re allowed time to heal without having to ward off creeps.

Set yourself little goals. What is it that you’ve been meaning to do for the last few months that you’ve never quite got round to doing? Are you saving up to buy a new car? Did you want to go on holiday? Maybe start a new college course? Do it now. For me, it was passing my driving test. I am the world’s worst driver and I’d been really half arsed about my driving lessons. I dreaded them and performed terribly in every single one. As soon as I was single, it became an obsession. My designated taxi driver had disappeared from my life, meaning I needed that extra bit of independence. Two months after being dumped and I had a pink license and a brand new car. You can do it, and now you have all the time in the world.

Keep smiling. Yes, your face will ache as though it hasn’t moved for a hundred years, but the truth is, there’s still loads of things to smile about. Go outside in the sunshine. Get stuck into a new book. Demolish a bottle of wine. Catch up with the soaps. Buy a new pair of shoes every weekend. Put the world to rights with your mum. Go on a massive walk until your thighs start to ache. Or my personal favourite: stock up on crappy magazines – you’ll find out more than you care to know about Z list celebrities but at least you’ll know what everyone else is on about in work the next day, so even if you’re having a bad day and don’t want to talk to anyone, you’re not out of touch with the world.

Cut all ties with his family and friends. This is possibly the worst part of a break up. You’ve broken up with just one person, but it affects so many others. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last year or so, you’re probably right in the heart of his family and his home. There might even be photographs of you knocking around his mum’s mantelpiece. His granny might knit you a sweater every Christmas. His brothers might call you ‘sis’. This bit is a killer. My ex’s mum was a total gem and we got on like a house on fire, but the sad thing is, the only reason you know his family is because of him. And he’s a twat. Therefore, you need to say your goodbyes in a dignified way and carry on with your life. They might send a message to you from time to time. They might not. Either way, you’ve got your own family around you and they won’t ever let you down.

Embrace the possibility that you may sleep with him again. It’s the hardest thing in the world. It’s been a few weeks. You’re starting to sleep properly again. You’re only crying yourself to sleep maybe three times a week now. Just when you’re beginning to see a teeny tiny little light at the end of the tunnel, he texts you. This is what I like to call The Seagull Ex Boyfriend. The one who senses that you’re getting over him, so he flies in, shits everywhere and flies back off again. You might fall for this. After all, he’s the person you loved more than anyone. You might find yourself back in his arms again. It’s not ideal, but it happens more than people care to admit. Just be careful, don’t believe his words and put it down as a one off. It cannot be a regular occurrence. Your friends will tell you not to sleep with him. Your best friends will accept that you have and still love you anyway. Believe me. I know.

Keep your chin up. Don’t be the sort of girl who updates her status every five minutes crying about how much she misses him. You’re better than that. Admittedly, you’ll have people checking your page every now and then to see if there’s any latest gossip. If you genuinely don’t think you can cope with putting on a happy face, deactivate everything. Take a few weeks to get your shit together. Then come back, and let everyone know that you’re fine. He will hear about it. He will be glad you’re doing okay, but don’t let that allow him back into your life. Spend as much time as possible with your funniest friends. The ones who make you cry laughing. Those are the types of people who will make you genuinely happy.

And finally, just remember that you will start to feel better. You’re a prinny. You’re an absolute hun. He knows it, everyone around you knows it and more importantly, so do you. It might not be for a while yet, but one day, you’re going to wake up and he won’t be the first thing you think of. You’ll wash your face, brush your teeth, do your hair and make up, get dressed and go to work. You’ll have your first cup of coffee, take your break, and just as you’re sitting down to lunch, you’ll think: “Wow. Okay. I’ve not thought about The Gobshite for five whole hours.” It will take you by surprise, but it will happen. Eventually, that five hours will turn into a day. That day will turn into a week. And so on and so on. Each day, little by little, you’ll start to heal.

Keep smiling, princess, you’re doing great.

Common misconception, my love.

How many of you have been watching the original British drama series, Happy Valley? If you haven’t been watching it, you’ve really missed out. People from all over the country, of all ages, from all kinds of different backgrounds have been singing the praises of British drama, left right and centre. What a wonderful thing, to be in awe of a piece of writing – and in turn, a fantastic piece of drama – which no one has seen before. Original, gritty, exciting drama.

There should be more of it, in my opinion, and much less regurgitated reality TV. At MSA, they tell us to count how many programmes are on at 9:00, which is the watershed and therefore it’s officially adult TV time. I would say on a good day, there’s maybe two pieces of drama. When I say drama, I’m talking about having a script about fictional characters with actors playing them. More often than not, there’s celebrity versions of everything – Celebrity Juice, Celebrity Family Fortunes, I’m a Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here, Celebrity Mastermind, Celebrity Come Dine with Me, Celebrity Big Brother… the list is endless. The scariest part is how many of these celebrities are actually just products of other reality TV programmes, who first found their fame on shows such as Geordie Shore, The Only Way is Essex or the X Factor.

I’ve nothing against programmes such as these and I’m as guilty as the rest of us for being glued to our screens during the compulsory Christmas countdown to the X Factor final. And yes, people will come into work the following morning and excitedly discuss who’s the latest Big Brother evictee or who’s been voted off Dancing on Ice. But isn’t it much more exciting to discuss something which isn’t predictable? Isn’t it exciting when the bookies start taking bets on the latest whodunit storyline? Don’t you feel just a teeny tiny tinge of pride when small, undiscovered production companies win life changing awards at the BAFTAs, for example?

Think about it. Which did you genuinely look forward to the most – the final episode of Broadchurch or the X Factor final? Yes. Exactly.

Now, before we begin, I’ll admit straight off that this is a promotional blog entry, but before this automatically makes you scroll past this blog and look at photos of somebody’s tea, let me just stop you. I’m not one to blow my own trumpet – okay, occasionally, just occasionally, I will blow it just a little bit, but only if I know it’s for a worthy cause. And this is a worthy cause. It’s about something I feel very strongly about. So, stop scrolling through your news feed, take five minutes out of your day and have a little read.

In order for you to understand, I’ll have to take you back to September 2010. It was the very beginning of my third and final year at Edge Hill University and the heat was on. If you’ve never sat a degree, you won’t have a clue. I’m sorry, but it’s really not the same as taking your GCSEs or your A Levels. It’s ten times harder, longer and the very scary thing is, it’s down to you to drag yourself to your lectures and to force yourself to stay in and write several thousand word essays.

Unlike at school where you were actually breaking the law if you didn’t go to school, where your mum would be ready to wallop you over the head if she got wind of the fact that you’d been ‘wagging it’ (Is that a Warrington phrase, I wonder?) – it was just down to you. So, basically, when you hadn’t been to sleep until daft o’clock in the morning and your alarm went off like a shrieking beacon of hopelessness, you actually had the choice to roll over and sleep until Loose Women came on. And nine times out of ten, your bed would just be too comfy and too snug to even contemplate getting up, strolling through your freezing cold house and battling with your housemates for the bathroom.

Then on top of all that, you had practical lessons to go to, rehearsals to attend, lectures to write countless notes on, essays to complete, research papers to write, lines to learn, daily journals to keep, laundry to do, a house to clean, bills to pay, food shopping to do, a part time job to attend and still maintain a starry social life. I’m the first to admit that at times, it felt a little overwhelming. I remember once coming in from a scary lecture where we’d been ranted at for three hours about how very important it was to do this, that and the other, and I lay down on my bed and I cried. It was a big, big change from the cushy life at home where your mum was at your every beck and call. Eighteen is such a young age to be living on your own, miles away from home and relying on text messages and phone calls to your family to keep you sane.

You’ve also always got that nagging little voice in the back of your mind saying: “You’ve got to work hard. This is going to cost you a fortune in the future.” And sometimes, the little nagging voice wouldn’t be that kind. Sometimes, it would simply say: “Ten grand, Chriscoli. Ten grand.” It’s very easy to see how so many students can go so wrong at university. There’s not enough practical or emotional support for university students, in my opinion - and besides, an education should be for free - but hey, I’ll just quickly step down from my soap box, shall I? 

Anyway, we were told about our university dissertation. For those of you who maybe aren’t too sure what that is, your dissertation – known to most students as your “diss” – is your big final project, if you like. You spend the majority of your final year at university preparing it, having to do a research paper and a dissertation proposal, then the final project itself, which counts for fifty percent of your entire degree. All in all, it’s a big deal. You can choose to showcase your interests in the chosen field in whichever way you choose.

Well, I decided to write a script. A rather bold choice, I suppose, but something I felt very confident in. My dissertation tutor was somewhat absent throughout my process, which at the time frightened the hell out of me, especially when she never replied to any of my emails, but now that I think about it, perhaps it was a good thing that I didn’t have someone constantly watching over me. It meant that when I was finished, I was able to submit my work as a draft to her and she was somewhat horrified/amazed by what I’d written. We were given a stimulus and we had to write about something SHOCKING. That was the criteria I had to meet. Well, of course, there was the usual tales of a teenage pregnancy, drug addiction, domestic violence – all worthy subjects, of course, but slightly predictable – and predictability is not shocking.

I’ll have to tell you right here and right now that I can’t disclose any information about the play that I wrote. I can tell you that it’s called A Walk in the Park – yes, the title is a bit twee, but it will make sense when you see it. It centres around a young couple, Jack and Kate. They meet in a strange scenario and along with the help of Jack’s grotesque, albeit slightly charming best friend, Hanson, and Jack’s overwhelming and neurotic mother, Wendy and laid back stepfather, Dave, they begin a relationship. (I’m aware that this sounds like a sack of shit, but it’s really not. It’s just difficult to describe without giving away too much of the plot. ) The play focuses on the first two years of their relationship and the audience watch their ups and downs. It closes with an explosive finale which stays with you for days, weeks, even months later. I’ve been contacted by people on Twitter who came to see the show in November and months down the line, they’re still in shock from what happened.

(It's difficult for people to imagine what my writing is like unless you've read something of mine. Considering that I'm a very polite, well spoken and generally well behaved young lady, I do get some funny looks and even some questions, such as: "How do these thoughts get in your head?" I can't really answer those questions. It was exactly the same during the release of my first book, Vee for Victory. People were questioning me as if I'd done something wrong. I mean, really? I wrote something which shocked you all - shock, horror! It was about sex! Pre-marital sex, one night stands, lesbian sex. Surely not?! 

Well, yes. It's hard to explain where the ideas come from, because I don't even know myself. I live a very sheltered, quite pampered, happy little life in my own little bubble, so it's hard for some people to grasp that the same girl they see lounging around in her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pyjamas with no make up on and her hair scraped back is the same girl whose writing made a fully grown man come up to her and call her a "sick bitch".)

There are some sad moments, some hilarious moments and some truly beautiful moments in A Walk in the Park, particularly between Jack and Kate (played by the enormously talented Levi Payne and Sarah O’Byrne.) As much as it’s annoying not being able to give away too much of the plot, what I found when I was promoting Vee for Victory, was that people like a little snippet. They like to try before they buy. Dip their toe into the proverbial pool before fully submerging themselves under the water. So, I thought I would upload a wee snippet of the A Walk in the Park script to see if it might entice you in:

Wendy

Well, you can’t just keep her hidden from us forever, Jack. She sounds like a lovely girl.

Jack

Yeah, she is a lovely girl.

Wendy

Then why don’t you want to bring her over one night, darling?

Jack

 I don’t know, Mum. It’s just...

Wendy

Just what, hmm? Is she ugly or something?

Dave

 Wendy!

Jack

 What?!

Wendy 

Listen, I know it’s early days, but you’ve got to think “is this girl fit to be the mother of my children?”

Jack

 Mum –

Wendy

 All I’m saying is, you don’t want to settle down with someone who is going to produce...ugly children. I don’t want to put a photo of any ginger kids on my mantelpiece.

Dave

Eh now. There’s nothing wrong with gingers. Look at Prince Henry. He’s a red head and he’s third from the throne.

Wendy

 Harry.

Dave

Common misconception, my love. His name is Henry.

Jack

Mum, do me a favour. Just shut up about all this, will you?

Wendy

Don’t you tell me to shut up, Jack Robert Mason. I’m trying to help you here.

Jack

By warning me off ugly women? No thanks, Mum.

Dave

 Ay well, he’s a grown man. He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, choosing his own girlfriend, munters and all.

Jack

 Exactly. See? Dave understands all this women business more than you.

Wendy (sipping her tea) 

I’m just saying sweetheart, it’s something worth thinking about. I saw that Francesca in Morrisons the other day with some big tall bloke. Rough looking guy. Tattoos of skulls all down his meaty arms. Love and hate written on his knuckles. And I tell you this for free, it didn’t look like it was her brother either.

Jack

She hasn’t got a brother.

Mum

 Exactly. You’ve just proven my point.

And yes, I know what you’ll be thinking – that it’s all well and good reading words off a page but how can you tell unless you’ve actually seen it in the flesh? Well, that’s a very good point. So make sure that you get your bums to see it. It’s on Thursday 10^th July and Friday 11^th July, at 8pm at the Nexus Theatre Café in Manchester. Make sure you’re there. Not only will you have a genuinely good night, but just think how amazing it will feel when you’re watching the next original British drama series and you go: “Oh, look who it is! It’s so-and-so from that play we went to see!”

Or think ahead by two years and imagine settling down on the sofa with your pyjamas on and a steaming cup of tea in your hands, ready to watch a six part drama called A Walk in the Park, and thinking: “Oh my god, I’m sure this was written by Emily Chriscoli! Isn’t that strange! God, imagine if we’d gone to see it years ago in Manchester?”

Well, now you can. 

Letter to my fourteen year old self.

Yes, you have spots. That’s a fact of life. You’ll have bad skin for years to come, but trust me, it does get better. Don’t spend a small fortune on orange foundation and clumpy Miss Sporty powder in an attempt to cover them up. You’ll still be able to see them and your skin won’t get any air.

Stop fretting about your braces! You might hate them now, but you’ll be glad one day that you’ve got them in your early teens and not your twenties. Don’t worry – all the people who take the piss out of you for your braces now are the ones who have to pay hundreds of pounds for them when your teeth are perfect.

You’re not fat. Not even a little bit. If anything, you’re too thin. Eat a pie every now and then, kid.

You’ll always have hand me downs from your sisters, particularly in school wear. Try not to mind too much. Your mum wouldn’t do it if she had any other choice. Which reminds me, say thank you to your mum more often. She works her fingers to the bone to make sure you and your sisters are happy. Sometimes it would be nice if you showed her a little appreciation when she comes home from work, instead of moaning at her because your tea isn’t ready.

Log off MSN every now and then and go outside into the fresh air. You might not believe it now, but your skin will tan so easily when you’re older. Take advantage of this. On that note, stop spending a small fortune on Johnsons Holiday Skin. It’s cheap, nasty and frankly, it stinks. Save your money and buy proper fake tan.

Don’t worry that you’re still a virgin. You’ll be the last one out of your friends to discover sex, but you make up for it at university. (Study harder at uni and spend less time with the opposite sex! You could get a first if you aren’t being such a rascal.) You’ve got a great set of friends and you’ll stay friends with most of them for years to come.

Remember it’s okay to be clever – never, ever dumb yourself down to fit in with anyone. The sort of people you have to dumb yourself down to be around are not the sort of people you want as friends. You’ll always be a book worm. You’ll always be clever. Read more. Ask questions. Keep writing. You’re good at that.

Try new foods – you’re not allergic to baked beans, you’re just a fuss pot, and the same goes for nuts. Concentrate more in maths. You’ll find it a struggle, but that’s okay. You can’t be good at everything.

Don’t be ashamed to cry – it takes a strong person to admit that they’re hurting. There are tricky times ahead, but also some wonderful times. Capture more things on camera. Smile more. Stop worrying about your bloody teeth.

Don’t be nervous about college or university. You will meet some of your best friends there. Work hard at uni, but enjoy every moment. It will fly by and you will miss it when it’s over. You’ll have a friend called Kyle Gardner. Give him an extra tight squeeze. Soak up your graduation day – it’s normal for your mum to well up with tears. Don’t brush it off because you’re embarrassed. She’s proud of you, and you should be too.

Get used to public transport. You’ll spend a long time using it.

You will spend your entire life surrounded by people who love you. Tell them that you love them too. You will have an army of children around you who love you more every day. They are your greatest achievements and you will always love them the most.

Spend more time with your dad. It’s hard for him in a house full of girls, but he thinks the world of you. You are far more alike than you realise.

Don’t rush into that belly button piercing just to be one of the cool kids. You’ll hate it when it gets caught in your clothes years later, and believe me, changing the bar to have pretty colours that match your bikini gets very boring after the first few summers.

Try to remember that McFly are just a boy band – and not a very good one at that! Enjoy their music, but stop spending what very little money you have on buying so much of their crap. By the time you turn sixteen, you’ll wonder what on earth you were so bothered about.

Visit your grandma even more than you do now. Yes, it's tropically hot in there, but you are her pride and joy and she's a fabulous little lady. 

Give Sooty and Jazz a big squeeze. You will miss them, but they’ll always bring messages.

Celebrate with wine. Dance often. Laugh out loud. Sing in the shower. Trust your instincts. Take chances. Be spontaneous. Have faith in your abilities. Fall in love. Fall in love again. Never stop smiling.

Stop worrying about the future so much. It really does turn out to be quite peachy for you.

P.S. You’ll always lounge around the house in your pyjamas watching Harry Potter for eight hours at a time. Some things never change.

Double cheeseburger, large fries.

I like food. Always have. Always will.

If someone was to say to me: “you can’t eat today”, I’d be devastated. But can you imagine how it feels to want to eat, but to not be able to? Because you physically cannot swallow whatever you’re churning round and round in your mouth?

That’s what life became for me in October 2013. Physically, I wanted to eat. Mentally, I knew that I should eat. I remember walking into the canteen at work one morning and I nearly threw up from the smell of sausages and bacon. Yes. I know. This sounds foreign even coming from my lips, but the bottom line was, I couldn’t stomach food and I couldn’t face eating.

Within a few short weeks of my appetite disappearing, my clothes were roomier, my face looked more hollow, I was cold all the time, despite bundling myself in layers of clothing. I was thinner than I’d been in months, years. Most girls dream of that. So why wasn’t I happy?

I’d gone from a girl who loved her food and would quite happily polish off a large McDonalds meal and go back up to the counter for six chicken nuggets, with a chocolate milkshake, then a McFlurry, then a pit stop to the corner shop for sweets and chocolate on the way home – to suddenly not being able to eat a yoghurt. We all know the reason why and there’s no point going into it. Frankly, I’m sick of thinking about it and definitely tired of talking about it. But I was feeling very lost and it was as if the only thing I had any control over was my eating, so without me consciously deciding to, I stopped.

Then Christmas came. Usually my favourite time of year, but Christmas 2013 was terrible. Long story short – I felt like shit and I looked like shit and it was more apparent than ever because I felt so alone. I wasn’t alone by any means. I had mountains of support on either side of me and that support came in the form of friends forcing food down my throat. Maybe not intentionally, but you know how it can be when girls are down in the dumps: you get offered chocolate, boozy nights out and cosy takeaway nights in.

And although I think that all of those things are good for the soul, and particularly my broken soul at the time, it definitely wasn’t good for my waistline. My appetite was back and back with a vengeance. I bought my dad the traditional Toblerone for Christmas and wrapped it up. And one night, whilst tucked up in bed watching the soaps, I unwrapped it and polished off the lot. So I went out at the weekend and bought another. This one, I thought to myself, this one is being wrapped up and put under the tree so you can’t touch it. Oh no. It got demolished while I was watching Home Alone the next day.

January came, and I was feeling relieved. I’d had a wonderful year which had ended horrifically. As everyone does, I made a vow to myself to lose three stone. I must say this every year but then put at least one stone on as the year ticks by. I’d never been able to stick to a diet before.

I’d wake up with good intentions. No, I’d wake up with great intentions. I’d have prepared my meals the night before and I’d tell myself all day that I wasn’t hungry and that I didn’t really need to eat two hash browns and three sausages on my morning break in work. Sometimes I would last two or three days. But I would always cave in. Why is this? I’d think maybe I’m destined to be a curvy girl. After all, Marilyn Monroe was notoriously curvy and a gorgeous size sixteen. So as my size fourteen jeans were getting tighter and tighter, I’d almost cling on to the notion that it didn’t matter what size it was – I was a nice person and being nice is better than being skinny. (I still wholeheartedly believe in that statement.)

But then we’d reach Sunday night and the diet had come to a crashing end on the Wednesday. I’d lie in bed feeling my bulging stomach, looking at it hanging over my pyjama pants and sometimes I would laugh. Sometimes I would cry. The truth is, I wasn’t happy. I’d gone from eating far too much, to not eating anything, to eating enough to fuel a small country. Possibly even a large one.

Now, during this time, there were lots of people at work (old work. I don’t work there anymore. But I love it there all the same) who were trying various different diets. One where you only ate meat, one where you didn’t eat any dairy and another where you didn’t eat anything at all until you felt positively faint, and then you ate a piece of cheese. (I’m kidding. Kudos to those who work out which film that’s from.) One diet that seemed to stand out more than the others was called Juice Plus.

I asked around and a few people pointed me in the right direction so I managed to get my hands on some information about it. My first thought was that it was blended fruits and vegetables. No. Was it dependent on popping diet pills? No. Was it a crazy diet where you lose six stone overnight but clap the weight back on every time you smell so much as a bacon butty? No.

Basically, the best way to describe it is to say: if it comes straight from a packet, you can’t have it. Simple right? Actually, yes, it was. Don’t get me wrong, the first two weeks were hell on earth, but you’re changing your body. It took years to put that weight on. It isn’t going to disappear overnight.

Typically, my daily food intake is:

Breakfast

Juice Plus Shake (chocolate or vanilla flavoured) with unsweetened almond or hazelnut milk.

Snack

Turkey, one Dairylea Lite triangle, raisins and rice cakes.

Lunch

Juice Plus Shake, plus an assortment of fruit – usually melon, strawberries, grapes, blueberries and my new found favourites, pomegranates.

Snack

Cucumbers, peppers, carrots and humus.

Tea

A hearty meal. A proper, healthy, filling meal. All thanks to Mamma Chriscoli who will cook anything at the drop of a hat for me, but it’s usually tuna, light mayo, sweet potato, broccoli and peas. Or grilled fish, brown rice and steamed vegetables. Or fajitas – grilled chicken, steamed veg, little bit of tomato salsa and a wholemeal wrap. Delicious.

Throughout the day, I just constantly drink water. It’s a shame for my poor manager, bless him. I’m in “personal” at least four times a day, nipping to the loo. I was also sick of filling up crappy little throwaway plastic cups from the water machine, so I bought myself a funky water bottle for a pound from Primark which holds half a litre of water. I fill it to the brim and drink from this all day.

Here’s the crazy part – I’ve actually stuck to it. I can’t believe I’m even writing those words, but it’s true. It’s been seven weeks since I’ve been doing Juice Plus and I’ve lost 1 stone 11 pounds, and in total since October, it’s just over 2 stone.

It’s been tricky and at times, it’s been hard. Think about the last time you considered yourself skinny or slim or thin. If you’re being completely honest with yourself and your answer is ‘years ago’, then don’t be disheartened that it will take a while to lose the weight. It’s not magic. There’s no wonderful solution to it. Nobody can wave a magic wand and watch you effortlessly pull a size six skirt over your bum and watch it fall off you. You just work, and you work hard. I exercise five or six times a week, normally just giving myself the one day off.

I’m not one to go to the gym. For someone who spends her time performing, I’m ridiculously self conscious and the thought of aching all over and dripping in sweat in front of a load of men makes me cringe, so I go swimming twice a week and I bought myself an exercise bike and I keep it in my bedroom. Every time I want to watch the soaps, I jump on. Sometimes, I don’t even realise that I’m exercising because I’m too wrapped up in the Tina, Carla, Peter love triangle, so I look down at the little screen and I’m like, wow. You’ve burnt eight hundred calories. 

Other times, I stick my ipod in and turn the volume up full blast and just go for it. If I’m being perfectly honest, at first, this was the only way I could get my mind to switch off and not stop brooding over the October situation – it was perfect. Exercise is the cure for a broken heart.

Even when I thought I was happy and thought my life was perfect, I still wasn’t happy with my weight. Despite having someone tell you that you’re beautiful, if you don’t see it yourself, you aren’t going to feel it either. The truth is: I wasn’t healthy. And that’s the difference.

If you’re putting crap into your body, then crap comes out – and by that, I’m not being crude and talking about actual poo – but you get out what you put in. You spend a month drinking fizzy drinks, eating McDonalds, pizza, chocolate, sweets, Chinese takeaway. The following month you’ll be dealing with the bad skin breakout, the bloated tummy, the wobbly legs and even worse, your stomach will be so used to eating this way that you’ll actually feel hungry all the time. And eating carrot sticks and humus isn’t going to satisfy your hunger, because your stomach’s so stretched from the sheer crap that you eat, that you need more crap to fill you up. It’s a terrible cycle to get yourself in to.

So, here I am, six months later, feeling healthier and happier than I ever have before and here’s the best bit – I’m using my story to inspire others in a similar situation. I’m becoming a Juice Plus distributor and mentor. So if you’re trying to lose weight or tone up or just trying to feel healthier, message me and we’ll see what we can do for you. Trust me, there is no better feeling than bumping into someone you haven’t seen for six months and them saying “Oh my god, you’ve lost loads of weight” when you’ve worked your backside off. It's by no means magic. If you're after the type of diet when you starve yourself and don't eat for days, only to be skinny for one day, then Juice Plus isn't for you. You need to have grit, determination and willpower. And if you don't have those things, that's fine. That's where I come in. If you’ve ever tried to eat healthily and you just can’t stick to it, let me know. We’ll get you back into your size 10 jeans in no time.

After all, just remember: Eat shit. Feel shit. Look shit. 

You've got dirt on your nose, by the way. Did you know?

Before we begin, let me just apologise right here, right now, for the appalling typing you will find in this blog entry. When I finished writing my second book, Ivy League (it’s on sale now, go go go!) I treated myself to the longest set of false nails I’ve ever had. The thing is, I can’t type with acrylics on, so from before Christmas to the end of January, I had these awful little stumpy nails, and I was snarling at people’s photos on Instagram with a picture of their claws and the hashtag ChristmasNails.

It seemed very unfair that I had to go without, as there’s nothing I like more than having immaculate nails, but when I’m typing on average 20,000 words a day, I had no choice but to have hands like a boy’s. (If you ever see me with plain normal nails, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m busy working on something) Therefore, as soon as I had finished, the claws came out, and I can’t begin to describe how many mistakes I’ve made already and I’m only about two hundred words in.

Now, the purpose of this blog is actually split a few different ways. I’ve been meaning to write for literally about a month – I’ll be driving (yes, driving, I’ve actually finally passed my driving test! Yes, I know, I can’t believe it either) and I’ll be struck with an idea, then before I get chance to write it, I’ve been coerced into doing something else which is considered to be more important.

Basically, last Sunday morning, as I rolled around in my pit fighting a particularly monstrous hangover, I dabbled in my usual morning routine of scrolling through my Facebook and Twitter news feeds like they’re the local newspaper. Alongside the inevitable Sunday morning “I genuinely think I might be dying” tweets, I also stumbled upon hundreds of thousands of tweets, mourning the loss of one of America’s greatest actors, Philip Seymour Hoffman. He had been in films such as Twister, Patch Adams, The Talented Mr Ripley, and he won an Oscar for Best Actor in Capote – not to mention he played Plutarch Heavensbee in one of my favourite ever film sagas, The Hunger Games.

Needless to say, I was very surprised and understandably saddened to hear that he had passed away, but without me even having to look into it any further, something deep down inside of me already knew that his death was because of drugs. I’m not saying that I suspected all along that he was a drug addict – if you’d seen his most recent performance in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, or caught a snippet of him on one of the many interviews where he was promoting the film along with other members of the cast, he was nothing but 100% professional at all times.

It’s just that recently, more and more famous people are losing their lives due to over consumption of alcohol or drugs, and sometimes, a combination of the two. Off the top of my head, I can think of Whitney Houston, George Best, Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger, Judy Garland, Coco Chanel, Brittany Murphy, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Marilyn Monroe (although there are speculations that her drug overdose was intentional, and therefore she committed suicide) River Phoenix (the older brother of that ultimate hun, Joaquin Phoenix) and of course, Elvis Presley who was found with significant levels of both prescription and non prescription drugs in his system.

And that’s just a quick list of people who have actually died from drink or drugs. Another rough guess at those who have been caught either taking, dealing or dabbling in drugs in some way, shape or form and you’ve got Lindsay Lohan, Tulisa, Justin Bieber, Bruno Mars, Kate Moss, Rihanna, Mischa Barton, and of course, very recently, Nigella Lawson.

Aside from the criminal records, what do all of these people have in common? Oh, yes, of course. They are all in the spotlight. (I hate using the word celebrity, it feels a bit tacky and cheap.) So, what is it about people who are in the limelight that lures them towards drugs?

Well, you see, I’ve given this quite a bit of thought. On the surface, most people will assume that it’s the constant hustle and bustle of parties, award ceremonies, and basically all of that lovey dovey air kissing oh, daaarling! sort of behaviour that practically opens the door to drugs. I sort of agree with this, because it can be very easy to give into peer pressure and I imagine that if there was a room full of influential famous big wigs and they were offering round something, some people might feel pushed into it, in an attempt to not seem outside of the circle. They wouldn’t want to come across as being boring.

Thankfully, I’ve always been incredibly strong willed when it comes to that sort of thing – some might even call it defiant – and I’ve been in that situation myself, in a room full of people when drugs have been whipped out and I’ve literally been the only one to say no. I’ve never felt pressurised into anything like that, because it’s just never tickled my fancy. I’ve lived away from home for three years at university, where an unlimited supply of drugs was in my vicinity should I have wanted it. The closest I’ve ever been was at my sister’s hen do in Amsterdam when we all had a space cake each, including my mum and auntie.

I don’t know why, but drugs have just never appealed to me. Maybe that’s because deep down, I’m a geek. If you knew me when I was in high school, you’ll know that physically I was a wreck, which I like to think has changed slightly, but emotionally, I’m still a little geek. Education and success are two of the most important things to me, along with loyalty, kindness and passion. I honestly don’t mind that that makes me sound like a ninety year old woman either, because it’s true.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good night out as much as the next person, but I’ll turn it down to spend the night writing if I think I’m onto a good idea. I like a laugh and a joke, but if it’s in a nasty way, I’ll happily turn my back on the ‘popular crowd’ to separate myself from them.

I mean, if you’re reading this blog, the chances are that you already know me, but if you don’t, I’ll paint a picture of myself: I like writing, I’m usually found with my nose in a book, I’m scared of balloons, I don’t like sleeping by myself, me and Jimmy Carr have the exact same laugh, I’ll choose to walk somewhere just for the fresh air even now that I have a car, I will happily wear my pyjamas all day, I have five nephews who are my heart and soul, I love history, I write poems for no particular reason, my cat is practically my soul mate and I have a strong suspicion that the character of Hermione Granger is based on me when I was growing up – geeky, bookish, had terrible teeth and was often mooning around after a boy who didn’t have the slightest bit of interest in her.

Speaking of Hermione, I’ve always been a bit like that: strong minded and, as silly as it sounds, well behaved. Probably down to the upbringing I’ve had from a wonderful set of parents and supportive sisters. If you’re brought up, not dragged up, you’re more likely to stay on the right tracks when you’re an adult.

Hence why, as much as I think it’s a possibility that people in the limelight are tempted into drugs by pressure and also the inescapable circle of parties and awards, I also think it’s hugely down to that person not having much of a support network around them. I mean, if they lived at home with their parents, perhaps they wouldn’t go off the rail so much. Think how much better Lindsay Lohan would have had it if her family hadn’t been so dysfunctional. Again, I’m lucky that I have the best set of people around me, who have really proved themselves over the last few months, and taken care of me at a time when I was at my absolute lowest.

It would have been very easy, I think, for me to have gone off the rails in October. I found myself in a similar situation in 2008, recovering from a bad break up, and after escaping Warrington and throwing myself into the student lifestyle, it was frightening to see how many bad choices I had made. In fact, I made a bit of a name for myself in my first year of uni, and I don’t mean in a good way either. It was being at home for the summer between first and second year of uni that I got my shit together, calmed myself down and went back in the September, determined not to do anything too horrific. (It was never drugs, always boys.) Being at home day in, day out helped to keep my feet on the ground.

It’s taken a few years, I suppose, but I’ve finally worked out that you cannot fix someone else or love another person properly until you love yourself; until you’re a hundred percent happy with your own life. So, this time, I didn’t go out and sleep with anything that moved - I tried to patch myself up again; tried to fix the broken parts of me. I cried to my friends, I lounged around a lot in my comfiest clothes and threw myself into my work and, thankfully, it paid off.

Maybe that’s all a struggling celebrity needs to keep them on the straight and narrow: a hug, a comforting ear and a nice old fashioned cup of tea.

A few people have smirked at me when I’ve told them that when I make it, whatever that actually means, I won’t be one of those people. You know the ones I mean. The type of person with a photo of them sprawled all over the front page of a newspaper, hinting heavily that they’re involved in a drugs fiasco. Basically, I’ll never be like Tulisa. And I understand people thinking ahh yes, just wait until it’s your turn, you’ll be snorting lines off your own kneecaps, you silly cow. Well, of course, I don’t know for definite that I won’t be doing that, except that I know myself, and it isn’t in my nature to do that. I mean, I can't even swallow Paracetamol properly. I still take Calpol. I faint every time I need an injection. Somehow, the image of me shooting up in a grubby toilet somewhere just doesn't spring to mind.

And I'm okay with that. When it's my time, I'm more than happy to be successful, rather than famous. I'd rather be remembered for being clever than being in and out of court. In my opinion, there's nothing wrong with being a bit geeky if it means being happy and safe.

After all, when asked about whether she would want her daughters to focus on being part of the in crowd, the sort of girls who focus solely on being pretty and thin rather than furthering themselves in education and their careers, JK Rowling answered, rather beautifully, “Let my girls be Hermiones."

There was more than one lobster present at the birth of Jesus?

So, another year has been and gone. 2013 has definitely been the best year of my life. I could sit here and start reeling off a seemingly never ending list of things that I've loved, and a few things that weren't so great about 2013, but I won't bore you to tears with all that malarkey. Instead, I'll just say that, ignoring the months of October and November, this year has been pretty much perfection. It’s quite hard to sum it all up, but the best three moments have definitely been:

•       Reaching the number one best seller spot on Amazon for my book, Vee for Victory.
•       Passing my driving test.
•       Getting a five star review for my first ever play, A Walk in the Park.

As I’m sure you undoubtedly know already, I’m hugely grateful to everyone who has supported me this year, in whichever form your support came in, but especially if you went out of your way to watch my play in Manchester or spent money on my book. A massive thank you to everyone who has left such lovely reviews about the book, who have posted links on Facebook and who tirelessly re-tweeted things for me on Twitter. You are all magnificent human beings and I adore the very bones of you. I can assure you that one day I will return the favour in whatever way I can. I suppose I have accepted that I’m the designated driver for all intents and purposes for the foreseeable future!

Now, common misconception has it that you need to own a Kindle in order to read my book, so rather than reply to you all individually, I thought the time was nigh for a new blog entry – one which, hopefully, can talk you through how to download Vee for Victory if you don’t have a Kindle.

So, first of all, you need to make sure you have an Amazon account. For those of you who don’t know, Amazon works in the same way that eBay does. You can buy and sell things on there. It doesn’t even need to be books. Games, clothes, shoes, DVDs… You name it, it’s on Amazon. It’s free to sign up, and you don’t need to be selling or buying anything currently to register with them. You just need to go to amazon.co.uk and click on “New Customer”.

You’ll more than likely have to activate your account through a link sent to you in an email, as you normally do on websites like these. It’s just so they can verify that you are indeed human. Once you are activated on Amazon, you’re off to a good start.

Next step is downloading the Kindle app. Kindle is a type of e-book – or electronic book if you’re a technophobe like my mum – and without having access to Kindle, you’re not going to get very far. Now, to install this, you just need a smart phone. So, any iphones, Samsungs, HTCs or Blackberrys and everything in between – as long as you have the accessibility to download apps from the app store or the play store, then you’re onto a good thing. Just go to search and type in “Kindle”.

It’s free to download, and only takes around 60 seconds to load onto your phone.(Handy hint: If you have a tablet, like an ipad for example, you can still download the Kindle app onto there, and again it doesn’t cost a penny. Ooh er.) When you find the Kindle app, it will say “download” instead of “open” like mine does on the picture. The only reason mine says “open” is because I’ve already got the app downloaded, like the ninja that I am.

Once you’ve got that bad boy sorted, just go to the “search” bar and type in Vee for Victory and it will come up offering you the chance to download it. A word of warning for you – it will cost you money. On a lighter note, it only costs £3.21. I’ve had a few people whinging saying they want to read it, but don’t want to get charged for it.

Fair enough. I’m not going to beg anyone to buy my book – if you want to read it, then by all means, go ahead. It would make my day. Literally. Nothing makes me smile more than someone telling me they’re reading Vee. But if you’re after a free read, then have a little mooch on Kindle for other books. The cheaper the book is, the less successful it is expected to be, so perhaps that says something about the books which are for free. I get 70% of the royalties from all the sales I make, so on my dad’s calculations (let’s face it - we all know what my maths is like) it’s approximately £2.24 per book sold.

The rest of the money goes to tax and of course, the Kindle and Amazon guys get a cut of it. I’ve gone from full time employment to part time hours at work, in order to concentrate on my writing and acting, so if you are one of the people who have turned their noses up a bit at forking out £3.21, please just bear in mind that it is literally paying my wages.

I know this has been a very short blog entry, but I’m busily writing the sequel to Vee for Victory as we speak. Well, as I type. You know what I mean. I keep getting distracted though. I blame Christmas TV. Admittedly, having Bridget Jones being shown on ITV2 for the one millionth time this year isn’t quite as gripping as it once used to be, but there are plenty of other programmes and films that have been on which have fully captured my attention.

The thing is, I physically can’t write and watch TV. One of them starts to go dramatically downhill. You remember what it was like when you were at school and you’d be half heartedly writing something down, but the person next to you would whisper to you about last night’s Eastenders, and before you know it, you’ve scribbled down Kat Slater on your coursework? Well, it’s a bit like that. 

So, I’ve been trying to discipline myself by making sure that once I’ve got home from work, I’m fed, showered and typing away within two hours. But it doesn’t always work, so if you do see me messing around online posting an unnecessary amount of photos onto Instagram or Tweeting the cast members of Harry Potter, feel free to give me a slap and send me on my way.

I believe in angels; something good in everything I see.

Oh, it’s been a weird couple of weeks! I honestly don’t know where to start with this blog entry. I suppose I’ll go back to where I left off with my last entry, which was shortly after the funeral of an actor friend of mine, and the start of life as a single woman again. Now, I hate to use the phrase “emotional rollercoaster”. I mean, I literally hate it. It reminds me of the X Factor and what a life changing journey they’ve been on and how it’s all about the experience that they’ve had. So, no, I definitely won’t be saying that the last six weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster. Instead, I’ll say that they’ve been “all kinds of crazy.”

So, it started with me noticing my phone ringing whilst I was on a call to a customer at work. The person ringing me had withheld their number, and seeing as how I’ve been receiving a lot of prank calls recently, I just thought nothing of it. It was only when they gave up, and approximately thirty seconds later when they rang back again, that I thought it could potentially be quite important. I don’t know why, but I always get really panicky whenever I answer a call from an unknown or a withheld number. There’s no real reason for this, by the way. I’m not about to confess to being on witness protection or anything and therefore, scared of my own shadow. I just don’t like the thought of someone sitting there, thinking “ah, I know. I’ll ring Emily Chriscoli but just to spice things up, I’ll not let her know that it’s me”. It’s odd behaviour to say the least.

I ran outside, answered my phone and it was someone from the Amazon call centre. Well, I assume it was a call centre. It might just have been an office actually. Anyway, her name was Leslie and she was very lovely. She was letting me know that my book, Vee for Victory, has been published.

I’m just going to back up here a minute. I’m aware that I haven’t mentioned  anything about a book so far in this blog, so firstly, I’ll tell you a little about that. As you know, I’m a writer. Plays, scripts, blogs, books, anything I can get my hands on. I’m also an avid reader. Seeing as how I spend the majority of my time cruising round the country via public transportation, it’s only fitting that I dedicate most of my commute to reading. (With the rest of it dedicated to listening to my ipod and battling with myself to not fall asleep.) Anyway, I had written most of the book in the space of about three months. It’s the first in a trilogy and the main character in the book is a woman called Caitlin, or Cait if you know her well enough. Which I do.

I won’t go into huge amounts of detail here as I don’t intend on ruining the story for anyone who hasn’t read it yet, but all I will tell you is this book was written after I read the Fifty Shades of Grey books. Now, don’t get me wrong, those books have done incredibly well and E L James has a lot to be proud of, but I personally felt that I just couldn’t buy into the storyline. At all. A twenty something year old woman, who is a virgin, not for religious reasons but purely because no one will go anywhere near her, yet the first person she quite literally stumbles across is not only perfection in the human form, but is also a multi billionaire? Who just so happens to fall miraculously in love with her? It all sounded a little far fetched to me (Factor in how incredibly American the books are. You know what I mean: “I had my first swim meet after eating Tater Tots in Chuckie Cheese”.  Sorry, you did what now?) 

I wanted to read about something real. Something with characters that I could relate to. A scenario that was much more likely to happen. A steamy relationship with just as much passion and intimacy as the Fifty Shades trilogy, but with believable dialogue and likeable people, which was set in good old fashioned England.

I was on holiday in Alcudia when I read the Fifty Shades trilogy, and like I said, I was unimpressed. To be perfectly honest, I think the main reason I bought and read every single book was because there was an extraordinary hype surrounding the trilogy. Suddenly, people who had never read so much as a bus ticket before in their lives were snapping up these books. I remember at one point Waterstones in Warrington had completely sold out. Naturally, when you go abroad, you take a few books with you for amusement when lounging around the pool, so it was then that I decided to splash out and buy them. As I said, it was disappointing, albeit slightly predictable that the reality didn’t live up to the expectations. It was then that I turned to my boyfriend (at the time) and announced, rather naively maybe, that I was going to write a better series of books. So far, I have written the first book and most of the second, which is due to be published in January 2014.

Anyway, I digress. To get your book published, you need to get yourself a literary agent. Getting a literary agent is a very similar – and as equally frustrating – a process as it is to get an acting agent. I won’t bore you to tears with the ins and outs of that again, but if you can cast your mind back, it wasn’t exactly a picnic trying to sort that out. Basically, I had to send off several different sections of my book to various different literary agents, including the trusty stamped address envelope, to ensure myself a response. The only problem with this being all the agencies were after different things. One wanted the first three chapters of the book. Another wanted a detailed synopsis, answers to five chosen questions and the first chapter. Another wanted the entire copy. Some wanted it sent in electronically, whereas others preferred a hard copy.

It took me an entire day to get everything sorted, but eventually I had submitted around forty copies of my book to various different literary agencies, and I began to play the inevitable game I find myself in every few months – the waiting game. The rejections began pouring in. Some were so vague, it was perfectly obvious that the agent hadn’t so much as opened the first page of my book. You know the type. “Dear ___Emily___, Thank you for your submission which we read with interest. Unfortunately, we don’t feel that you can offer us anything that we could represent. We wish you good luck with your future endeavours.” Sweet, but unconvincing. I’d rather they were honest. “Sorry, Em, we didn’t have the time to look at your book, but thanks for sending it in and best of luck trying to find some poor bugger to sign you!”

Eventually, I heard back from a nice lady from a very well respected literary agency based in London. She was intrigued by the book, rather than instantly switched off, so she had asked me to send in the further three chapters, which I did. It was with a heavy heart that a week later, my inbox was glowing with an email from her which said that although she really liked the book, she felt it was a little too risky for her to take on. I was gutted, but just really appreciated her honesty. She did, however, suggest that I get in touch with Amazon to try and get it published via their Kindle Direct Publishing scheme. Someone else had mentioned this to me, but as I’m living in the dark ages, I didn’t own a Kindle or know anything about them.

Baring this in mind, I sent the Amazon customer services a quick email asking for further information about how to go about publishing Vee for Victory directly through them, and after a series of emails – mostly from me saying the same thing: “how do I do that? Which bit do I click on? Where do I send this to?” – they said they would get back to me after they do a few checks, such as proof reading the book itself, making sure it was worth publishing, checking on me to ensure that I wasn’t committing copyright fraud etc.

Hence the phone call I received when in work, giving me the go ahead. The following evening was spent sorting out bank details, dedication pages and page breaks. Oh, those bloody page breaks. After each chapter, two page breaks had to be inserted. This doesn’t sound like hard work, but it was tedious to say the least, and realistically took around two hours to complete. By the end of that evening, I was nearly crying with exasperation. Yes, okay, I hold my hands up. I am in fact the world’s biggest cry baby. But even Mike Tyson would be sobbing if he was trying to work out the conversion rate between American dollars (which I get paid in) and the Great British pound, whilst simultaneously inserting bloody line breaks, attempting to learn a script and eating a chicken stir fry.

And that was that. My book was published. It was a very surreal day. My phone was literally warm from the amount of times it had buzzed to life, with people inundating me with text messages, Facebook notifications and phone calls. It almost felt as though it was happening inside a dream, as I had to continue my normal day to day life. I had a driving lesson, then nipped into town to get myself a Greggs meal deal (Tuna Crunch baguette, Ribena Lite and a gingerbread man, if you must know) and to catch the train to MSA. It felt even more surreal when I stepped out of class that evening to a wonderful email from Amazon telling me that I had sold a record amount of books in twenty four hours and that I was currently in the top spot for most downloaded e-books.

I can’t put into words how exciting it was to read that. The only thing I can remotely compare it to, I suppose, is carrying your baby around inside you for nine months and then being passed this tiny little life when you give birth. I understand that is undoubtedly a much more exhilarating experience, but as I have yet to experience that myself, I think selling the most books in twenty four hours on a world wide website at the age of twenty three is not bad going.

So, while all this was going on, my pride and joy A Walk in the Park was being performed by New Live Theatre company. Being the crafty devil that I am, I’d worked a continuous three weeks without a day off (except one, which was used for my driving test…that I failed. So, it didn’t exactly feel like a great day off) in order to have each night of my play work-free. Along with my family and friends, I booked tickets to see the show every night in a bid to offer moral support to the cast and crew. I’d just like to take the time now to gush and simper about my amazing cast. The main character, Kate, is so close to my heart that every part of me wanted the actress playing her to be perfect. Thankfully, Kate was played by the marvellous Sarah O’Byrne, who isn’t just drop dead gorgeous, but just so happens to be one of the best actresses I’ve met in a long, long time. The rest of the cast were as equally amazing and along with a talented director and producer, we were on fire.

Of course, the run of the play came to an end and, as I’m sure every actor has experienced at least once in their life time, the inevitable post-show blues arrived. I’d never had this as a writer before, but if anything, it felt more devastating. What spurred my post-show blues on was the sheer amount of people, some of them total strangers, contacting me on Facebook and Twitter to say that they wanted to see A Walk in the Park go further. And, just for you avid blog readers, I’ll divulge a little nugget of information – it will be going further. I won’t say any more until everything is signed, sealed, delivered, but keep your eyes peeled.

It's interesting that as everything was going down the shitter so to speak in my personal life, things were rapidly improving for my career. Thank God. Don't get me wrong, I was more than appreciative of my book being published and I was over the moon that it was doing so well, not to mention how pleased I was with my play, but the fact that all these things were happening when my self esteem was at an all time low was literally life saving. 

Without ever really realising it, I suppose I've always had a lot of confidence in myself, which presumably comes from a  lifetime of being on stage, but after what happened, I was like a different person. Despite numerous pleas from my army of friends and family, I was thinking irrationally and almost in an unhealthy way about myself. (I even announced that I wasn't celebrating Christmas. Now, if you don't know me, you might not realise what a travesty that is. Me and Christmas go together like fish and chips. Like wine and Chinese food. Like Joey and Chandler, for crying out loud.)

I'm not ashamed to say that I really wasn't coping. I can't put into words how much my friends and family rallied round me, from forcing food down my throat to letting me snot all over them whilst filling my wine glass up, and everything in between. They were incredible, telling me that it was going to hurt, and maybe even for a long time, but that I would be okay. They were right. Each day that someone told me they'd bought my book, or reserved tickets for my play, a little bit of my soul came back to me. And for that, I am eternally grateful. You little fitties. 

In a way, I'm so grateful to him for what he did to me. (I don't just mean the obvious, either. Despite what happened towards the end of the relationship, he was always incredibly supportive of me, as was his amazing family, which I'll never forget.
 And I can't forget that throughout writing Vee for Victory, he did put up with a lot of "can we just try this?" and "Let me read this to you", when I didn't have the guts to read it to anyone else.) But ultimately, for making me realise I'd been living a lie for a year of my life, being the trigger to my independence, and eventually, my success.

 However, the thing that really gave me the ultimate "you can do this" boost, and maybe the only thing to pull me out of my little post-show wobble, was the fact that I received my first ever review as a professional writer. Astonishingly, it was a five star review by the brilliant Tracey Lowe for The Good Review. One line that warmed even the cold murky depths of my icy heart was:

“But it is Emily Chriscoli’s script that is the most appealing thing. She has given this talented cast the gift of well-developed characters, believable dialogue and one of the best stories I’ve seen on stage for a while. Chriscoli has a real ear for natural dialogue; the arguments between Jack and Kate were particularly hard to watch as they seemed so real. The pacing was wonderful; Chriscoli knows exactly how to reveal just enough to the audience, while planting seeds for future revelations. Chriscoli wrote this script for her dissertation, and rightly received first-class honours for her efforts.”

As a writer, it’s reading things like that which make you think, ah. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.