New Story

Posted the first two chapters of a new story I'm working on. It's likely just going to end up being a long short story, like most of my work, but for now I'm keeping things separated. So check that out when you have some time. Still haven't figured out a good title yet for it. It's saved on my flash drive as 'Killers, Objects' because it was the only way I could think to remember what it was about. I hate having things saved under 'Untitled' and it's even worse when I have more than one thing Untitled because then I have to open each file up to see what the hell it is. So I try to use short, succinct descriptors.

Been watching some more Supernatural (thank ya Netflix) and it's stunning how far I have not gotten. There are 8 frickin' seasons, you guys. I just started 4. And sometimes I'm like, this episode is super not important and I'll do other stuff and then suddenly something awesome is happening and I'm completely lost. Just watched the episode where Dean goes back in time by magic or whatever and initially I was like, 'Dean don't touch your dad! Bad stuff could happen! Gross don't say your mom was a babe!' but then I thought, 'no it's cool, it's not science it's just angels and stuff.' But what if it's all the same you guys? I know, it blew my mind too.

I feel like this is reading like I'm hyper or something. If it is, that is because I am a little hyper. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, even though I buried my head under the covers like I was sleeping like a champ. Kept having super bizarre dreams, which seems to be my thing lately. Except instead of the horrifying nightmares I tend to have that make me wake up kicking blankets and whatnot all over the place, screaming, or crying (sometimes all of the above) I actually woke myself up from a dream yesterday, laughing. Not just chuckling, or light laughter, no. I woke up laughing hysterically. And I remember the dream too, cause I was laughing in it. It was not that funny guys. My subconscious has a terrible sense of humour.

I start work next Tuesday. I'm super nervous. I related this to Jeremy, he was all comforting and 'you'll do fine.' Then I worried that I would get fired, and he was all comforting and 'it'll take them a year to replace you anyway.'

Because it took them almost a year to hire me.

He's a hoot.

This All Gets a Little Confused Near the End

I feel like I'm hearing people talk about how they don't want people to read things they wrote when they were younger, or that they don't want to expose themselves too much in regards to their literary pursuits, quite a bit lately. It's strange to me, in the way that when you learn a new word suddenly everyone is using it. I'm sure the people in my life who are talking about these things now have been for some time but I'm only realizing it now. Except it isn't because I've found myself in the same mental position, it's the opposite really.

Without making any conscious effort, I've found almost absolute clarity. This also didn't occur to me until someone told me that's what was happening, well they said something to the effect. We had been talking about trying to find direction and consistency in our work and lives and when she was leaving she said I seemed focused. This possibility had never occurred to me. She said she thought I was going to be fine and that even though I didn't see it in myself she felt that I seemed focused. That's the word I zeroed in on. After she left I thought about it constantly. I kept going back to it. Focused. This whole time I've felt directionless, like I had no idea what I wanted, and even if I did know I had no idea how to get it. But someone heard me talk, they saw how I carried myself, and they said to themselves, 'that girl seems focused.' I couldn't stop replaying it in my head, and that night, well very very early the next morning, I lay awake in bed because I just wasn't tired and I said to myself, 'maybe I am focused.' Somehow that made it true.

So now I'm focused. Once I said it, everything felt like it fell into place. I want to be a writer. I want to share my stories, my thoughts, my inconsequential opinions, with as many people as possible, as often as possible. And I want them to share with me. Which brings me back to that first paragraph up there. Remember me telling you about deleting half of my work and how it seemed to be an insult to a friend of mine? I do absolutely believe that sometimes you have to be willing to just throw some things out. Which is why I did. But I also believe that sometimes you have to be willing to show people the parts of you that are so embarrassing they're practically shameful, because it helps you accept yourself. I published some of my awful, awful poetry on the website linked on the right of this page (where you can also find some of my awful, awful short stories) and the only apology I made was that I was once a young, passionate teenager. That is the only excuse I made for my work. I shouldn't have even had to do that, but I haven't reached full acceptance yet. When I do, I like to think that instead of using my youth as an excuse for my shitty melodramatic poetry, I'll use it to mount my defense. 

You should read my poems. Because it's the work of someone who has cared very deeply, and very much, and tried so hard to be open and vulnerable that she didn't realize she was the only one hurting herself. It's the work of someone who grew up way too fast, and not fast enough at the same time. Literally the exact same time. It's honest, and it's tries way too hard, and it's over-the-top, and it has no discernible direction except that of moving forward; sometimes at a steady pace, sometimes at a gallop, sometimes in a clumsy stumble. If nothing else, it is always earnest.

After that, you should read my short stories.

After that, you should ask me what else I'm working on, if I've written anything new, and can you read it. You should ask because chances are exceptionally high that it will be crap and you will not like it, but chances are also pretty good that you'll find something small and interesting in it. Something that will make you want to keep reading on the off chance that my work gets better. Then you can say you've been a fan from 'way back when she was writing really shitty, angsty things about fire, and love, and werewolves, and fanfiction like she actually knew anything about anything.' It'll be cool. Promise.

The reason I maintain this blog still, even knowing it could be damaging later in life when I'm super successful and respected (things like that, saying things like that could do damage), even knowing there's only a handful of people reading, is because at some point someone will stumble upon it, the way I stumbled onto so many unexpectedly fantastic things in my life, and it will make them feel like they're not completely alone. That's what I want to do. I want to make people feel like they belong somewhere, even if I never know I've done it.

Writing feels like the way for me to do that.

A Writer's Life for Me (a glance at my approach)

Yesterday I spent basically eight hours trying to meet my word goal for the day, and coming up with literally nothing. By the time Jeremy got home at about five I had written a grand total of, nothing. It was very upsetting. Than I remembered that I had started a story about a young monster hunter and her dad, and she's supposed to meet this other monster hunter and is skeptical because blah blah blah, and I had written two chapters and then put it to rest because my writing style is to write when I have the idea regardless of how well formed it is or is not, and when the words stop that's when I stop. I don't force myself to write because then I never like what I say. I also never outline.

A lot of my stories are about 800 words and then they just don't go on anymore. The story just stops. I stopped one in the middle of a sentence. I'm really excited to get back into that one, but first I have to figure out what's up with the dog. There's one about a mother and daughter and they're perfectly similar and dissimilar at the same time, but there's something going on with the mother and I can't figure out what it is, or why they're estranged yet they live in the same house and see each other every day and interact like friends.

This is what I mean. I never force it. I barely even take the time to really think about it. It's like a movie starts playing in my head, and I see the words so I write them down because I know they'll be important, but then the movie stops. I want to know what happens, but I don't skip ahead to the end of a movie or a book. I keep watching or reading and eventually the story unfolds and everything makes sense.

Back to the point. Last night I started copying the monster hunter story from my notebook, (I write every story longhand initially until one day I start typing it up and sometimes I'll go back to the notebook but more often I end up just adding new ideas to the digital version.) and by the time I had finished typing up what I already had and what I had added when inspiration struck me, I had ended up well over my goal for yesterday. Unfortunately because I had three days where I wrote maybe 100 words total, my expected completion date is now in early December. Which isn't so bad.

Yes I would love to have started and finished an entire novel in one month, but that isn't entirely realistic when you consider that I've never started and finished an entire novel in my whole writing career. (I guess not career, because I've never been paid for any of my work, or published except for that one really crappy poem I wrote when I was 11.) I thought I had once but then when I read it again it actually ended on a cliff-hanger and I had started a sequel (at 14, how precocious) but never finished it. It was meant to be a two-part story about angels and god and folklore and shit. I still have every intention of returning to it. I'm just waiting for the words to show up.

So the new goal is to try my very best, which is actually quite impressive, to finish this collection by November and spend December editing. But I will not beat myself up and agonize over it if I do not meet that goal. If it takes me until early December as currently indicated, then it does. I refuse to rush the words. And in the future, when I'm signing a contract with a publishing house, I'll make sure to include in the language that even though we may have a publication date set, it is very subject to change. They'll be cool with it cause people will love my work. The important people though. People like me who read and write because if we don't we'll go mad with our insatiable curiosity to discover new worlds and people and actions, or mad with all these words bouncing around in our heads, pinging off the sides and crashing into one another and making our bodies rattle with the vibrations of it all and generally causing a ruckus.

Here's a snippet from one of the stories, Warrior, about a race of men created only to engage in impossible battles on behalf of the human race. When the battle is won, they're put to sleep until they're needed again. They're handled by an organization called The Argus Initiative, which is constantly at odds with the enemy (duh), calling itself The Hermes Division (again, duh).

...

Possibly.

Maybe.

We'll see.

The first question you ask is how long have you been dead. The pause that follows as your teammates try to find the most suitable response leaves you feeling troubled. You touch your neck, your fingers groping for something; a chain perhaps, a scarf? But no, nothing. Your mind has gone blank briefly in your quest because they’ve answered your question after a suitable, dramatic, whispered discussion. You remember suddenly what you were searching for on your neck and why you can barely recall the faces, let alone names, of your colleagues as your fingertips find the scar; the one that you wear around your throat like a choker. The one that healed quite well actually, considering… The dark haired one, with darker skin and bright eyes that you’ve seen on another face, has answered you. Her voice is husky, like a purr, very low and dulcet, ladylike and with an unrecognizable accent. You have been dead for more than two centuries. Something happens and things go black. Story of your life.

I Spent Two Hours Trying to Remember How to Say 'day' in Spanish.

(Then I looked at the calendar, where it is plainly written.)
I know yesterday was the last day of October, and therefore the last day of Bold Moves October, but I made my super-big-awesome-bold move today. One that, like that other one I mentioned vaguely, I also cannot discuss in great detail yet. It's a step, in a long line of steps. But things are progressing. I'm excited and terrified. The best things to be if you're going to be two strong things at the same time.

Today however marks the beginning of National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo, as I've seen it bandied about on the internet.) I believe last year I found a variation of this, and it was blog writing, where you write a blog every day. That is tiresome. I also don't have a novel planned. But I have that collection of short stories and I'm starting with that. Often times I find myself thinking of a concept for a novel and I start writing this grand piece, never an outline of course because god forbid I be a little bit organized. Then I hit a wall and I wait years before I go back to it. I have this one concept that I've been working on for over a decade now. I'm twenty four. Let that sink in for a moment. Imagine how awesome those first drafts must be. Just imagine. I don't have to. I've seen them. They pain me. But I can't throw them out because their are parts of each draft that I'm so hopeful about. I keep them aside in a cabinet, in the hopes that a story is in some magical way like wine and that the longer I let it ferment the better, and stronger it will become. Unless it becomes some retard-strong thing like a Frankenstein monster and tries to kill me. God I can only hope to write something so moving that it annihilates my private life forever.

Since the novel thing isn't a main goal for me right now, I'm just going to keep on trucking with the collection and see what happens. Maybe one of them turns into a full-length novel. Maybe I just finish the set and have a collection of short stories to shop around and get rejected a million times before someone is finally like, 'I'll take a chance on this.'

Bit of advice I found myself jotting down the other day: Write the story first. Then worry about whether people will read it. They will. There's always an audience. It may not be as big as I want but that isn't why I write. It's important to remember that.

Write the story first.

So that's what I'm trying to do.

Options for the first line of a new story, with the working title 'Dead Poet'.

• You will always be hungry.
• The blood welled up to a tiny little bead on her fingertip where she had pricked it.
• Outside the window soft flurries of snow are settling on castle ruins that nobody could bear to have torn down, or maybe they just couldn't be bothered.
• Everything I know about being a ghost, I learned from Beetlejuice and Pac-Man.

Exciting Times

I painted my toes this nice bright, shiny green. And then I had this nice bright, shiny purple crackle nail polish that I was going to put on top. Well, it looked bright and shiny in the bottle. On top of the green it looks muddy and not crackled so much as I've been trapesing through a creek and didn't have time to wash my feet. So I put a gloss over it and somehow it looks awesome. It makes no sense to me.

Sunday work called me and asked me if I could stay late for my Tuesday (today) shift. Then yesterday (Monday) while I was buying groceries they called again and asked me not to come in at all. (Douches.) So I woke up this morning thinking it was Monday (it wasn't), and all day I've continued to think that, even after correcting myself. I feel like tomorrow is Tuesday (it's not) because I work early and I didn't today. My whole week is screwed up now. (Douche-y work.)

I just wanted to write a paragraph with a lot of unnecessary asides, so I complained about work. I am annoyed that I lost those hours though... on a related note.

I've been watching Phineas and Ferb on Netflix streaming. When we had cable I thought the show was hilarious and I used to DVR new episodes. Now Netflix brings me new episodes and I pay a lot less per month for that. I hope when we have kids that this show is still on the air so I can plop their chubby little baby selves in front of the TV to zone out on it for hours at a time.

Just a moment ago, I yanked my glasses off, tossed my laptop aside on the couch, and raced into the kitchen to possibly vomit in the sink. (Jeremy's in the bathroom.) I didn't, but now I'm trying to figure out why I'm nauseated but not about to puke. I hate that feeling. Like I'm going to be sick but I'm positive I won't actually spew. But I still feel like I will.

I have three new short stories making their way around in my noggin, and I feel pretty good about at least one of them being finished before my mini-vacation in October. I'll still post while I'm gone because we're going to a Renaissance Festival and what isn't fun and noteworthy about those? (That's not sarcasm either.) I'll post the story on my fiction page here. Where I haven't posted anything in like, two years. I need to clean up some of the work on there. It reads like it was written by a 16 year old, cause I was about 16 when most of the stuff was written. Don't judge too harshly.