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.

Wherein I Talk About Words As If They're People

I've been encouraging people to read my blog lately. This is absolutely frightening behavior for me. As a general rule, I don't even tell people about anything I write, or if I do it's in passing and if they ask about it I sort of gloss over it. "Oh you write a blog?" "Yeah. So I was doing the laundry yesterday and I found a receipt for Sheetz, which I haven't been to in like, a month. How the hell long has it been since I washed those jeans?" "You mentioned short stories?" "I basically just write anything, to clear some space in my head so I have more room to analyze how Sherlock survived that fall last season."

Things like that.

But I keep reconnecting with people who seem to think there's something interesting about me, and it's making me think there might actually be something interesting about me. So I'm all, yes read my work and help validate my existence. Except that isn't how I feel anymore. I used to think that in order for me to feel confident in my work and about my work that people had to like it. In a way, a very small way, I do still think that, but I've found myself at a point in life recently where I can feel confident regardless of whether people will like it. This world is nowhere near as small as people keep saying it is. It is incredibly vast, and there are so many people on it, and they all have different tastes. So if I'm going to be a successful author, I can't keep writing in the hopes of making everyone love me. I have to write so that I love me, and keep believing that the audience I'm trying to reach is also trying to find me.

The other day I woke up with residual writer's block from the previous evening when I had apparently exhausted all of my mental faculties, which culminated in my writing the same sentence almost word for word three different times with the exception of the last effort, where I actually wrote "insert character name here" instead of the characters name. Which I knew. So I decided it was time for bed. Woke up the next morning feeling the same exhaustion but instead of taking a break from writing and waiting for it to come to me, as is my usual approach, I made myself a cup of coffee (cream, no sugar), opened up the document, and forced myself to write. Forty-five minutes later I had written just over one thousand words. And not only did I not absolutely despise them, they were actually kind of okay. Maybe I'm growing.

I forgot to mention this, or maybe I didn't, but I surpassed my goal for November of 50,000 words by 7. I set the whole thing aside and didn't come back to it until a few days before Christmas. When I deleted more than half of them. That's right. I went through each story, found the really awful parts, found the not-so-good parts, found the parts that were kind of good but felt forced, I even found some really good parts that in a different context would've worked really well. And I deleted the fuck out of them.

When I told a friend about this, it was like I had slapped her in the face, In all honesty, this reaction never occurred to me. At some point very recently, I decided that if I keep holding on to things in the hopes of them getting better I'll never be able to get to the things that are already better, the things that don't need so much work and hand-holding, the things that take so much more time than they should. Writing should be like being in love. Sometimes it's really easy and it just makes sense and it doesn't take any effort whatsoever, it just happens. Sometimes it does take effort, and it is work, but both parties are working, both parties want the best for each other. The things I had to let go of, they weren't working with me. They didn't want to help. They didn't have my best interests in mind. I had theirs in mind, and I knew they would be better off without me. The thing that felt most natural to me, was deleting them. So I set them free.

Maybe they'll come back. But if they don't, it's not the end of the world. If they don't, we'll both still manage.

The Embrace of Love and Resistance

It had been awhile since I posted anything recently, which obviously meant that one of the three people who read this had to send me a text asking why for, so that I would get back to work regaling them (as well as a small portion of Russia, apparently) with the details of my super-awesome-exciting-day-to-day-life.

Things that have happened recently:

• Finally got the library job! It was confirmed about two weeks ago, I don't start until mid-January, and I have to dress like I give a damn (thank fuck). I also had to a write a formal letter of acceptance, which I wasn't even sure how to do. I get the general concept, it's pretty self-explanatory, but they really emphasized the acceptance letter so I asked my good friend Google about it and Google was like, 'don't be a dumb bitch, Storm, read this article.' And so I did.
• Finished the collection of short stories! Sort of. I finished some of the stories, wrote just over 50,000 words total, but didn't write 13 different stories. As I predicted, a few of the stories and I got along better than some of the others and I focused more on those ones, because the ideas came easier. Then I re-read my work, and decided I fucking hated it. So I deleted almost as many words as I had written and I'm starting from scratch.
• We hosted Christmas Eve! And it went pretty well, if I do say. I'm quite proud of Jeremy and myself. He got really drunk, I, surprisingly, did not. Also had alcoholic eggnog for the first time ever. It kinda tastes like cough syrup.

Since it's New Years Eve, (you guys it's freaking New Years Eve) I feel like I should write about resolutions or some nonsense, but I don't make resolutions. So here's this instead: 

Storm's Continued Happiness Plan

Live every day being a little kind, being a little selfish, giving a crap, not giving a crap, being angry, being hopeful, wanting more, being happy with what you have, loving some things with all your heart, loving some things just a little bit, not loving some things at all, wanting to change the world in any way possible, wanting to make a difference, accepting that you probably won't make a difference but trying anyway, always doing your best, not really trying at all, being honest with yourself and with others even if it means hurting someone (but don't intentionally hurt others with honesty), and most importantly, live every day like it's your life. Cause it is.

And now, some insight from Jack London that always makes me feel like I should be shouting from mountain tops, or being badass in slow-motion.

I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.

Short Post

Received a text from a friend today that I haven’t spoken to in a few weeks that said something pretty remarkable: 

“I would like to thank you for befriending me back in high school when I was awkward and you were cool.”

It meant a lot to me. More than I could put into words. Here this whole time I was thinking I was the one that people were being kind to, turns out we’ve been sharing in the kindness. That’s a pretty fantastic thing.

What do you say to something so humbling? I think I came up with a pretty good response:

“I’m a super awkward person yet somehow people still want to be associated with me, so thanks for being one of those people.”

Here’s hoping we always have people in our lives that make us feel like heroes and humble us at the same time.

News

Yesterday was my last at my old job. I haven't gotten the library job yet but I did get a seasonal position somewhere so not only do I not have to deal with all the bullshit at the other place but I also still have some money coming in. I just got tired of constantly working myself to exhaustion every day for such little reward. So I'm taking the next month and a half to make a meager living at the new job, write, worry about holiday decorations and what we're having for dinner at Christmas, and also not have to work overnights. I hate working overnights.

I haven't reached my halfway point for my novel, but I'm almost at 20,000 words so with all the downtime I'll have the rest of this week (I don't work again until Friday) I'm feeling pretty confident about finishing in early December, which isn't the goal, but I would still be satisfied with it.

I think Christmas is becoming my favorite holiday. Obviously I love Halloween. But since July or August this year, I have been so excited for December. I don't know why. I'm just really looking forward to decorating, and seeing the tree, and baking. I'm most excited to make decorations this year. I have so many ideas. Ever since Ashley got me into Pinterest back in about March, I've been spending hours on the site looking at the DIY and Crafts page. And I cannot wait until I can start making things. I'm making gifts for the families this year, ornaments for the tree... When I walked into Target the other day to get dog food I saw the holiday stuff out and I got all giddy. They had the display of Christmas CD's where you can hear snippets of tracks and I heard Bing Crosby singing and I just felt so full of creativity and goodwill. It was amazing. And it made absolutely no sense to me. I was baffled by it.

So I'm really looking forward to this holiday that seems to have brainwashed me in the span of a 30-second snippet of music.

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.