Darren Endymion's Blog, page 35

Packing: Odious Soul Poison

How the hell goes a single geek accumulate so much freakin’ crap? I just moved a year ago (ugh) and I donated a ton of old books I was never going to read again, old junk with sentimental value, etc. Now that I’m packing again I’m wondering the same things — where did it all come from? Who paid for all this crap? Why did I buy it in the first place? Did I think I was going to have a display room for all my geektasmic procurements?

Lord of the Rings toys, Jen and Kira dolls from The Dark Crystal, gay (but beloved) Sailor Moon merchandise, Resident Evil figures, old Thundercats, etc. Then, we have tons of books, old diaries, stories I wrote when I was a teenager and younger (obviously influenced by Piers Anthony’s Xanth and Incarnations novels), letters and cards from deceased relatives and lost friends…

Something like this, but with more gay. And toys. (The two things not being related)

Then the clothes! I’ve been eating better and exercising a little and have lost almost 15 pounds. I’m a shorter guy, but some of the clothes I have uncovered would be too big for a guy a foot taller than me and more than double my weight. What behemoth fit into these tent-sized sheet concoctions? I know I wear my clothes big, but was I para sailing thought the office in those beasts? What the hell did I look like?

To the break room!

And I am loath to discuss my scarves. I live in southern California. “Winter” here is when it gets to 50 (or *gasp* below) at night. I don’t think I have ever needed or worn a scarf and certainly not in public…except to first-day showings of Harry Potter movies (a scarf seemed like too much geekdom to my friends and I, each of us wearing an appropriate House scarf. We were WAY under dressed on all occasions). Yes, I have them all. Hand crochet, wonderful, geeky, and totally impractical for me. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and even Hufflepuff (though who would wear this last in public?)

My point, visually stated.

My video games? DVDs? Blu-rays? I’m far too scared to calculate even how many I have, much less their original value. Is my geekdom — of which I am inordinately, irrationally proud — weighing me down?

Has anyone seen Labyrinth with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly? Remember that hoarder goblin in the dump with all her stuff on her back? Yeah. That’s me. Just slightly cuter. Yet, I truly enjoy all of it, it’s placed well, cleaned, used, read, etc. I’m not living in squalor amongst aisles of garbage and boxes and papers. Is it hoard? And is well maintained geek hoard different than trash?

I found this old blog post, complete with pictures, and I think it proves the point about my collections, if nothing else. While I am certainly nowhere near the level of the picture featured in that entry, I think the difference between regular/geek hoard is well stated.

http://askthedm.com/2011/08/30/geek-life-time-to-pretend/

But I have to move it all, and that makes me unhappy. It’s the only reason I’m questioning it. Given that I need to physically move my stuff makes it all seem so unnecessary. But, I get use and pleasure out of the stuff, and I have routinely culled the things which no longer please or entertain me. It gets smaller (except the movies and games, though their rate of increase has slowed to a trickle thanks to streaming and other time-eaters), and yet…

Whatever. It’s late. Back to the heap with me.

To my friends: I expect an intervention if I ever actually look like this.

Moving Woes

Today I paid rent for the last time in a wonderful apartment complex I have lived in for 8 years. It was my first time away from the security of home, and then the first time totally living on my own.

It’s dumb things like this that make me contemplate, consider, and over think, usually as some sort of montage of the things that have happened while at the place, seen through that frosty glass of nostalgia and delusion. Suddenly, all becomes fun and positive, the good takes the forefront, and you don’t remember the bad. Like coming to loathe my roommate so much that the sound of his key in the lock would send me fleeing from the room. The time I almost died. The recovery after my surgery after said near death when I watched Spongebob and drank grape juice for 5 weeks while I was high on Oxycontin after having part of my innards removed because of some freakish congenital narrowing of my small intestine. My grandmother, my most endearing and positive mothering influence, passing away from cancer.

Then I remember the feeling of cleansing and happiness and optimism when I moved into this one bedroom with my (now) ex. The feelings of happiness and absolute surety that things would work out, only to find that he had been unemployed for about a month, and had lied about his previous job for five. The feelings of stupidity for having believed him, though I was one of many who had no reason to doubt him. The subsequent breakup and the feelings of being stretched so thin financially while dealing with the end of a 3 year relationship. The scrimping by, the saving, the financial finagling I had to do in order to get by.

But, there was good and there was plenty of it. I learned, and I don’t mean like The Tower tarot card, that I learned through the complete and disastrous breakdown of everything I knew, that all these terrible things taught me to be more patient and kind. I think they did, but that’s not what I mean. I came to know myself, to feel like a grownup for the first time. I had a wonderful relationship with a great person for 3 years (the end notwithstanding) who I still consider among my best friends and possibly more. I met several friends I will have for a lifetime, friends who (all unknowing) revived seasons and holidays from the bitter ashes of my youth into fun, charming things again, who fostered a sense of family within me. I got to see my grandmother weeks before her death, to tell her I loved her over and over again, and I will always have the memories. And she is no longer in so much pain that it hurt my heart to witness. I had my first novel published. I got the acceptance for a short story for an anthology. I had many moments of fun as coworkers turned into real friends (only the fourth and fifth time that has ever happened–I still talk to the other three).

I loved, I lost, I gained, and I (hopefully) became a better person.

Perhaps the next place, a small room I will be renting, will be as fulfilling. And I still have the better part of a month here to say goodbye.

And to hopefully stop being so goddamned sentimental. Bwahahaha!

Acceptance!

After my novel-sized post last week, I’ll try to make this update brief.

1) For those who remember my irritation at a certain vituperative (LOVE that word) hag of a coworker, my whole team has finally been moved. And we are all so happy. This is our busiest time of the year, my shoulder blade muscles are knotted from all the typing, I’m working 10-12 hour days, I’m up at 4am every weekday, I have to pack my apartment and move in a month…but I’m okay. I don’t dread work, I don’t hiss at the thought of going in, and it’s like a different workplace — which is good.

Apparently, tazing and pushing a coworker down an elevator shaft is frowned upon by Human Resources.

2) I lost my way with the new writing stuff I started during my aforementioned Book in a Week exercise. Then I found it again. Then I decided to change everything. Then I decided that I wanted to change only some of it. I think I’ve got it now. So, here’s hoping that I continue, since I don’t want to fall into the post-release slump like I did with Winter’s Trial.

I bring this up because…

3) My short story got accepted this weekend!

I’ve always loved fairy tales and fantasy (as any brave soul who made it through last week’s entry knows), plus I wanted to train myself to write smaller stories, to be compact, to be more concise. I’ve never been successful at short stories because everything wants to have worlds and worlds behind it, so this was good for me. My short story combines all those things.

Remember the snippet with the pumpkinheads I posted during the BIAW exercise? Yeah, that’s the one that got accepted. Not only that, but it’s for an anthology (though it will also be sold separately), so spaces were limited (I assume) and that makes me pretty proud.

I’ve only signed the contract this weekend, so I don’t know how much info I can give out yet, but I’ll give more details as I know them. This is only the second thing of mine to be accepted, so I’m pretty thrilled. I’m learning to trust myself and be creative, even in the confines of the anthology and the framework I chose. Even so, my mind kept spinning the thing out, making the world bigger, adding details which will likely never see anything other than the inside of my head. Sucks. I kinda liked them. There was a lot going on in that story.

So, that’s happy me. Have a drink for me or do a private shimmy of support. I’ll know somehow. Hahaha.

 

Experiencing Childhood Literature as an Adult(ish)

[Note: Sweet mother of god, this is a long entry. Still, stay with me...I think/hope it will be interesting.]

Yes, I watched the Lifetime movie adaptation of Flowers in the Attic this weekend. Don’t judge me. I can explain.

Reading Stephen King’s On Writing, I came across his suggestion to read terrible books along with the great ones to learn how to be a better writer. A title he mentioned specifically was Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews. My older cousin read this when she was about 15, over a decade after the book was published. If you are female and read this book, this is about the age you read it. If you are male, ask your female friends/girlfriends/acquaintances. Trust me, the average age a girl read these books is 14-17…likely before they could realize what terrible, over dramatic, insipid books they were. (I can think of another wildly successful series in recent memory which fits this description). My cousin gushed about this book.

I was 12 or 13 and couldn’t have cared less. I grew up on Narnia, Xanth, The Hobbit, and (later) The Chronicles of Prydain. If if didn’t have elves, magic, or fantastic creatures, I wasn’t interested. Put a freakin faun, griffin, or glowing spherical bauble in that attic, and I was all yours. More on that later.

As an adult, the Dollanganger novels drew some interest because my interests had expanded and (mostly) because of Stephen King’s mention of them. I got a copy of Flowers in the Attic and couldn’t. It defeated me. Always happy to corrupt, my dear friend had an old audio book recording she forced on me. I listened to it.

It was terrible. Excruciating. Melodramatic. Poor ear for dialogue. And that’s being kind. Yet, it was interesting enough that I listened to all five books, and I learned tons about writing. They were just as bad, terrible, in fact, but…strangely interesting. The absolute best review I read compared these books to a bag of greasy potato chips: you know it’s bad for you, you know you shouldn’t, you know you’ll hate yourself later, but it’s just tasty enough to take that next handful. While listening to these books I was walking home and something happened in the second book which was so annoying, so out of character, so stupid, that I rolled my eyes involuntarily and hard enough to give myself a pounding headache. (For those poor initiated few, it was Cathy’s reaction at the end of Petals on the [Goddammed] Wind to a certain funeral. Bitch spent the whole book getting revenge only to suddenly experience remorse and love and throw herself on the coffin and shriek, “I love you!” Lying whore. Go sleep with your mama’s husband again.)

Anyway, the mini series for Flowers in the Attic was much more like the book than the 1987 version, even to the grandmother’s moments of softness and overzealous punishments. Someone read the 5th book, poor saps. Ellen Burstyn, of course, was amazing in a melodramatic way. Essentially, she was perfect for the part.

Do I recommend reading these books? No. Not at all. They are interesting enough to get your attention, but you will feel dirty at the end of them. Not because of the content, but because you actually read that shit. You keep reading/listening because it’s such a train wreck. It’s like a sick dramatic version of those lovely SyFy movies — Sharktopus, Mongolian Death Worm, Sharknado, et. al. Or, like a bag of greasy chips. But, if you want to learn about bad, over dramatic writing, try reading the first one, Flowers in the Attic. Mr. King wasn’t lying. It will teach you more than you could learn in an entire semester of creative writing courses.

The mini series was, for a lot of people, living out that shamed corner of their childhoods. For me, it was goddamned funny. They are making the next book into a Lifetime movie, I heard. Next time, I’m drinking while watching it.

But that wasn’t the only movie I watched this weekend.

As a kid growing up in a very (very) religious household, by way of fantasy I was allowed only Grimm/Anderson’s fairy tales and Narnia. (If you have read previous posts, you may ask how my mother managed to fit Stephen King and serial killer novels into the acceptable list of books, but eliminate other fantasy. I think a certain book I was forced to read later will explain that: Fantasy was dangerous, apparently. It was the literary version of a sack of sweating TNT).

As an adult, having fallen far from those early days of forced religion, the Narnia books took on a layer of distaste for me. I felt like they were forcing religion down my throat — but by being sneaky about it.

When I was in my early teens I was forced into a living situation with someone who had been biding time, fearful for my immortal soul. I was forced to read a book called Turmoil in the Toybox. Essentially, it was about how every single toy and cartoon show from the 80s was nothing more than a thinly veiled attempt by pagans, New Agers, and Satan Himself to grasp at my soul.

Even as a very young, sheltered, naive, vulnerable, exceptionally wounded teenager, I recognized this book as pure, histrionic comedy. I was forced to read it and, in very serious book-club like weekly meetings, had to have hour-long discussions about the book and basically to listen to how all my beloved escapes and fantasies and cartoons were nothing more than evil. Thundercats, He-Man, Rainbow Brite, Care Bears, The Smurfs, etc. They were all evil, according to this book. They involved magic, skeletons back from the dead, sorcery, rainbows (a sign of New Age, which was supposedly a prettier version of Satanisim, packaged prettily for the impressionable young adult), etc. I think the only 80s toys that were acceptable were Popples. Remember them? Neither does anyone else. They were marsupial rabbit-things so boring that they couldn’t even offend the craziest of Christians. Remember the song by Clannad, Theme to Harry’s Game? Beautiful, calming, Celtic-ish music. Wonderful. I tried to play it for this person and it was immediately turned off. The verdict? New Age subliminal messaging to turn me away from God. Obviously, right?

I’m telling you, I was moments away from being locked in a closet to pray, just like Carrie White (but sadly lacking her telekinesis).

The only fantasy I could read — and only after having our book club meetings about all the religious symbolism within each — were the Narnia books. And read them I did. Oz books were out. Prydain? Never. Xanth? Only on the sly. The Hobbit? I would have had to go to my closet to pray. I was an avid reader, always above my peers, and reaching for something that could challenge me. Instead, I was handed other religious fiction (Yawnfest) and forced to rerread books it was time to still love yet grow away from. I started to hate Narnia. I grew to resent something I had once loved, to groan at the Biblical overtones, and to despise the obvious reaching for children’s minds.

Flash forward several years, and my views have softened. It’s good fantasy for the age group and beyond. Then this weekend, I finally sat down and watched Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which was somehow my favorite book of the series as a kid.

Perseverance of literature, my ass. Dignity be gone. I lost my shit.

All of Narnia up to that point (save one hamhanded line Aslan said about having a counterpart in Lucy’s world), was pure genius. As Lucy and Edmund (perfect casting for both, by the way) said goodbye to Narnia, I felt, even as an adult, a depth of sadness I couldn’t have expected or explained. I felt absolutely betrayed…by Aslan and by Narnia. I was bitter. Let me explain a little.

My reaction astounded me. But thinking the slightest bit about it, I realized that, like it or not, Narnia has shaped me, my reading habits, my interests, and my love of fantasy . Fauns, dryads, centaurs, I tend to feel incomplete without them. Watching Edmund and Lucy say goodbye was emotional, and I realized what I couldn’t have known during my childhood: I was turning to them with no other options — yet they were my sanctuary. They were my foundation. I was repelled by the Biblical messages in them because I was forced to acknowledge them and celebrate them above the fantasy and otherwise brilliant storytelling. But I was also (secretly) able to experience them on the level that they were just damned good stories. Regrettably, this was overshadowed by the pounding of the religious messages into my cranium.

I read the first three books over and over, and never read the last because I didn’t want Narnia to end. I loved those books. Experiencing them as an adult only clarified that, made its influences in my fantasy writing and ideas stand out, even to this day. Watching Lucy and Edmund say goodbye, as cheesy and melodramatic as it sounds, was like saying goodbye to the parts of my childhood which were both great and terrible. I felt like I could finally get rid of the bitterness.

I’m planning to reread them, to read The Last Battle for the first time ever, and to enjoy them for what they are — brilliant fantasy which began the shaping of my imagination.

I don’t plan to weave drunkenly down memory lane as often or as intensely as I did this weekend. But I think I can leave the bad parts behind.

Still, am I sick for wanting to pick up a copy of Turmoil in the Toybox, play old Thundercats and He-Man episodes in the background, and laugh until my stomach hurts?

Book in a Week Results

Well, my results were less than stellar, averaging about 1,000 to 2,000 words a day.

BUT…and this is important…I did it.

Not only is this great toward getting a schedule down, but it’s the time period I did it during. January is — as I have declared ad nauseam – a period of stress, being overworked, and having little personal time. It’s the worst month of the whole year for me. Add to that my impending move at the end of February and other factors, and the litany of whining goes on.

Yet, even in this maniacal time, I managed to write between 1-2 thousand words a day, read some, work 10+ hours a day at the day job, and even watch an occasional movie or play a video game to relax. So, what’s my excuse the other months when I have more time to myself? What’s my excuse then? Nothing. You can’t force words to come out of your head, but you can give them an opportunity to come out on their own.

Note to self: Put down the goddamned PS Vita!

Another great thing about his exercise was the people I was doing it with. There were 5-6 of us at any time. I was (am) the low man on the totem pole and the underachiever of the group, and said as much. Once. I was immediately (and gently and kindly) scolded in the nicest manner possible. I was told that we are all writers (long time readers will know the weirdness I feel about being called that), and that we are all doing the same thing. I was told that none of the big names — Stephen King, Nora Roberts, etc. — had joined in, so I shouldn’t sell myself short.

I asked if they had responded to our invites and implied that it was rude of them not to, basically laughing it off, but it really touched me. The owner of the group is pretty damned popular in her genre (my genre? our shared genres? Whatever). In fact, on one of the lists my book Winter’s Trial was nominated for on Goodreads and currently sits at like #450 or something, she has the #1 and #2 books, I believe. That’s the case with other lists, too. I’m # 4 billion, and she is sailing easily in the top 5.

Yet, she was so humble and sweet to say something like that. The other writers were congratulatory, kind, joking, warm, and open. I owned some of their books way before being published and now we are writing together (on separate projects, obviously). They have been so accepting of this brazen upstart that I have been incredibly grateful.

It was said how writing is a solitary practice, but in some ways it doesn’t need to be. One of my bestest friends is a writer and talking with her about all my projects, messing around and writing with her, and being beta readers for each other has been one of the most rewarding experiences throughout this all. I’m not a social person that often. I am dreadfully shy until I know someone, and often come off as offensive or awkward in the meantime. So, this experience has been a blessing. My publisher has a group for exactly this sort of thing and is limited to authors only, yet there is none of this sense of community (or humility).

I’m lucky to have been invited (or invited myself and then been accepted) by any group of professional writers. As the underdog, as the one with the least professional experience, and as the one coming into this knowing everyone the least, I have found the experience gratifying and rewarding. I don’t know that I could have done it with a better group of people at this stage in my career…or any stage.

As a warning, next week I will be high/depressed/ridiculously giddy. I will have submitted a last minute project for an anthology to my publisher, an anthology for which many people are clamoring to get in. I will be delirious with overtime and work. I will be apprehensive at the results of the anthology or depressed at the subsequent rejection. I will also be cackling at the cheese-fest that is the new Lifetime movie for Flowers in the Attic, incest included.

But, throughout it all, I plan to work and to write. I make no promises as to the sanity of my next entry.

“Book in a Week” Week, Day 1

New Year, new opportunities, right?

I am part of the Yahoo fan group for an author. The group has been very active in the past few days. I love this group, not only because the people are very kind, but because several more established authors are on it in addition to the main authoress. Everyone, writer or not, is always nice and quick to offer advice and encouragement on anything from writing to personal issues. Plus, most of the people are just sweet and open and wonderful.

Most of what I get by way of advice or writer-camaraderie comes from another author’s Yahoo group, not from my publisher’s similar group. Whatever. The authors are more real here, and the atmosphere is relaxed.

The point I was getting at is that 2013 was a difficult year for many writers. The author in question popped in to wish us a happy new year and update us on her work in progress. She shared some of her tribulations and hurdles, also stating that many of her writer friends had experienced the same thing.

Flood gates: Open!

Another writer chimed in with her difficulties. I chimed in with mine. Another with his. And another. And another. Group excuse? Astrological anomaly? Increasingly busy schedules world wide? Whatever. Maybe we’re the only ones. It doesn’t matter. I felt like everyone was supportive, sharing our misery.

Then the group owner mentioned something she was doing — Book in a Week. It’s not literal (who the hell could actually DO that?), but more of an excercise in productivity. Basically, you write and write. You pause for nothing, not to fact check, not to research, not to decide on a name, not to allow that bitch of an internal editor/critic screw with your head, and especially not to go back and reread or edit. The goal is to plow through, get the story out, and to fill in the other stuff later.

Here is a link to a site describing it:

http://www.book-in-a-week.com/what-is-biw/

The group owner/author I was referring to suggested the writers in her group do it all this week. If we want to, we will post our word count, a paragraph-plus, and/or why we didn’t write.

I like the idea. I’d post my counts here for the full week if I didn’t think I would tax my few readers beyond their limits of tolerance (of course, if I get feedback otherwise, I can report my progresses here).

I see it as a jump start…or at least I did.

Remember that short story I mentioned I was working on last week? Well, I finished it. (Go me, right?). This is typically dangerous territory for me. I tend to “take a break” which then turns into “I haven’t written in a MONTH!”. So, as I let my newest story sit to ripen and grow cool before I edit it and send it to my beta readers, I will jump right into the next project. It even makes sense. When my just-finished story passes or fails, I will be mired in the next project. It’s never good to live for one single thing.

To those reading this, I welcome any feedback or thoughts — whether you’re a writer or not.

Until then, my measly (but significant, all things considered) word count is 1,500. Here is a rough, unedited excerpt (and yes, the story as a whole could be considered a romance…not this part, though):

 

Gavyn looked up. He stopped walking, dread and terror in his throat.

In front of him lay a field of twisted, man-sized scarecrows made from blackened sticks, dressed in shabby clothes. Some were dressed like soldiers from the Anrian army, others like farmers, and some like common peasants. Occasionally, one was dressed in richer clothing or animal skins, which hurt Gavyn’s heart to see. Atop each stick figure was a carved pumpkin, and each was etched with a face of horror and pain. This one had three eyes, another had fangs, this one had a jagged scar up its head, and some seemed to be nothing but teeth and eyes. They all were posed as though in the middle of an orgiastic dance of pain, ready to lunge and pierce and bite. Gavyn took one involuntary step back and gasped in surprise.

The pumpkinheads began to move.

In a profane parody of human movement, the creatures lifted themselves from their perches, stumbled like drunken sailors, and cavorted. Then they came for him.

Old/New Year

This year has been one of change for me, most of it good, some bad, and the rest merely change which falls into neither category.

In the past year my first novel was accepted, edited, and published. The editing process,  much-hinted at “rules” the publisher imposed, and the time frame to do it all in chafed me and I felt I needed a break. It was all a change I needed to assess and internalize during this break. I got over it, break’s over, and I’m working on something much shorter but new. Hopefully, this coming year will mirror (and expand on) the successes while diminishing my sensitivity.

I struggled with marketing (I’m lazy and generally loathe social media), and reviews (overwhelmingly positive, yet I stupidly focused on the negative). However, it was very new and I think it will all be easier in the future. I have thick skin in real life and it’s starting to cover my sensitive underbelly. It’s just a fact of life when you write and publish. I babied myself. Time to put on the big boy pants and get over it. I had some really wonderful people write to me, review my book, and read it, and that was an astounding experience I can’t separate myself from, and I can’t thank everyone enough.

I failed at setting up a writing schedule. Miserably so. I buckled down and did my edits because I had to. It made me want to fling poo at my monitor, but I did it. That will improve.

A three year relationship ended. We remain friends and overall it’s very good there.

I moved in early 2013. In early 2014 I will be moving again. *stare* I’m not pleased. I love my apartment, but I have a goal for 2015 (which, fuck my life, involves moving…again!), and this is the only way to achieve that goal.

Other than that, I can’t think of much. It has been a great year and I hope this continues. For all of us.

I wish everyone love, happiness, and joy throughout the new year.

Xmas Wishes and Mental Betrayal

So, this is the last week before the Pig Launching Extravaganza which always taints the beginning of the year at my day job (the one we are always being admonished not to quit). (For those newcomers, I don’t want to say where I actually work and therefore curtail what I might otherwise say — people have gotten fired for openly maligning the Almighty Company on public media. So, I state that my job entails launching pigs from cannons.) We got the e-mail today and are looking at 10 hour days, 6 days a week for the first month and “as needed” for the ensuing months. It was expected.

However, Christmas draws nigh. I have consumed my weight in Hershey’s Candy Cane kisses and watched my Christmas movies — chief among them Disney’s CGI A Christmas Carol. If you want a traditional Xmas movie with horror overtones, this is it. An argument could be made for its rating to be bumped up to PG-13 (the end of the Ghost of Christmas Present’s scene alone…). It’s very true to the book, and these aren’t your cuddly Muppets (however awesome they are). Also included in my movie fest were Charlie Brown’s Christmas, Polar Express, The Grinch, and Nightmare Before Christmas (duh). And hopefully that deranged  horror version of Jack Frost…the horror movie about a possessed snowman. (I’m not even kidding. Look it up. And I don’t mean the one with Michael Keaton).

What all this should point to is that, in a very rare instance (almost unheard of), I was more excited for Xmas than Halloween. I must be terribly ill — I’m broke and don’t give a crap about presents, that cuddly family stuff does nothing for me, it’s going to be 80 degrees here on Christmas (and for almost a full week afterwards), and yet I’m as excited as a kid who sees a dozen large presents under the tree bearing his name.

Should be fun.

In other news, while getting ready to prepare to move, I was also assembling notes for the novella I was planning. Because my mind is a perverse, awful thing which delights in nothing more than my torture, I noticed two special calls for short stories (I suck at short form writing), and my mind switched. Totally jumped ship.

I thought it was some form of mental rebellion, a diversion tactic to avoid loading anything more onto my already burdened back and to cause me to get distracted and not write the novella yet. I tried to force myself to focus on what I originally planned to write and also to consider if I should write anything during this busy time. That never works. I dreamed about the stories.

Even more than that, if your mind is so intent on some other creative project or (for instance) one character seems to “want” more screen time, then you don’t fight it. It is probably supposed to be that way and doing anything else interrupts the flow.

I started on the first of the two short stories today. About three pages later, I’m still going strong — the most I’ve written since Winter’s Trial was published, sadly (and isn’t even that much). The bonus to this project is that even if it is rejected, I can still use it as part of a larger work I plan to do. Besides, I really like it so far, and that’s what counts for me. I’m not good at the short format, and my betrayer brain wants to add all sorts of extra bits and keeps fleshing everything out, but I could stand to learn the (incredibly difficult) short story format. So, if nothing else, this will be a valuable training exercise. Is that mental self-preservation in case I’m rejected? Probably, but there is truth to it, so I will let it slide.

I took a break from that to write this entry. Now, if I can keep Valkyrie Profile and Disgaea D2 (Laharl, Etna, and Flonne again…finally!) out of my clutching claws, I will be well down the road to my next project.

The other short story has quite some time before it’s due, so I may write it and let it sit, or go to the original novella I was ripped from by my traitorous mind.

Anyway, Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Happy Yule/whatever makes you happy and warm inside. May we all be a little more positive and gracious throughout the year (especially my evil ass). *cackle, throwing Xmas confetti*

Schedule Alteration

As anyone coming here regularly knows, I can be rather long winded. It’s an inherited trait passed down from my father and, I suspect, his father before him. All my siblings got it, just like our love for sunflower seeds and shiny objects.

My father could fill the deepest, darkest voids of space with chatter, stories, and observations which go nowhere. They would overflow and form their own very loud cosmos. Galaxy Talkoreon. (Sounds like a loud Pokemon, doesn’t it?) It would house the uninhabitable solar system of noise, fire, and constant rumblings.

I’m barely better. I understand this. I fight against it, but it’s a losing battle.

Anyway, with this level of long windedness, each entry takes time from what is becoming an Actually Busy Schedule (as opposed to the Fake Busy Schedule, where I’d just rather be watching all things American Horror Story, reading, or playing my old PSone copy of Valkyrie Profile which I have recently dug out).

With the holidays, moving in 2.5 months, getting stuff ready, writing again, and a mere 15 days away from the absolute drudgery of 10-12 hour days, 6 day weeks, and no free time at work (or after), I have decided to reduce my semi-regular (ha!) schedule of posting twice a week on Monday and Thursday nights to once a week, probably on Mondays.

Our busy season is exactly that — a season. It takes about three months to calm down. So, I may not be twice a week here until about mid-March. Occasionally, yes, but all the time, no.

By that time work will slow a bit until a brief flurry in mid-April. I should then be boxed, moved, and unboxed again. I hope to write more and be done with something new. Then I’ll be back and more often.

So, until March, I’ll see you guys only once a week.

*crickets* I see nobody cares in the slightest. Jerkfaces! *weeping and running away*

Life Updates

Here are updates on all sorts of crap that has been going on lately, as many loose ends seem to have tied themselves up within the past week. It has been eventful.

State of mind — Yeah, after the slightly egomaniacal, whiny tantrum I threw in my last entry, a two hour conversation with my ex, a longer one with my uncle, and a visit from Beverly, my very dear and oldest friend, I feel much better. It wasn’t a good look and I apologize for the tender eyes I offended. (I’m not retracting the major points, but lord, I was annoying. Who needs another tirade?). My uncle found my blog. When I finally returned his call he sort of hesitated and said, “Uh…are you okay?” Apparently not.

That, I believe, was the result of my typical refusing to show or feel much emotion, and the various issues that will be discussed below. A word of advice: don’t hold it all in. It explodes eventually.

Work — We haven’t been moved yet, but my supervisor is doing reviews, so I have decided to not pester him too much. I’m buckling down, preparing to become the hermit that will get me through the horror of our busiest month (January), and it’s not time yet. I was pulled out of my hibernation by a friend…and the fact that I haven’t seen Catching Fire yet, and the next Hobbit movie is coming soon. Hibernation, hell. I’m going.

The Move — I’ve decided to rent the room. I went, looked at it, and had my ex measure the room based off my furniture and I fit. It’s a temporary thing, thankfully, but truly the only way to achieve my goals. I realize that freedom will be an issue, and that was my biggest hesitation, but the good outweighs the bad.

The Infamous Interview — I’m sucking it up, getting over myself and the imagined conundrum, filling out the damned thing, and plan to send it back tomorrow. In retrospect after my tantrum, it seems so trivial. I dunno what I was thinking. Or maybe it was the focus for my larger dissatisfaction.

The Blockage — Ewwwe. No, not that kind. Through the talks I had, I realized the source of the biggest issues I was letting demotivate me from writing. It is a variety of issues, and the largest of them don’t bear talking about, but let it rest with this: it’s something I can deal with, I think. It wasn’t the writing or even the horrid nerves as reviews happened, but rather the post production which chafed and traumatized and disillusioned me.

Regardless, it’s beyond my control, but I liken it to those surfers who are thoroughly chewed my some shark roughly the size of an infant Megalodon and, when sewn back together by a skilled surgeon/seamstress, get right back into the water. They bravely dangle their naughty bits to potentially be sampled by other toothy denizens of the deep. It’s about not letting the fear (or the fear of irritation) stop me. So, I shall plunge in and dangle my bits.

The Process — The process of writing is fine. It’s always scary, sure. I’m reminded of a passage from Stephen King’s Misery. Paul is thinking about writing and considering that it’s like driving fast with no known destination, knowing that it was good to begin, knowing that he will never write as good as he wants to, but knowing it’s an act of bravery.

That I can handle. I’ve done it before. It’s part of the thrill, the rush, the make-believe is always fun, and watching things spin out from my mind to the screen like some thread of tenuous telepathy is awe inspiring. That I can handle.

The Progress — I have picked up and reviewed my notes. I expanded on a little bit of the world building for my next (seeming eternally in progress) project. I finished something else I was working on in preparation. I wrote out the points of the second wolf book beginning. That was just today. I’m excited and not dreading it. The storm of self-indulgent stupidity is waning. I hope.

So, I feel cleansed and can only thank my friends (and isolated family) for being my sounding boards and, after being good people and listening to my doubts, irritation, insecurity, and pain, basically told me to shut the fuck up, stop whining, and just do it.

If they weren’t right, I would have attempt to have them evicted from the planet.