Monthly Archives: April 2012

30 Days of Truth: Day 16–I Can Live

And here, almost a month after our last installment in the 30-part series, I finally inch past the halfway mark. As I’ve said before, I do plan on finishing these, but it may take a while. It depends on how much else is on my mind.

Someone or Something You Could Definitely Live Without

I don’t have too much to say about this one. I’ll just list what comes to mind.

First of all, I could live without periods, of course. Ugh. Mine are the devil. And it doesn’t help that the Seroquel has apparently messed with my cycles and made them unpredictable. My latest cycle lasted about two weeks. I kid you not. If Seroquel isn’t the culprit, I don’t know what is. My body in general, perhaps.

Okay, that was candid. I’m blushing now. I’m a modest girl who doesn’t like to discuss bodily functions, after all.

I could live without heat and humidity. Especially humidity. Ugh. I hate summertime. I am not comfortable with my body, so I don’t want to wear fewer clothes. I’ve worn jeans when it was 110 degrees outside. Where I come from, it is regularly humid. You might think I would’ve become inured to humidity, but no. I despise it. I hate how oppressive it feels. Sometimes it makes me feel like I can’t breathe.

I could live without being overweight and short.

I could live without my self-hatred. Too bad I don’t know how to get rid of it. 😦

I could live without my timidity.

I want to say that I could live without my mental health issues, but here I’m not so sure. Perhaps I’ve been indoctrinated by propaganda portraying the principled ideal as someone who wouldn’t change the bad parts of their lives. I do think it has shaped my character. At the very least, I would say that I could live with it being less intense.

There are other things I could live without, I’m sure. These are just the most prominent ones

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Excerpts of My Fiction Writing

After I posted about reprioritizing, Hello Sailor requested I post an excerpt of one of my short stories. Since I would have my real-world identity associated with these stories, I’ve decided to post an excerpt as password protected. That way, I can protect my identity. The excerpt I posted is from a story that deals with religion, so it could be controversial. This is not the story I took to the critique group yesterday. I’m too afraid of offending anyone to try that, at least at the moment.

Anyway, this announcement regards the password. If you’re interested in reading the excerpt, you can just leave a comment here, and I’ll e-mail you the password. The e-mail I get about the comment will include your e-mail address, so you don’t need to include it in the post. If you’d prefer to e-mail me directly to ask for the password, my e-mail address is rogue2323@gmail.com.

If you do read it, please be kind. 🙂

I don’t know how often I’ll put up excerpts of my writing, but any future ones will also be password protected. Those will be the only password protected posts unless I later stipulate otherwise.

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Protected: Story 1 Part 1

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On Writing

As I mentioned last week, I’m trying to make myself get into the habit of writing fiction again. Well, I went to a writing critique group today. I submitted the first half of a short story, and for the most part, there was a good response. Since my style is literary, though, it didn’t always fully mesh with the other members’ reading preferences. I haven’t been able to find anyone else in this town who writes literary stuff. A year ago, I went to another critique group, and the people there pretty much didn’t understand my stuff. It bored them because it wasn’t their style, which is closer to mainstream fiction.

Anyway, the people at this one have a variety of writing styles even though most of them seem to write fantasy. It’s a group that formed from some of the individuals who took place in NaNoWriMo. My 2011 NaNo novel is fantasy, but I also tried to be literary. I’m not sure how well those aspects mesh.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been reading some of my old work. There are a few short stories that I’m thinking of sending somewhere, though I’d first need to do some research about how to do that. Since I can’t seem to get myself to focus on actually writing something new or adding to my unfinished 2011 NaNo novel, I’m trying to see if I can edit instead. I have one completed novel, my 2010 NaNo novel. Earlier today, I thought I’d glance over it and begin editing.

But as I was reading it, I realized that the writing was in terrible shape. I know you can’t expect brilliance from a NaNo novel, but it’s still disheartening. I think I’m going to have to substantially rewrite it. I know this is something all authors do, but it still freaks me out. How long is it going to take if I’m revising again and again? Will it ever be good? Not everyone who wants to be an artist should be one. Ever heard of Coleman Francis? He probably thought he was a cinematic artist.  You can tell he’s trying to experiment with the medium. Instead, he ended up making films ripe for MST3K’s riffing.

What if I’m the Coleman Francis of novels?

I compare my short story writing to my novel writing. I know that I am a much better short story writer than novelist. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t yet figured out the key to the craft. I used to have problems writing short stories until I realized that the point of a short story was merely to capture a moment in time.

I am kind of clueless about novel writing. I don’t know how to edit. Of course my first drafts aren’t going to be good because they’re first drafts. Also, I don’t work from outlines. I just know I need to get from Point A to Point B and I start writing. I’ve tried outlining before, but I can’t do it. Really my novel drafts are nothing but gigantic, 100,000+ word freewrites.

If only I could find some way to transfer my skill with short stories to novel writing.

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Stray Thoughts

While I’ve been at work this week, I’ve written down a few sporadic thoughts on Post-its. I thought of taking pictures of them and putting them in this post, but some of it is red ink on pink paper, and that might be hard to read. Instead, I’ll transcribe them here:

I can’t live like this–just so pathetic. And my stupid fantasies–I’m not a real writer–just a place for my stupid imaginary life.

I feel a frenzy in my brain.

Don’t do anything you’ll regret, dear.

Another subconscious desire to scare someone away? It’s not even necessary–there’s no one to scare.

I’m no one.

My timidity becomes a virtue–easier to hide mental health issues and not do something drastic–be prudent.

A sickness of the soul? (Why so melodramatic?)

Why does talking in general make me feel guilty?

Why does any ounce of confidence make me feel guilty? Overcompensation?

We are all (main) characters in our own lives (stories).

Life is nothing but a story.

I think I’ve put them in chronological order. I don’t know if they make sense to an outside party; I copied them word-for-word (and punctuation-for-punctuation).

Today, I realized something. I’ve mentioned the big break before. I’m still mending from it even though it was two years ago. It broke me, shattered me.

Well, I’ve been spending the last two years picking up the pieces. It seems that only now am I beginning to try to reassemble them into a coherent whole.

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Aftermath

This will probably be a short post, as I need to go to bed soon. Also, I have this weird headache at the base of my head where it connects to the neck. It feels like an indentation.

Yesterday, I mentioned a moment during which I tried to pry one of my fingernails from its bed. Even though I didn’t completely tear it out, I did rip about a third of it off. My experiences with this finger today demonstrated to me that, without doubt, my mind must go somewhere else whenever I attempt any self-harm.

It feels like the area underneath the fingernails must be one of the most sensitive parts of the body. I guess that’s why the covering provided by fingernails comes in handy. Whenever the exposed part of my finger brushes against anything, there’s a wave of intense pain. During most of the day, I kept a bandage over it so that there was less chance of something touching it. Part of the band-aid became stuck on it, and pulling that out was painful. Also, while I was shopping at Wal-Mart, the band-aid fell off. I thought I would just be really careful with that finger, but before I knew it, it had come into contact with the basket I was carrying. It hurt so much that I had to stop and recuperate. Even now, while I’m typing, that finger feels sore every time it hits the keys. And the damage occurred on the other side of the finger.

The contrast between how it feels today versus yesterday shows that, at my most frenzied, I must enter into another state of mind. It hurt just as much if not more yesterday. I could barely type. The difference is that I embraced the pain. I kept enclosing that finger in my fist and squeezing it so that I could feel the sensation of it rubbing against the band-aid.

I also felt the pain as I was doing it. At one point, I could see small pools of blood collecting underneath the fingernail. Despite the pain, I continued, my focus wholly engaged by the task. I eventually realized that I wasn’t going to tear the fingernail off, and I became disappointed. I kept trying, though, determined to do as much damage as I could.

I’m trying to remember what mindset I was in yesterday and how it prompted me to do something like that. I would bet that if I’d attempted such a stunt in my more normal state, I would’ve stopped right away.

I wasn’t insensible to the pain. I definitely felt it. But it became of secondary importance while accomplishing my goal took center stage. If only I could possess that sort of concentration in other parts of my life.

I’m a bit better today but still not great. Realizations about my life keep flashing into my mind. I keep thinking that my prediction in high school was right: I will come to nothing. There’s no way I can succeed when I’m too timid to function around anyone. There’s no way to integrate myself into society.

One exciting thing did happen to me today.  I found three stray kittens hanging around in my driveway with their mother. The mother is a cat that has been periodically sitting under the car. I took pictures because they were so cute, but I don’t think the pictures do them justice. I kind of wished I could adopt them as pets, but I can’t have pets. Also, perhaps the mother would prefer not to be a pet because she’s used to being a stray. I’m not taking her kittens from her. I wonder if I’ll be seeing them around.

Also, I’m in love:

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Heartbroken

This is an outpouring of raw emotion. I think I’m going to curse, so if that bothers you, you’ve been warned. Funny, isn’t it, that I only curse aloud (or in print) whenever I have rage.

I have a lot to do. I should be working on it. Instead, what am I doing? Whining on my effing blog! First I walk into the door and dissolve into sobs, and now this! No wonder I don’t ever accomplish anything! What the fuck is wrong with you?!

I’m in Day 2 of a cloud of antisocialism. Usually when I don’t want people to approach me, it’s because I’m nervous. But for these past couple of days, I haven’t wanted anyone to approach me because I just fucking want people to leave me alone. Not a good thing in this job, especially since this is a busy week. When someone needs help, I can’t wait for them to go away. I feel like I’m being brusque, and I try to hide it. I don’t know if I’m doing a good job of it.

My heart burns. I don’t know why. No, it’s not a physical burn. It’s this pang I’ve always gotten since I was a child, a feeling of emptiness inside. Of inferiority. Of unloveableness.

I realized something today. It’s obvious, and I’ve known it for a while, but I didn’t admit it to myself until now. I am glad my family loves me. I don’t take it for granted. But I want someone who’s not part of my biological family to love me. Is that too much to ask?

Of course it’s fucking too much for me to request of the universe. Timid insecure wallflowers like me aren’t made for that. It will never fucking happen.

I will amount to nothing but a massive failure. Any time I get close to success, I have to collapse on myself. I am and will always be nothing.

I just feel so fucking alone! This blog is a blessing because it keeps me from being totally alone. But I always have to come back to real life, and then I confront my irremediable isolation.

It’s always been like this, and it will always be like this.

I’m a fucking pathetic excuse for a human being.

I feel like I want to tell a boss or coworker just so someone in my daily life knows. But that would be a mistake. There’d be no turning back. Once I inform someone of it, I can’t take it back.

It will make them think lesser of me.

They will always see me as nothing but a weak and crazy person. I forfeit my value if the world knows.

Fuck ending the stigma. I can’t even do that in my own life.

If I told someone, they’d despise me.

Not that I’m well-liked now, but at least I’m not despised.

During my lunch break, I tried to rip one of my fingernails out of its bed. I failed. Of course. I’m a failure at everything I attempt.

I really should fucking kill myself. But I won’t. I’m a coward.

No one who’s not a family member will ever love me. I need to stop having stupid little girl fantasies that they will and deal with reality.

I hate everything. With a seering rage. It’s because I’m envious.

I’m an envious, pathetic piece of shit.

I’m done trying to get attention now. I know I shouldn’t call attention to myself. It’s one more way in which I’m weak.

Okay, I have stuff to do. I’ll try to tackle it one step at a time.

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