Tag Archives: stories

My Mind Is Bound to Ramble

I can’t believe how long it’s been since my last post. Time has been going by much too quickly.

I finished Season 8 of Supernatural. I loved the finale, but there are a few thoughts I had about it . . . but I won’t waste space here rambling about something most readers don’t know about. Plus, if you ever do watch the show, I don’t want to spoil it too much.

I’ve been working a lot on my Supernatural fanfiction story. I have actually posted it online somewhere, but it’s a bit embarrassing, so I’m not going to link to it or anything. Funny thing is that this story has helped me get my creative energy back, while my short stories didn’t. With the latter, I’d struggle with what to say. Part of it could be because I’m not as concerned about the quality of the fanfiction. Don’t get me wrong, I have a standard to maintain, but the other stories require more attention to polishing, especially if I want to try to submit them somewhere. Except I don’t even know who the audience could be for my latest short stories. I’ll keep pondering the matter, though.

I’ve finally started editing my novel, working on a chapter a day. That pace might change once I get further into the story because the chapters get longer. Well, toward the very end they get almost ridiculously short. So far, most of my editing has consisted of deleting things that are irrelevant or rewriting sentence that don’t make sense. I have a hard copy I wrote notes on, and I follow along with it, but I also go with my instinct at the moment. I’ll read a few paragraphs then look at what I wrote on the hard copy. Oftentimes, the phrasing I want to change is the same. What I want to change it to is as well. I like reading both copies as I go through the story, getting two perspectives (current and past) on the initial draft.

There have been some things I’ve been meaning to write about, like therapy, or Asperger’s, or empathy. Maybe one day I’ll get the motivation to write those posts.

Speaking of therapy, my therapist is moving to another practice. Luckily, I get to follow her. Problem is, that practice is at least 30 minutes away. But I really do think she’s the best therapist I’ve had so far, which is why I’ve been meaning to write about sessions with her. I don’t want to gamble anymore with the therapist bin; it could be years until I find another one I like, if ever. So that’s why I’m going to continue to see her.

When she told me she was leaving the place I currently go to, I teared up because the news was unexpected. More so because I didn’t want to look for another therapist. She asked how I was feeling about the situation, and I said I just felt like I wanted to give up rather than do another search. My one thought was to ask if I could see her at the other practice, but bringing up the idea made me nervous, almost shaky with panic. After me talking about how anxious I felt about what I wanted to say, I eventually made the request. I don’t know why bringing up the idea made me that panicky. I’ve revealed other things before that should’ve been more likely to induce anxiety. It probably goes back to my fear of rejection and blah blah blah.

Anyway, at the current place, she had to make sure I could get approved for meds only. Because apparently they don’t like you seeing a pdoc there if you’re not seeing one of their therapists. I was afraid of how things would go, but it seems they’re working out on that front.

Well, that concludes today’s ramble.

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Anyone Other Than Me

Sometimes I wish I could be anyone other than me. I shouldn’t. My life isn’t so bad. But I am, and my destiny is to be completely alone, always.

I’ve known it ever since high school. I’ve known that, once I got out into the “real world,” I wouldn’t be able to function like an average human being, that I’d never make connections, ever, that my life would be one of neverending failure and isolation.

It is, but it’s because I’ve done it to myself.

But I can’t do otherwise. I can’t be anything other than what I am.

I can’t form connections with others. If anyone engages me in a conversation, my instinct is to flee. How am I ever going to find friends if all I do is run away?

But I can’t do otherwise. I get too nervous. I choke up, have nothing interesting to say. I enter Awkward Annie mode.

Then I’m afraid of the person eventually finding out how pathetic I am, the fact that I really have no friends, that I’ve lived here for over two years now without forming any connections.

If they knew that, then they’d know there’s something deeply wrong with me.

And even if that weren’t a factor, it’s just . . . I can’t form close bonds. I’m incapable of doing so.

I crave them so much, but they’re something I can never have. It’s impossible for me, like it would be impossible for me to magically become six feet tall. It’s not something that’s inside me.

I’m destined for a life of loneliness. All my dreams of making human connections are silly, childish. The idea of finding a “true love.” That’s not only childish, but it’s also something that can never be for me.

I have more empathy than the average person. Lately, on occasion it’s as if emotions radiate off of others and I can feel them. Yet no one will ever know that I have even an ounce of empathy because I can’t express it. I can’t even express my own emotions.

It’s not possible to dig them out of my soul.

I instinctively know it. If I live until I’m, say, sixty, I’ll have lived a life in which I’m always alone. My need for a human connection will never be met. Writing, reading, films, TV shows, all stories, they just serve as a poor substitute for something I will never have.

I’ve been feeling odd all day. Maybe this sounds idiotic, but I feel as if I’m on some predetermined trajectory, like a storyline that is manipulating me, keeping me in motion. And in this storyline, it’s certain that I’m destined for a life of coldness, one in which I receive no (or very little) of affection’s warmth.

Most other people get at least a semblance of that at some point in their lives.

And thus, I wish I could be other than me.

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Truant

The more time I spend away from my blog, the less stuff I can think of to write about.

But that’s not the purpose of this post. Oh, no.

This is an explanation (for anyone who’s still around, anyway) about why I’m playing truant in blogland longer than I meant to. I mentioned my intention to go AWOL for NaNoWriMo right before November, and I’d really thought that I was going to be back as soon as December struck.

But then I wanted to continue working on my novel, and of course, there were the holidays.

I continue to work on my novel. In some ways, it’s as if I spend more time in my novel’s world than the real one. I don’t really, but that’s where my mind seems to constantly dwell.

I knew I wouldn’t finish the novel during NaNoWriMo, but I never thought that, in January, I’d be almost as close to finishing it as I am right now. Like with my 2010 NaNo novel, I figured it would take me until at least May or June to finish it. But as I said, the story is so prominent in my head at the moment, and I keep hopping from event to event and keeping up the flow (although there have been quite a few dried-up wells, too). It’s odd that this novel seems to be coming to me naturally. I’m not a good story planner, but with this novel, I truly had no idea of what I wanted to do other than the beginning and end. I had a basic one-sentence-ish major plot in mind, but that’s just become one of a number of plots that seem to get equal coverage.

I know I’m pretty close to the end of the novel, so I’m avoiding many other activities. Especially in blogging land, I can get sucked in for so many hours that I disrupt the flow of my creative writing. I’ve discovered that even if I skip one day of writing, my rhythm is interrupted. So I try to write every day, even when I’m busy. Just a few words can help me maintain the rhythm.

I thoroughly appreciate all of my readers; I feel guilty for not keeping up with people as much as I should’ve been over the past couple of months. I’ve been a terrible Internet friend lately. 😦

So, here’s my explanation, and I hope you understand.

Oh, and I’ve started seeing a new therapist; I saw her for the second time yesterday. I think that’s a topic I’d normally blog about, but as my thoughts are with my novel . . . not so much at this time. So the old therapist I was getting frustrated with . . . I’ve moved on, and hopefully it will all work out.

I forget to mention the adventure blog, although maybe I should post an announcement there, too. I’m putting all adventure blog stuff on hold until I finish my novel’s rough draft so I can keep up my focus with the draft. Since there’ll have been so much time between the reboot and the past installments, I’m contemplating starting it over. New characters or the same ones? New setting? I don’t know. I could also decide to continue the story, as I do like it. But I’m afraid the continuity would’ve been disrupted, and it might be easier to draw people in if I start over. Ugh, but then I’d lose the subscribers from the current version . . . hmm. I could maybe make all the previous posts private so I could start over, or something. I don’t know. I’ll worry about those logistics later.

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Marrakech

Here’s my contribution to the Friday Fictioneers this week. The photo is from Jan Morrill. My story is 115 words. This one was rather difficult for me, as a much longer story came to mind.

Adil veered to the right and darted down an alleyway, yet their heavy, fleet-footed tread followed. They were experts in the art of pursuit, and they would not be fooled. He soon ran into a dead end. His eyes scoured the surrounding walls in vain. He had no choice–he had to face the five.

Their leader stepped forward, smirking as he tugged his djellaba’s hood over his head. “Well, well,” he sneered. “We’ve got you at last.”

Adil threw his hands up. “Please,” he whispered.

“You should’ve thought of that before you betrayed us,” the leader retorted. He signaled to the men behind him, and they let the bullets fly.

Another day in the city’s underbelly.

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30 Days of Truth: Day 30–Self-Love?

Well, the last Day of Truth involves writing a letter to yourself and telling yourself everything you love about yourself. As you may be aware from reading my last two posts, I am far from feeling like I love myself right now. I have some good moments, too, but my moods keep rapidly cycling.

But I promised myself I would finally finish the 30 Days of Truth by the end of September, and dammit, I’m going to keep my word.

Who knows, maybe this will even be helpful.

A Letter To Yourself, Tell Yourself EVERYTHING You Love About Yourself

Dear Me,

As someone who struggles with confidence issues and often feels self-hatred, I don’t really love anything about myself. I’m such a Negative Nancy.

Okay, that’s one thing I love about myself. No, not that I’m a Negative Nancy–the fact that I use random expressions because they amuse me. Like Negative Nancy. They humor me. Even though this is fun to me, though, oftentimes people don’t get it.

What else? Sometimes I like my eyes, but then again sometimes I think they’re cockroach-brown. That’s rather gross. I like my hair–it is generally healthy, and it has different tints if you look at it closely. It’s brown, but occasionally you can see hints of red and blonde in it.

Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

Oh, here’s one. I like that I’m intelligent. Even when I’m doing badly, I usually trust my intellect. Not always, but usually.

I like that I try to do my best to honor my word. I like that when I commit to something, I am serious about that commitment. This post is an example of that.

I like that, even when I’m doing my worst, usually I can still find things humorous and interesting. Thursday night, I did make myself feel a little better by watching part of an episode of the old Dragnet on YouTube. It amused me.

I like that I often find amusement and intense emotion in the same things. For instance, while watching some of my favorite movies or TV shows, I can find the same parts both amusing and touching. This doesn’t often work to my advantage, though. I mean, sometimes when I’m in a group of people, I’ll laugh at a moment many of them find inappropriate. Or I’ll be emotionally moved by an idea that seems ridiculous to most people.

I like that I don’t compromise when it comes to my life. Well, I do. (Sidenote: I keep feeling like I want to switch between “I” and “you,” but I’ll keep the tone consistent.) What I’m referring to regards what I dedicate my life to. I’m more inclined to pursue my passion than practicality, and there’s a form of integrity in that.

Also, I like that I do generally have integrity. I like that I can usually be tactful and honest at the same time.

I like that I can have deep empathy and that I listen to others.

I hesitate to say I like that I write. Yes, I enjoy it, but it’s a little hard to say I like that I like to write. It sounds like I have this pompous belief that I’m a literary genius or something.

I like that I have more imagination and creativity than my manner would indicate.

I like that I try to be fair.

I like that I can usually be stubborn when I need to be.

I like that I’m often self-aware.

Hmm. Okay. That’s all I’ve got.

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Writing Process

Okay, I pledged to myself I wouldn’t write on my blog until I’d caught up on other blogs. I was planning not to write anything until Friday. But I decided I needed a me night, and this involves me doing what I want when I want. I have a few thoughts about conventional writing advice, and I want to discuss them.

Many writing advice books and websites tell you to develop your characters before you start writing. This involves coming up with as many details as you can about them and knowing practically every obscure thing such as what their favorite Goldfish flavor is. Supposedly, if you don’t do this, then you don’t have a firm grasp of who your character is. Ergo, you’re a hack.

But is it really necessary to do that? Am I a hack because I don’t do such things?

I understand the point of it. You don’t want your characters to do something, well, out of character after all. But I find that I just can’t do it. I get stuck. I get bored. I feel like I should be writing the story already.

So I don’t do that. Not much, anyway. I write down who the characters are and make rudimentary sketches of them, but nothing detailed.

Is it not legitimate to discover who your characters are by just seeing how they act in the story? I don’t mean just having them do whatever it takes to advance the plot. You’d want to maintain consistency. But isn’t that how we develop and demonstrate our personalities in the first place? By how we behave in certain situations? And people are often contradictory. So is doing something out of character really out of character?

I like to learn about my characters as I’m writing. I hope that doesn’t make me a hack.

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100 Word Challenge Week 52–A Blacksmith Prepares for the Apocalypse

I haven’t done one of these in several months, and as I was flipping through some of my old posts, I found a few of these I did. Since my brain seems to be zapped right now, my mind is drawing a blank, and I’m having difficulty composing something about loners. So I thought I’d try my hand at this challenge again. You can read more about the 100-word Challenge for Grown-Ups at Julia’s Place.

This week’s prompt is to use the words “together the flames,” which means, I think, that the story needs to be 103 words long.

A Blacksmith Prepares for the Apocalypse

One knuckle said “fire,” the other, “ice.” Though heavily tattooed and pierced, he loved Robert Frost. The poet of his youth, the only memory he had of his mother, her voice sweetly lilting the words, forming a litany of them.

As he worked the forge, together the flames leaped in front of those knuckles, the fire’s red contrasting with the black ink.

His hands molded the metal, forming the shape of a sword.

When he was finished, he held the dagger aloft, acknowledging its perfection with a mere quirk of his lips.

His weapon crafted, he was now ready to face the world.

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