I said before that I didn’t want to making this a journal/blogging type outlet, but I was recently challenged to start journaling in the form of short stories or little drabbles, writing about myself as if I were writing fiction, which actually seems like a fun way to do it. I don’t necessarily like writing about myself, but I intend to find prompts and whatever comes out of this little project I will post here. I realize I’ve been neglecting this site a lot, but that should changed in the months to come. I’ve joined a local writing group and though it’s small I’m hoping that being around other writers will inspire me to get back to working on what I love. I’ve hit another dead patch and I sorta hate it. Between that and this little personal project, hopefully I’ll have some decent new content to offer~


Sera runs.

She’s one of four pet rats kept in this little apartment, in a cage far too big, or perhaps not entirely big enough. Her little feet rush over the cheap plastic of her ever turning wheel as the others sleep and eat. I wonder what her day is like. Running but going nowhere. Does she know how stuck she is or is it enough to keep the wheel spinning, that wheel that’s started to squeak from age and wear.

It’s still early, early for me anyway. It’s noon and I’ve just woken up. I’ll be stay up until three or four in the morning. The rats will too. I have a cup of coffee next to me and my laptop open. Work first, like always. There’s a schedule I follow every day; work, school, play. I pull up my browser, check work notifications, reacheck my time card, then get down to business. SIx hours of work, from noon to six, sitting there toiling over various tasks. I can’t sit still. My computer chair moves, wheels spin, back and forth absently as my eyes are fixed on the screen.


Sera runs.


I get up for bathroom breaks, to eat, or to pause at the cage to watch the other girls napping in their hammock, the three of them together making a ball of fur and pink ears and long tails. I always return to that chair. After work is school. All there in front of the monitor. Endless rows of text. Maybe I can get some writing done later if I’m not too tired. The chair is starting to squeak in time with the turning of the wheel. My fingers are tapping away at the keys, pausing now and again to use the mouse. More coffee. I’m getting somewhere. Once school is taken care of then I can play a little. Gaming, writing, chatting with friends. More text on a screen. I pause long enough to make dinner. I fill a large pot of water with pasta and watch the coils on the stove turn from black to a bright orange before dumping the noodles in. Rigatoni. It’s my favorite kind, long and round. The best for trapping sauce, I think as I stir now the bubbling water, watching the contents spin.

I get back to my seat with a steaming bowl of food, back to wiggling the chair, rolling it too and fro on the carpet, and Sera runs.

10K a Day (Part 2/2)

The last few weeks have been crazy.

The 10k a day thing didn’t go so well. Maybe it was the enormous word count I expected of myself. Maybe (most likely) it was the spiral of mania and depression hitting me like ocean waves, up and down, feeling good and productive, then feeling like the biggest piece of trash ever.  Long story short, the 10k a day, finish my novella thing didn’t happen.

It was a good learning experience, though.

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10k Challenge Part 1

So, yesterday I posted about my decision to try and bust out 10,000 words a day. No distractions, no excuses, no procrastination.

It started great. I had already outlined the novella I’m working through. I had detailed the characters a few weeks ago, I had already done up an outline, and scrivener was open, waiting for me. All I had to feed it were words. A little over 1k in, halfway through the first chapter, I get stuck.

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10k a Day Challenge

So I have been doing some thinking about how I tend to hold myself back and procrastinate. NO MORE.

I am a writer. I will be published. I need to make it happen.

Over the next few days I will be working on a Novella. My plan so far: I have outlined 11 chapters, approx. 2k per chapter, 10k per day, and I’ll be done with the rough draft in under three days.

Wish me luck.

Find a Place for Yourself

All of us want to belong.

I live in the deep south. Finding like minded people feels impossible. Not only is there the issue of the conservative religious beliefs so ingrained in the people around here, but there is a sort of normalcy that people have to conform to. Perhaps it’s the same everywhere and perhaps that’s what makes the internet great for finding like minded individuals.

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Tick. Tick. Tick.

She is staring at the hands on the old brass alarm clock by her bedside, watching the fragile metal arms as they make their jerky circle around the numbered white face. She needs to move. Just get out of bed. Her alarm went off a half hour ago but she is still laying there, her body a dead weight against the mattress, holding her in place. Trapped. She feels trapped in her own skin, imagines her joints are made of metal and rusted to the point of being immobile, her bones are steel, her skin aluminum. She imagines she was made of brass and gears and cogs grinding together, teeth locking into teeth, making her grind her own in frustration.

She can’t move.

She knows it’s all in her head.

The fear.


It waits outside of her bedroom, just outside of her apartment door, stalks her at work, shadows her in class, follows her to her car in the middle of the night, slinking around after her like a cat in the dark.

It is safer here. She pulls her blankets over her head and squeezes her eyes shut. How late was she going to allow herself to be? This shouldn’t be so hard.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Just get out of bed. Her chest starts to feel tight. Just get out of bed. Tears begin to build behind her eyelids and her mouth feels dry. The bitter taste of bile burns the back of her throat.

She is doing this to herself. She knows it, but she cann’t make it stop. She can’t stop herself from repeating this cycle, this little failure in itself, failure to function, to be human, to be normal.




She throws back the covers with a sudden burst of motion and snatches up the clock, tossing it against the wall in one powerful throw. She pushes down the sickness, her jaw clenches as she forces herself to move, to put all of her strength into overcoming the rust and denseness of her limbs. Her feet swing over the edge of the bed, toes touch the floor, and she draws in a deep steadying breath before standing.

Another day. She can make it through one more, then one would turn into two, then three. Another week. Another year. A lifetime.