I’ve been trying for a while to get some nice author photos of myself but all of them turn out terrible. There is only so much that can be done solo with a nice camera and a tripod. But! The perks of dating a fellow photographer is being able to have someone else looking through a lens for you and helping get it done. Author photoshoot today. I’m both nervous and excited.
Finished my book! Now for editing!
At this point, I cannot count the number of rejections I’ve gotten on my short horror stories.
It’s disheartening to say the least, but I think the fact that they haven’t kept me from writing shows how I’ve grown as an author. I used to get really down about it and, really, I still do. But the fact that I’m still working on my book days later, despite the little voice in the back of my head that is telling me to give up, is a good sign.
I’m eleven chapters into my novella and I plan on finishing the final couple of chapters tonight so I can start editing. That voice is still going to be there, but at this point, I’m just going to keep at it. Even if my writing is terrible, even if the book gets finished and no one wants it, at least it’ll be done and I’ll have accomplished this monster task. I’ve never finished a book before, always giving up halfway through.Just getting it done, at this point, will be enough.
Writing is my life and if I want to do it, seriously, as a career, I need to push on, even when others are telling me no.
So, as I’m working my way through this novella, I’ve found that my biggest source of inspiration has been music. I made a whole playlist on spotify dedicated to Lyle, the main character I’m writing for. It’s all sickly sweet love songs that sound innocent until I put them in the context of his fucked up thoughts about love and possession and his life long pining after his high school sweetheart.
Sometimes, moodboards help. I made a pintrest purely to make character/story boards where I could put pictures that inspire me, but I haven’t kept up with it and thought images are fun to think about in relation to who I’m writing, music definitely works best for me.
[Photo by it’s me neosiam from Pexels ]
Music drifted through the peaceful halls of the house, winding its way through the open basement door and down the stairs. It wrapped around the two of us and I couldn’t help humming along.
This magic moment, so different and so new…
Was like any other until I kissed you…
It was magic how the scalpel in my hand, caressed by my fingertips, pressed into him, sharp enough to part the flesh like cutting butter. Crimson weeping wounds kissed his skin and making him shake. For joy, I told myself. He was just as happy as I was that this was happening. My love, my dear. Staying with me in the most permanent of ways.
And then it happened, it took me by surprise…
The Drifters crooned, making my heart melt. You took me by surprise. Each new incarnation of you that I took captive. Each new man that wears your face, that smiles your smile, that laughs your laugh.
I knew that you felt it too, by the look in your eyes…
He was weeping. I almost was too. Each time felt like the first. Each time new, yet the same. Each time pure. Each kill a retelling of the same old story, the same tragedy that I live. The tragedy that is me without you.
Sweeter than wine
Softer than the summer night
Everything I want, I have…
I have you, even if you aren’t here. You on this table, letting me carve you up. He has a different name, but he tastes like you when we’ve kissed. He makes the same soft sounds low in his throat. Sort of like the keening sounds he’s making now, though not nearly as high-pitched.
Already I’m thinking of how I’ll prepare him, after I’ve cut him into fillets.
Whenever I hold you tight…
How many times had I held him tight, pretending he was you? And then he was going to leave, just as you did, just like all of the others. I couldn’t let him. Of course I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to be left behind, some forgotten memory.
Blood gushed up around my fingers, warm wet coating the tips and making me hum.
This magic moment while your lips are close to mine…
I couldn’t help having a tiny taste. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite, but a little self-indulgence wouldn’t hurt. I flicked my tongue over the mess he’d made, a burst of copper hitting my taste buds and the metallic scent that hung heavy in the air filling my nostrils.
Will last forever, forever till the end of time…
I’ll keep you like this.
So, NaNoWriMo got me down for a while because though I wrote for the first day, life got in the way and kept me from writing much. Which caused what I call a ‘failure spiral’. I don’t complete the goals I set for myself, feel like a failure and then sink into a crappy depression. So I’ve been avoiding working on anything as a sort of self-flagellation.
But! I’m back to work on my Novella and I am very excited about it!
The main character and I have worked out exactly how this is going to be formatted. It’s a bit disheartening to struggle through half of it only to have my MC hate everything I’m writing and resisting the whole way. I’ve scrapped what I wrote before and we’re starting again. He’s being much more cooperative, which is great, and I’m much more excited to write now.
I’ll probably post little snippets here of things that I like most, so keep an eye out for them~
She wishes she had a home.
This place, these walls, all wrapped up in brick, isn’t it; this place is a sickness, one that leaves its toxic marks on her. A miasma of poison lingers in the air that she drags into her lungs with every breath. Its claws rend flesh, leaving bleeding red lines on her body. It leaves her crying and hopeless.
She wants to feel warm. She wants to feel loved and happy. She wants to feel heard.
This house always promised that. Its lies, tempt her back with assurances of fulfilling every childish dream she’d ever had of a happy family, of belonging and being wanted. And she falls for it. Every time she falls for it, always returning, always letting it suck her dry. Only this is the last time. She’s come and gone before, but this time she has nothing else.
So she dies, with every passing hour, every single day that drags on around her, without her. She stays because now she doesn’t have a choice. Her feet have become a part of the wood floors, her hands painted plaster.
She lets it.
It has become a necessity that she let this house eat her whole.