When will mercury be out of retrograde? I feel like every interaction I have with people has been so emotionally charged and confrontational. It’s exhausting.
Is this all stress based and not the mystical workings of a planet?
I have a writing class where the teacher is an elitist jerk whose assignments are poorly worded, making me wonder what it is she wants me to do exactly, and her feedback leaves a lot to be desired so I don’t even know how to improve. She makes assertions about the horror genre and the readership that she has no way to back up with sources, so most of what she says is opinion and conjecture. I’ve never had a professor (politely) fight with me on a discussion board before because she doesn’t “agree with the conclusions I come to”. Learning environment is now hostile. Stressed about grades and failing this class.
I finished my book and the initial edits., then had a beta reader go over it and was left feeling like a failure. Her critique was thorough and good, pointing out all of my problem areas, I felt as though she didn’t like anything about it. Clearly I’m a hack, my brain says. Repeatedly. Stressed about not being successful at the craft I love.
I tried to quit smoking. Stress was too much and quitting was stressing me out even more. Now a failure because I was unable to quit. Stress. Anxiety. Fear of failure in life, writing, school.
No. No, it’s definitely none of those things. Mercury is in retrograde.
I feel like the editing process is so long and tedious. Sometimes I’m excited to get it done and like reading back over what I’ve written. Other times, rereading my own work is like looking in the mirror and I can see every single flaw in it, flaws that are outside of just grammar or quick changes. It’ll never be good enough, I think.
But, I’ve red-penned the whole thing. I printed out every chapter and went over it page by page. Now all that’s left is to take the edits from the physical copy and put them in the digital one. I feel like this process only made more work for myself, but editing on a screen feels so different and far less effective than editing on paper.
So, this is how it’ll be done. Even if it’s a bit more work and even if it means going over the draft a second time as I enter in changes.
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!
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.