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.
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~
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.
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.
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.
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.