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~
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.
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.
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.