I feel sick. Not 'so' sick I suppose, because that would imply this is some deep and new form of illness which has not been seen before...however I do feel sick, ill perhaps. But that doesn't begin to match up with the level of anxiety and stress I feel at being here, knowing I will soon not be able to return, knowing there is no home.

You know?

If David Bowie was any more awesome I think hearing his music would cause me to burst into flames.

Day 12

"Show me don't tell me."

One of the single most helpful tidbits of writing advice I have ever been given. If I remember correctly this was gleaned from Stephen King's book on writing, which was quite shrewdly called "On Writing".

We have all read works of fiction which read as a 'Tell Me' work. "So and so did this and then they did that and ran over there", I personally find that sort of writing a bit dry, it is almost like reading a plot summary rather than an actual story.

Besides being a pet peeve I try to avoid, by actually 'Showing' the reader what is going on instead of simply 'Telling' them you get to delve deeper into the story while increasing that ever vital word count...or at least this is what I am telling myself as I try not to think about how behind I still am in word count.

Day 11

Something about killing new characters with a huge explosion because of frustration about where they are not going yet.



** ** ** **


What do you do with new characters?

To be more specific, what do I do with those new characters that have become nothing but problems?

In order to fix the problem of a plot that has hit a few hiccups, I decided to introduce a few new characters. Honestly I do not know if this has helped because I have the sudden urge to have all of the new people tied up and placed in a room with a very large explosive device.

Taking some time to think about this a mass explosion may not actually fix the problem. My other solution would be to let them run wild and see what exactly it is they want to do...I mean worse case I can always use the backspace button, right?

So I guess this just means wait and see, maybe letting them run about could be the best thing for my story. Who knows?

11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month...at least according to my watch

Ah...I had almost forgotten the feeling of my insides being on fire...the balance of life has been restored...

If I was anymore cynical I think I might cause some people's heads to explode.

That actually sounds like a cool super power...

Day 10 - Noveling

Day 10

The past few days have been odd and sadly unproductive writing wise. Friday my doctor put me on a new medicine and so far the only effect I've felt from the medicine is extreme drowsiness. Which obviously would make accomplishing my every day life difficult, much less the writing aspect.

I'm forgoing as much human contact as possible today and cutting this short so I can hopefully bring my woefully low word count into the lower ten thousands today.

Here is to coffee, writing and medicine that makes your head feel funny! Hooray!

I suppose this is all the drama of the moment but I really have no clue what I'm doing.

Why am I even trying to write? I feel like such an abysmal failure and that there is no sincere reason for me to write about something so stupid and pointless.

Bah.

Having difficulty writing is so weird. At times I think I have something and others I just realize how hard it is for me to be motivated in writing and in penning anything. It is like there is some kind of huge block or something...

Day Seven

Typically day seven is when the walls start to crash in, the honeymoon ends and the realization of how absolutely insane the idea of writing a novel in thirty days truly is.

And really it is insane but the important thing to remember is that this is the best kind of insanity. The kind of insanity where anything truly goes, the kind where no one can criticize you for being yourself and the kind where the only thing stopping you from success is yourself.

So, what does an aspiring novelist do when the walls of their fantasy novel writing land come crashing down?

Blow something up in the story and then keep writing, no looking back and no second guessing yourself. The only thing keeping this noveling project from eating your soul with a side helping of doubt and self loathing is pure momentum.

I’m telling myself that truly any idea is a good idea and anything that honestly feels right to the story, do it. Otherwise I will be forced to endure chants of “You sold out!” from my soul in the middle of the night.

Writing is a scary enough endeavor without having to have your well meaning but ultimately unnecessary self in the way. The idea is to let the story flow and to let it pour with no regrets or worries over spilt milk.

So before I use anymore clichéd metaphors I’m getting back to work. Have a good weekend and enjoy the free time I don’t have!

Yeah I'm beginning to not care.

I just sort of keep listening to the same song on repeat...again and again and again.

I'm so tired.

I just do not even want to care right now but I do.

Jesus it gets so exhausting to just wake up and be around people. Half the time they aren't even to blame...even the damn annoying ones aren't to blame...its not even half the time...almost all the time the problem is me. Me being so selfish and unwilling to be used, me being so arrogant and prideful and me thinking the whole damn world revolves around me.

But you know, I'm so tired of feeling alone. I know it is my fault and my choice to keep pushing you away but dammit, I can't take much more of this pain.

I'm sick of the melancholy, the being unemployed, not knowing if I get the internship, not knowing how much I actually matter because I'm too stupid to realize your love is sufficient.

I don't even know if I give a fuck about being happy because of how exhausted I am.

Am I making sense here?

I'm feeling this insane mixture of raw pain, depression, loneliness and exhaustion. It makes me swear, it is making me want to scream out loud until my vocal chords bust and explode. I'm hurting so much I would almost welcome the pain, just so I could know I'm alive, so I know I'm not dead and in my very own custom made Hell.

I don't even know why I'm here or what I am doing. All of this become so freaking trite and useless so quickly.

I just wish myself was enough to make people love me, like me and accept me. I don't know why i want any of them to want me but I do. It makes no sense because having others involved makes the pain possibilities so much greater...but I still long for it and lust for it. Lust for the attention and the possibilities of being loved.

And, and what? What now? What now?

"Creep" - Radiohead

Yikes...this is becoming my theme song in more ways than one...

It is being trapped in moments like these that I find myself,
my true self in all of its hypocrisy and lies.
The part of me I pretend is not real,
the part of me I wish I could kill
and the part of me that makes me cry.

I never find solace away from you
much less in me.
Never can I be apart of that which I hate
instead I am trapped.
Forever me being destroyed by you.

What is the point of this game?
All of this fragrant pain?
Every conversation with you
just reflecting how much it is I hate.

Day 6

Day 6

Building the skeleton.

According to my wikipedia based research, basic anatomy states that if we didn't have bones we would be floppy masses of ickyness. Keeping this thought in mind (as well as my ship analogy) I spent most of yesterday and todays writing attempting to make a generalized skeleton outline for my story. Trying to get a better understanding for what the highs and the lows of my novel are.

I'm still not exactly sure what is going on.

There is a lot of general confusion and chaos and in ways I am getting vague glimpses as to what may be going on. On the plus side I'm only a few thousand words behind now and I think I may be caught up by tomorrow...hopefully at least.

Oh well no more time to talk! I'm needed back in surgery!

** ** **



Personal side note: Odds are that Obama is not the Antichrist...just saying.

God I'm so tired right now. I'm exhausted...I feel sick and I just want to find a good spot to curl up and die in.

What am I doing here?

I feel like I'm stretched too thin and that any moment I'll just fade into nothing.

A big noveling hiccup I keep having is feeling so darn self conscious about what I'm writing.

You have to love how the American election happened the day before Guy Fawkes day.

Day Five

Day Five

If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable.
-Seneca

I've been told there are two kinds of writers: those who run a planned course and those who run hysterically yelping through the streets wearing only their birthday suits. Personally I like to think I fall somewhere in between.

When beginning a project I like to have an idea about where I am going and what exactly it is I am trying to do. Typically I have a beginning and end already in mind but the problem is navigating between the two points.

I've started by throwing my hapless heroes onto this alien world and their simple goal is to find one another and get back home before everything they know is destroyed. To me what makes a story good is what happens between the beginning and the end. The goals they have to make, the challenges they must overcome and the tensions in their relationships with one another.

But even the best charted course can be thrown off by ill favoring winds. It is looking like I'm going to have to break out the oars and manually row myself to some literary island where I can find some inspiring material...and maybe some pineapples.

I'm sad to hear Michael Crichton died...I'm still not very concerned about politics...but really, we have lost of the best contemporary authors we had...

I'm so angry.
I hate who I am, the weakness I exhibit.
The fact I speak of love when all I am is hate.
That I talk of purity
but gladly embrace lust at the closest second.

I hate you.
I hate life.
I hate this life.
This infection burning inside my veins
demanding I rob life from those around me.

I'm church bound mofo's! Yeaaaaah!

I sometimes think me having depression is a good thing. I mean, as much charisma and empathy I have I might be the next genocidal dictator...you know if I wasn't too depressed to do anything, you know?

Day Four

Day Four

My momentum has been derailed by having too much time to work on my novel. Instead of creating I spent most of the time compulsively eating mints and hating my writing.

One of the most difficult things for anyone to do is to genuinely believe in themselves while still retaining a sense of perspective. However, NANOWRIMO is all about loosing perspective because when you start talking about writing a novel in thirty days you might as well be trying to rob a bank using sock puppets.

* ** ** **

Version two:

Day Four

My writing momentum has unexpectedly slowed down. One of the more important keys to Nano success is momentum. Momentum that is caused by having a jam-packed schedule that forces you to set specific time for writing. Because of life circumstances I have way too much time on my hands and consequently I spend most of that time in self loathing and obsessive worrying.

I’m worried about my health, finding a good job, finishing school, fear I can’t write, worry about producing an original plot (as if that actually existed) and in general running around like a headless Chicken Little squawking about the sky falling…and it is fixing nothing.

The problem with worry is that the action by itself fixes nothing. The only way to fix an actual problem is by doing something, not by sitting and worrying. By this I mean taking action and not simply waiting so that I can become a reaction to some event.

So this is today’s plan: I decide to make lunch and eat it, I decided to go vote and I voted and now I am deciding to plant myself firmly in my desk chair and force myself to write any and every thought that comes to my head and count it towards my goal, because even if this is the worst crap I ever write I am at least going to die typing with a keyboard in one hand and my sense of inadequacy locked in my closet!