Exhaustion is a lot like pot, but it's cheaper

My life is rapidly becoming a study in how tumblr, fandom, and a writing obsession can utterly destroy a person.

And I have to say, it's not like I'm not totally enjoying it. This is awesome. This is what I love about not being in school and just having a job - I write, I ride my horse, I go out with friends, and I have disposable income. It's the best thing ever.

It makes me wonder what I'm cut out for, as a person. There is a part of me that thinks (fears) I will never be truly happy unless I am a writer. Full-time, no other jobs. But then there is another part of me, constantly at war with that part, that feels like I need something else to do in society because otherwise I feel like a lazy artist. And I hate them. Yet I am one. That's practically zen.

Terry Pratchett quotes aside, I do really feel like I need to embrace this writing thing. It's been going on since I was like, four. I need to think of myself more as a writer, less as a hobbyist. Take pride in my craft. This is what I do, this is what I love to do, this is what I want to do as well as I can fucking do it. The nursing, the other jobs, those are all means to an end. Right now, I can't write and feed myself. Right now, I have to have another job. Right now, I need to define myself as something I'm not, because I can't afford to define myself by who I am.

I need to sell that book. I need to work harder. I need to produce more. I need to hone my craft. I need to be able to define myself as a writer. Not a nurse with a writing problem, not a wannabe. Because I will never feel as comfortable being a nurse as I do when I'm writing.

We work to make ends meet so we can do what we love: that's something my mom always told me when I was younger. And it's true. But eventually, I hope, I can make ends meet doing what I love. Very few people can.

But God I really want to be one of the lucky ones.

I'm the worst blogmom

I have been neglectful and cruel to my poor little blog, and that is something that is very sad.

It's okay though, blog - my novel probably has similar feelings at the moment.

See here's the thing. I started reading Homestuck, which I documented, no big deal, but then I wrote some Homestuck fanfiction, which I swear I am trying so hard to not write fanfiction right now but it just happened I don't even know. BUT it's not all bad, and now I'm going to talk about why I think All Aspiring Writers Should Try Fanfiction.

Yeah, it's lame, alright, I get that. You write for nothing, don't make up your own characters, nothing. But here's the thing: there are no stakes. Technically there's nothing to gain (there is, we'll talk about it later) but that means that there's nothing to lose! And that means you can try shit you wouldn't normally try, or play with other things that maybe you're not fully satisfied with. The trap, of course, is getting too "fanficcy", and imitating your source too much - that's where fanfiction really does get pointless and lame. Okay, great, so you can write exactly like Stephen King, and turn out scary fanfiction by the pound. But how do you write? Do you even know how to write like you?

For a very long time, I wanted to write like Terry Pratchett. I tried to write like Terry Pratchett. And it wasn't for nothing, because I did learn a lot, but eventually I realized that okay, I could write really similarly to Terry Pratchett, but that's not how I write. And that's when I realized that I knew more about how Pratchett writes than how I write. And that was the day where I stopped writing fanfiction.

I took a two year hiatus - freshman and sophomore year of college. I think I posted maybe four fanfictions during that time period. And then junior year I took a creative writing course and found out that I could write, and I had my own style, and it was actually not terrible. I wish I could say I started writing all my own shit at that point, but that's a lie. I wrote fanfiction again, but this time I didn't try to be Terry Pratchett. I tried to be me, with my stories and my takes on the characters, and my voice. Some people liked it, some people thought it was bad fanfiction. And yeah, maybe it was. But my writing was better, way better, and that was progress.

This spring I wrote a novel, and that was the hardest thing I've ever done, writing-wise. Not only was I trying to use my own voice extensively and consistently, I was creating a story, characters, a canon, everything. I will readily admit I was stretched as a writer. It was hard. And yeah, I'm really proud of my story and of myself for getting to the end, but when I re-read it there are parts where I can tell I was reaching. I'd never done that before, never played in that sandbox or however you want to put it. I mean, yeah it's all writing, but there's so many subtleties, so much shit you have to manage and so many irons to keep in the fire (yeah Vriska), that it can get away from you really really easily. And it did and that's okay, it's my first (okay well if we're going to get super technical third, but first serious) novel.

So I am going to go back to it but in the meantime I picked up this Homestuck thing. And I found something important out about my writing: I'm still struggling with my "voice". Pratchett fanfiction has a very English feel, even when I write it, just as part of the nature of it. Homestuck though, is fun and crazy and manic and gritty and American-written. And suddenly I'm realizing that when I just write, rather than try to be from a country I've only visited twice, things just sort of fall out onto the page. I don't know why it took me so long to realize this because I've been blogging for a while, but I guess it's just one of those things you have to come to at your own pace.

I realize that I said I was going to get to things you can gain from fanfiction later, and while I just expounded on what I think it's done for me, there is one more thing it's done, and one more thing it can do: get you feedback. Get your work out there, in the hands of others. People read it, tell you what they think, and that is invaluable. Seriously. And the other upswing of that is, if people read your stuff, and people like your stuff, you gain another invaluable resource: fans. People who like your shit enough, and maybe even like you enough (as a writer, never try to be likeable and a people-pleaser: be a selfish hooker because otherwise you'll never feel right about what you're writing) will follow your career and will maybe maybe spread word of your stuff to their friends.

You can't put a dollar sign on that. You can't put a value on that.

I will never, ever tell anyone not to write fanfiction. It's not a waste of time. It's not counterproductive. As a writer, it's one of the best things you can do.

Backstory snip!

Here's a little backstory to the sequel . . . Working title is 'Narthecium' (the book, not this snip). I wanted to give people a look at how Greg and Jack met, but it doesn't really fit into the book, so I figured it's kind of like writing fanfiction, right? Except it's fanfiction to my own stuff, which is kind of cool. And it helps me get a better feel for my characters, so whoo hoo!

If it's got to have a title, call it 'Weighty Ghost', because it was written mostly to the song of the same name by Wintersleep. It's a lovely song, and I like to listen to it to remind me that life is just generally more enjoyable when you allow yourself to be totally happy every day, for no reason at all. I don't know if that's the message of the song, but that's what it's always meant for me, so nyah.

-

Getting a papercut hurt worse, Greg thought distantly, which was kind of funny, really. One would think that of all the things in the world, a papercut wouldn’t rank very high on the most painful list.

Certainly not above decapitation.

The world went fuzzy, the sounds muffled and tinny, like they were coming from a long way away, possibly on the other end of a metal sewer pipe. Part of him hit the ground, and he wasn’t really sure which part, because they were all blending together now. Someone was shouting. And then fuzzy went to black, and he felt very, very cold.

Very briefly, black flashed to a dark blue, the color of the night sky. There might have been someone – a Polynesian man, in a sharp suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in New York or Chicago – and that someone might have said something, touched him, even. Greg died.

And then Greg woke back up, seconds – not even seconds – later, jerking bolt upright, out of his body. He looked down at himself and himself, bleeding into the cracked concrete and gritty dirt, and scrambled to his knees, clear of . . . him. His body.

He stood up then, as people rushed around, and the guards shouted and hustled the other prisoners away. Jonas was pinned under a pile of guards, the knife flung free of his hand and lying bloody in a tuft of brown grass. Someone ran through him as he stood and watched, listened to the cheers and screams of the other prisoners, the guards yelling. He blinked, and then wondered why he’d done it.

He’d been twenty-eight.

The thought occurred to him, out of the mist of his own thoughts, that his at least his mother wouldn’t have to be ashamed anymore when people asked her what her son was doing.

A brace of guards dragged Jonas through him and the other man laughed like a lunatic, head thrown back, hands twitching and clenching in the shackles. A single guard knelt next to his former body, rag pressed to the seeping red slash in his neck.

Absently, he reached to his neck – the one he remembered having, not the shredded one on the ground – and felt the smooth, cool skin. Whole.

He opened his mouth, made to speak, and then closed it again.

Of all the deaths in his life, his own was the least expected.

“It’s rough when you see it, huh?” The voice, clear and strong, rather than wispy and trembling, like the half-hearted calls for help from the guard, almost made him jump out of his skin. Or would have, if he’d had any. “It’s alright, you’re through the worst part.”

“You . . .” he stopped, because his own voice sounded strange here; the words had a heaviness, felt as though they were hanging around his head. “Are you the Reaper?”

“Me? God, no. Here, come on, you don’t need to watch that.” A hand – solid, his brain elated, a little frantically – landed on his shoulder, and the prison yard faded even while the walls of a cell, tinted blue and grey, appeared. “Better?”

When he remembered he had legs, he managed to turn, wide-eyed to the other. “Name’s Jack.”

“You have a bullet hole in your head.”

Jack shrugged. “So? We’re both dead, either way.”

Greg looked around. “I’ve gone to Hell. I thought I might.”

“Hell?” Jack laughed, and it was a good laugh. Greg smiled a little. “Mautinode’s bad, but it ain’t quite Hell. No, my friend, you haven’t gone anywhere.”

Panic, unbidden and illogical, seized him. “I have to get back to my body. I’m going to be stuck here.”

“A little late for that.” Jack prodded him in the shoulder. “You’re a ghost, same as me. The dice, as they say, has been cast.”

“It’s die,” Greg said weakly. “The singular of dice. Die. Ahaha.”

Jack’s hand was still on his shoulder, and he rubbed it, a little comfortingly. “You’ll be alright when the shock wears off. What’s your name?” Greg was quiet, his translucent, blank eyes unfocused and staring. “Hey, man. Come on.” He shook the other prisoner and, not eliciting a response, sighed. “You drove me to this.”

The slap hurt more than the knife, too. Funny how those things work.

“You hit me!” Greg pulled his hand away from his cheek, staring at and through it. “And it hurt!”

“That was the idea.”

“I’m dead! It oughtn’t have hurt!” He tried to flinch before Jack’s first collided with his chest, but he couldn’t totally avoid the blow. “Stop it!”

“There you go, snap out of it.” The other . . . spirit, yes, that had to be what it was, looked inordinately pleased with himself. “Start again. I’m Jack, and you are?”

“Greg.” He rubbed his chest, just below the shoulder, where Greg had hit him. “What manner of demon are you?”

“Demon? You and your divine punishment. I’m a ghost.” He spread his arms. “Plain as bread and butter. So are you, now, Greg; allow me to be the welcome wagon.”

“I saw . . . that really was my body, wasn’t it?” He looked to his hands again, and also to the floor, since his view remained fairly unimpeded by the spectral manifestations of his memory.

Jack nodded. “Unless you have some reason to be popping out of someone else’s body. Demon, vengeful poltergeist, anything? No? Good enough.” He held out a hand. “Welcome to the division of the haunted prison that’s responsible for the ‘haunted’ part. Anywhere in these walls –” he flung his arms wide “– is fair game. Except the fourth floor, I’d avoid that.”

Greg glanced upwards. “What’s up there?”

“A demon. We try not to think about it.”

“Jonas lives on the fourth floor.”

Jack cocked his head. “Who?”

“He killed me.”

“Ah.” A shrug. “Well, might help explain his charming disposition, anyway.”

The recently deceased scrambled back a few sentences, grasping at straws, trying to forget the image of himself pale, twisted and bloody on the ground. “We?”

Jack slung a skinny arm around his shoulders and guided him toward the solid wood door. “Well it’s just been me and Lucas since ’33 – before that it was just Lucas. But hey, three’s company now, right?” He shook the shorter ghost. “Hey, man, come on – it’s rough but it’s all a part of life. Everything worth doing ends eventually.”

“But,” Greg pointed out, “there was nothing very eventual about it.”

“Maybe not to you but think about the rats in the kitchen. You’re ancient!”

“That’s not the most . . . consoling thing I’ve heard.”

“Well it’s something, and that’s what you’re gonna get. Follow me, I’ll introduce you.” He stepped through the door, Greg’s eyes widening as he watched. “Come on!”

Greg stepped boldly forward, and then his head made a hollow clunking sound when it hit the wood.

“You have to stop remembering being solid first. You’ll never get anywhere with haunting if you stay solid.” Another thud on the other side of the door. Jack sighed.

“Can’t I just use the handle? This’ll take ages.”

Jack snorted. “Greg-o, if there’s one thing you’re worried about here, let me assure you: it should not be time.” Thud. “Come on, it’s not that hard – you’re past the hardest part already!”

“Which was?”

“The part where you died.”

Greg stared at the door, hands braced on either side of the jamb, scowling at the boards. “Sorry if I’m not immediately receptive. I’ve died and entered the afterlife all in one day, and the afterlife is somewhat short of what I was expecting. I’m preoccupied.” Tentative, he prodded the door with a finger. And then he closed his eyes and tried to forget the fact that he was solid, and doors were solid, and that it was ridiculous to think otherwise.

Sticking your arm through a door hurts significantly less than anything else in the world.

“I knew you’d get it in the end.” Jack clapped him on the back when he was finally through. “Not that hard, was it?”

Greg turned to look back at the door, which besides being a misty color of blue appeared otherwise normal. “And that’s what . . . that’s my afterlife now? I’m going to float through things for all eternity?”

“Don’t see why it would have to be, and it’s more exciting than you’re giving it credit for. Wait until you get someone wound up about ghosts, that’s the ticket – almost makes you feel alive again.” Greg allowed Jack to guide him down the hallway, toward the stairs. A guard strode right through them. “Reporters especially love it – they’ve caught wind of the stories and it makes for good reading on a slow news day.”

“And that’s haunting, then? Getting the living to pay attention to you?” He looked around the hall. “What’s the point of ghosts?”

Jack’s permanent smile didn’t exactly fade, but it took on a much thinner line, and it almost looked out of place paired with his sad, tired expression. He laid his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “When you figure that out, Greg, before you go . . . you tell me.”

-

So there you have it, the death of Greg and the meeting with Jack. Who's a good guy, really, when you get past the fact that his definition of 'lawful' is very flexible. I have sort of written this once before, under the title 'Everything But Murder', but I fancy I like this version a little better.

Please, if you want to share your thoughts, comment! I'd love some feedback, I really would.

I live!

I'm alive, well, and happy to be back! Not that I actually went anywhere, but our brief off-air hiatus was mainly due to the fact that I totally retreated into my schoolwork. What can I say, this nursing thing is strenuous.

My first two days of clinical were happily non-fatal to myself or the patient. I am still not totally sure of this all yet, nor have I really got on my feet as far as doing a lot of things goes (ex: emptying the Foley bag or remembering to take temperature every time I take vitals, damn thing is easy to forget lol). That said, I'm not totally disgraceful at anything, and I think with a little time I'll be all over it. The trick is staying positive with myself while I go through that change.

I've been writing a little here and a little there. I'm really getting the itch to do a lot of editing on the first book, but I really want to wait for people to finish reading it because knowing myself I will just go and make it worse. I'd like to get the story coherent, and I think it is for the most part, but there are a lot of plot holes and a LOT of things I'd like to go through and fuss over to explain them. I'd like it if Tiberius were to show up a little earlier, for one thing. I'm also considering shortening the overall timeline of the entire story so that it doesn't take an entire school year to get through.

There's parts that I really need to get rid of. Miniature golf needs to go, but the way the story is set up right now it's the major part that establishes the relationship between the main characters. Grace could do with more of a part, but then again it might be fine with her the way it is - I'll see what people say. Overall there's a lot I want to work on but from where I'm standing I don't have the time to focus on it, so I'm just going to have to keep jotting down ideas and collecting them for when the time comes.

It's all very tedious, very complicated, and very frustrating. But hopefully, at the end, very rewarding.

In other news, it's the 1 year anniversary for my dog and me today! Hooray, RD! I remember last year when I saw him at the Humane League, frantically avoiding me at all costs, urinating furiously on everything in the visiting room, skulking around the edges of the room and thinking, "Yes, this is the one I must have. This is my dog."

On reflection, I may need a mental evaluation of some sort.

In which writing continuously vexes me.

Today, Sam Starbuck wrote up a post about writers and writing. As I've mentioned, I really admire Sam, although what he writes isn't exactly to my tastes; he's accomplished a lot and he's been very savvy about it. And whether or not what he writes is my "type" he writes a lot, and he writes very well. Enviable, indeed. So when the man talks about writing, you bet your buttons I listen up.

Anyway, Sam linked to this article about the importance of story to . . . well, a story. And honestly, it sounds so stupid when I write it like that but IT'S NOT. The article is actually really great and has some wonderful reminders in it for all writers, brand new or old hat. Roland is dead on when he says characters and story are so deeply intertwined that it's hard to imagine a character without a story and vice versa. I know I tend to take more of a "Frankenstein's Monster" approach to characters - which is a very apt metaphor for the long process of building up this character, who they are, what they look like, etc. - but it all sort of falls away and comes back together when I'm writing.

Example: My zombie character, Tiberius, died in 1863. Originally, when I was writing the character, I had imagined he'd be sort of overwhelmed and confused constantly because the world had changed so much, and that worked at first. It was reasonable, even. But as the story went on, Tib's character shifted and I realized that for the story to work, and perhaps because of the story itself, he had to be a lot stronger than that. And so I saw him shift from sort of a confused lost little lamb to a oft-bemused smartass. He still has a hard time "getting" modern America but rather than every little thing throwing him hard, he sort of rolls with the punches. It was an interesting change, and certainly not intended, but I'm quite happy with it nevertheless.

On a tangent, one of Roland's other points - "Lots of things happen, but the protagonist responds in exactly the same way each time. There is no sense of progression in the story" - is exactly what bothers the hell out of me about Twilight. GODDAMN BELLA DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT. She just languishes and waits for Edward. Someone tries to kill her? Languish. Edward is gone and possibly in danger? Languish. Out of laundry detergent? LANGUISH. And then Edward shows up with the Tide and they make out. Every. Single. Time.

Anyway, that article was really wonderful and everyone who wants to write something one day, or has written something, or just is interested in the craft of writing (lol pretentious) should definitely read it. It's given me a lot to think about, especially as I prepare to do my second read-through of my own story and really tear into it (DON'T MAKE ME TAKE OUT THE MINI GOLF SCENE NOOOOO).

Rapture fanfic?

So I wrote a quick little story with my characters in response to the Rapture that is supposed to happen tomorrow. It was for my own entertainment and lulz - I didn't edit it or anything, just figured I'd stick it here for posterity. Enjoy or not, whatever. :P


--

“Hey, check this out – it says the Rapture’s supposed to happen today at six.” Tib sat back from the screen of the elderly Gateway laptop and crossed his arms across his chest. “Huh. I feel like I missed out on all the good panicking.”

Bea snorted. “I am highly doubtful. Highly.” She shoved a forkful of noodles into her mouth. “I can’t believe you’re just hearing about that, by the way.”

“How else would I have heard?”

“I dunno. I guess you don’t have the internet unless I’m around, though, true. Celmer didn’t say anything?”

“You think I’m uninformed about current events?” As one, they looked out the window to Tib’s mentor. The wizard was presently trying to rasp the hooves on one of the unicorns, with a limited amount of success, but with plenty of swearing. “The only thing he ever keeps up with is sports.”

“True. Anyway, he’d probably ignore it even if he did hear about it.”

The zombie looked thoughtful before setting the computer aside and leaning out the window. “So what’s up with the Rapture?” he called.

Celmer didn’t pause. “A little busy at the moment.”

“Laizaus didn’t say anything to you?”

“You can either come out here and help me or leave me the hell alone, Tiberius, but either way you’re going to shut up about the damn Rapture.” The unicorn jerked its leg away. “You’re an abomination unto the Lord anyway, what do you care?”

“Passive interest.” He turned back to Bea and smirked.

“So he did know about it.” She checked her watch. “It’s due any minute now, huh? Maybe I should go outside.”

“Please, you have as much chance of being Raptured as I do,” he scoffed.

“Moi? I’m insulted. As if anything I’ve done comes close to flaunting mortality.”

Tib pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Ha! Delusional. You and your boyfriend – who you’re not married to, by the way – sin every chance you get.”

She made a face. “Creepy, Tib. Creepy.”

“But accurate. Besides –” but besides what, she never found out. A shout from the back garden was cause enough to get both of them to bolt out the door and onto the deck, where they promptly froze.

Celmer was – apparently unwillingly – floating upwards, enveloped in shining white light, gold streaming to the ground from the corona. “Jesus Christ,” Bea breathed. “For real.”

“You have been called to the service of the Lord,” a voice boomed through the trees. “O, holy and pure of heart.” But just then, the white light shifted from its upward trajectory and deposited the wizard in the branches of a tree. “Nah, totally, kidding, you should have seen your faces though.” Bea and Tib turned to the right, where Laizaus, functional alcoholic and Angel of the Lord, was leaning against the house.

“What the hell?” Celmer yelled from the tree, while Bea and Tib dissolved from awe-struck terror into laughter. “This isn’t funny, Laizaus!”

“Au contraire, this is fairly fucking hilarious.” He laughed and pointed. “You, really? Holy and pure of heart? I’ll Fall before that shit happens.”

“Yeah, well, at the rate you’re going I’m due for holiness in a fortnight. Let me down, you bastard.”

“You’re a wizard, you figure it out.” He smiled glassily. “Jesus helps those who help themselves.”

“Jesus isn’t here and he sure as hell didn’t put me in a tree.”

Tib propped himself up on the railing of the deck, where he’d been incapacitated with laughter. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the real deal? When’s that scheduled?”

Laizaus shrugged, wings rustling. “No idea. Not today, that’s for damn sure. Psht, please.” He uncapped a flask and took a swig. “Heaven rarely has a clue what they’re doing a week in advance – you think someone had the forethought to pass on some convoluted mathematical code while Moses was writing?”

Bea wiped the tears from her eyes. “So half a shekel doesn’t buy you atonement?”

“No, but if you want to give me fifty bucks we can test that theory again.” There was a sucking noise, followed by a louder pop and a gust of air as Celmer appeared next to Laizaus, expression less than thrilled. “Oh, hey, I knew you could do it. I believed.”

“You are without a doubt the worst angel in the world.”

“No, I just have a sense of humor. There’s a difference.” He offered the flask. “Need a drink? Tastes like Kool-Aid.” Celmer’s expression shifted from angry to stunned. “What? Too soon?”

“Worst angel,” he concluded, refusing the flask. “Not so much thirsty anymore, thanks.”

“Maybe a little too soon,” Bea added. “I’ll explain it to you later,” she added for Tib’s benefit. The zombie shrugged – oblivious confusion was more or less a consistent state for him, ever since he’d come back from the dead last year.

“So anyway, since the Rapture was predicted for tonight, I assume everyone’s calendar is clear?” Laizaus punched Celmer in the shoulder. “Not like you ever have anything to do anyway, hermit. Your apprentice is getting bored – there’ll be lurching and brain eating if you’re not careful.” Tib rolled his eyes.

“Don’t touch me.” Celmer glared. “You have something in mind?”

“I have four tickets to a Braves game, is what I have.” He pulled the tickets out of his jacket and brandished them. “Bought them off a guy at McDonald’s. Said he wouldn’t be needing them since God was going to be calling him tonight.”

Celmer grabbed a ticket. “I hope he gave you a discount.”

Laizaus inhaled thoughtfully. “We-ell, he was going to just give them to me, but I insisted on paying full price for them, even though he didn’t think he’d have a need for money. What? I couldn’t take them for free – not when I knew it was all horse shit. He’s glad he took the cash now, probably.” He looked smug. “You’re just mad because now you can’t call me the worst angel ever.”

“No, I think you’re stupid, is what I’m thinking.” He looked to the other two, annoyed but nevertheless entertained. “You coming?”

Tib shrugged. “Why not?”

“Well since my plans of being vacuumed up into the sky fell through, I guess I’ll go.” Bea sighed the sigh of the much put-upon. “A beer and a hamburger will have to be consolation enough.”

Laizaus winched the wings in and shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been to Heaven and honestly, the beer and the hamburger sound pretty good to me.”

EL FIN

See you all on Sunday lol.