Writing Life - Blog Posts
Struggling to live in the world we made for ourselves, for each other! For we never made this world in the image of kindness. We never cemented these bricks with the intention to shelter one another.
We only wished to trap each other.
We built this world on lies to make it a climb for power. We slip poison into each others cups. We did not fall to the hand of an enemy, we fell subject to not being able to trust anybody at all to do the right thing, not even ourselves.
We made a world where only the strong prevail, and each day, we weaken each other in the lust for menial things.
We are the predator. With jeering claws, horrible fangs, and horrifiying speed. We pin down the most helpless of prey, tearing through its unloveable flesh and grinning the heck off our snouts when blood stains our paws, and you open your maw, flashing shark-like teeth at your victim,
the last thing they'll see before death and you-- and YOU--
But moments away from clamping them dead in a saw-like manner, you notice they have the same eyes as you. Same nose. Same facial structure. Same face. Just... scared.
And in the reflection of their eyes, you can see a glimpse of your own face. You look scared too.
...Scared of yourself.
We are the prey.
Will you do it? Will you hurt yourself in hunger for something more?
I know the blood warms your paws in a masochistic way that you may enjoy. But is that because no one ever held your hands?...
You poor thing...
I'm sorry it had to be this way.
Slow progress is still progress, dammit
It's been a hot second (i.e. an ungodly amount of time) since I posted anything to do with my third and final AoD-sequel novel. Suffice to say I'm genuinely uncomfortable talking about the progress – or lack thereof – of WIPs, especially when they've been WIPs for so long they've started sprouting little purple tendrils and have knotted together into a Lovecraftian horror under the sink.
This is in no small part because of my ongoing health issues. Privacy is very important to me, but it's also no secret that I'm disabled with multiple chronic conditions. I'd hoped, back at the launch of Path of the Black Alchemist in the summer of 2023, to have wrapped up this project and published the final book by Christmas. Or at least spring 2024. Or the next Christmas for certain.
Life, of course, has had other ideas...
The important thing is that the third book IS coming and I AM making progress – even though at times it feels so unbearably slow that it's in danger of being overtaken by hibernating snails. It's no coincidence that part of Lara Croft's arc in this story is about coming to terms with her limitations and accepting/offering help; a huge part of my own life's journey has involved deconstructing my internalised ableism and learning that it's okay – even necessary – to embrace support from others. We're so conditioned to be perfect little self-sufficient, independent individuals that reaching out during hard times can automatically make us feel like a failure.
In reality, nothing could be further from the truth... as Lara finds out the hard way.
Another factor of this challenge is trying to reach out more online. To connect and grow with other creative minds. Hence, this post. Fatigue/energy limitations are a HUGE part of my daily life, so setting spoons aside purely for this is a Big Deal (TM) for me. Tumblr feels like a safer, more welcoming place to write more of these long-form musings than other SM platforms, so we'll see. It's counterproductive for me to make grandious promises about posting every day, or even every week, but it'd be cool to reach out more and try to open up a little after so long retreating into myself these past few years.
I'm also considering (but haven't yet committed to) sharing my works over on AoE. On the one hand, it's more work in the short term. But on the other, I'm seeing a lot of engagement and encouragement in the AoE community even here on Tumblr. Those of you who use it regularly: what would you recommend?
Bon chance xxx
from a fall walk home
i walked a stranger's footsteps today,
there seemed a poem in that
i turned my feet to match his gait
slowed mine to his own crooked path
he walked with haste irregular
tempo change could not meet the eye
but i felt it, for a minute, we were one
on that path, in that space, he and i
he does not know, for a minute there
another walked his rhythym
his stride was longer, his steps were quicker
perhaps he sought to make haste
and sure, it was weird
he would have found it so, too
but for that minute i was him in delay
i understood his perception
and the give of his limbs
i knew of his body's affections
soon our steps fell into disfavor
before leaf underfoot gave way
we were entities once more, unique paths on the ground
before my door, i turned but he walked away
maybe i will see him again, on my mellow walk home
maybe our eyes will connect
i would not know him by feature nor face
but maybe i’d fall into step
and recognize a gait from a dream long ago
a temporal space once inhabited
it was you, i would think, i was you for a minute
and we’d pass by and walk on again
summer
summer strings you out and stretches you
leaves you to dry like meat on a wire
frayed thin, tendons close to snapping
nothing but hot skin and buzzing flies
rough sheets and restless nights
summer is seamless and raw
leaves you prickly and itching all over
flushed cheeks and peeling skin,
tantalizing and torrefied
like something shaped for burning,
like something waiting to be set alight
Me realising I wrote 213,000 words and 45 chapters in my twd WIP just to get to the idea that started my entire story. (I'm no where near finished)
Doing research instead of writing? Boring Reading instead of writing? Lame Making moodboards for characters? Time consuming Making a playlist for your story? Too much effort.
Making memes that represent parts of your story? Always.
(basically I just finished a chapter of a story I've had so much fun writing and started making memes about different parts of the story)
Another Snippet from The Farm at Wardenwood Hollow
“Hey,” Taryn called as the door groaned open. The woman looked over her shoulder, her expression back to the familiar one of worry it always wore. Taryn walked up while she climbed into the truck, leaning an arm against the top of the door. She used her chin to gesture at the back seat. “You the only one we got here that buys that powder.”
In the seat, the woman tensed. She didn’t speak right away, and the gaze she fixed on Taryn made her believe she’d just asked something very, very wrong.
“You best be glad ‘bout that,” she told Taryn finally. The way her voice had gone low left her uneasy. “In fact,” she added, face more serious than Taryn had ever seen it, “if you notice anyone else start buyin’ it–you let me know. Y’hear?”
Taryn looked at her strangely and chuckled.
“I ain’t the sort to go ‘round discussin’ people’s purchases with others, Miss,” she said.
“I said you let me know.”
The grin faded from Taryn’s face, and she pushed back off the door frame.
“You’re serious, ain’t you?” she asked, eyeing her.
The woman stared for a couple seconds, then pulled the door shut with a clank. The truck roared to life and she leaned toward the passenger side, rummaging through the glove box for a moment. The window rolled down, and before Taryn realized what was happening, she’d thrust a business card into her hand.
“That’s my phone number,” she explained, eyes flicking to the card and back to Taryn’s. She nodded at it. “It’s a landline. Only way you gon’ reach me. Leave a message if I don’t answer. Keep callin’ and leavin’ ‘em ‘til I call back.”
Taryn’s mouth opened and closed a few times, confused and troubled by the odd exchange. She blinked down at the card. She recognized the name of the farm.
When she looked back up, the woman was still watching her.
“You tol’ me last week you don’t gotta drive far,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She held up the card. “But this is the ol’ Sterling place. That’s thirty miles from here.”
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that,” the woman warned, shaking her head and dropping the truck into gear.
“‘Bout your lyin’, you mean?” Taryn asked with a frown.
“Ain’t important.”
“You lyin’ ‘bout something small like that sure make it seem important.”
“You just worry ‘bout that powder, an’ tellin’ me if it ain’t me buyin’ it.”
Taryn held her gaze, then shrugged and shoved the card into her jacket pocket.
“Fine,” she said, tugging her beanie lower on her head. “I don’t know what you on about, but if I see anyone else buyin’ it, I’ll give you a call.” She pulled a face, wondering if she’d misinterpreted the woman’s nature and questioning if she just might, in fact, be crazy.
“You promise?”
The way she asked it–quieter again, and very worried–gave Taryn pause. Her own face softened at the edges, and she nodded.
“Sure, Miss,” she told her, smiling again. “Yeah. I promise.”
“You keep your promises?”
“Sure do,” Taryn said with a stern nod, almost offended by the implication she wouldn't.
“Good.”
Taryn chuckled again, stepping back.
“You drive safe, now,” she said.
“I will,” the woman replied. Then, with a smirk of her own, “That’s a promise.”
-----
Synopsis:
Taryn Monroe prefers simplicity–her place in the mountains, the predictable rhythm of her job at the mill, and the peace that comes with keeping to herself.
Every Tuesday, a woman shows up at precisely fifteen minutes to close. Taryn doesn’t know much about her–just the rumble of her truck, the way she never wastes words, and the peculiar gallon of sulfur she buys each week.
Then one Tuesday, she doesn’t show up.
Taryn tells herself to leave it alone, that it’s not her business and the woman can handle herself. But when she overhears an argument and starts asking questions, she can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong–and her life becomes anything but simple.
Something wild is living in the barn at Wardenwood Hollow. Something keeping the woman bound to the old Sterling farm.
And Taryn may be her only chance to break free.
Oh my god how is he so cute ALL THE TIME.
And he just sits here, happy as a clam, while I'm writing.
3-Day Weekend Incoming!
& all the writing goals I've got planned =D
This was the worst and most tiring work week, but I somehow still managed to get Subversion Theory's new chapter up, and The Measure of Logic's should be up sometime tomorrow.
The Ithaca Mandate is nearing completion as well, and I'll be looking for beta readers for that in the near future. If you're interested in sapphic hard sci-fi romance and speculative fiction, please reach out to me.
The Farm at Wardenwood Hollow is my newbie and the lowest priority, since I haven't even finished outlining it yet, but she, too is coming along nicely ^^
Saw a debate about using s' or s's at the end of a character's name whose name ends in s to show possessive.
My conclusion: it depends on the style guide you're using, and whether you are an ancient prophet (???) holding a stick that belongs to Moses or a friend of Moses holding a stick that belongs to Moses. Also, just be consistent.
I will only use s' and I will die on this hill.