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Woo! First batch complete! *happydance*
I don't know how I just discovered this site last month since it's been around ten years. I mean, wow. Way longer than oneword.com and I've been on that for a couple of years.
November 1. Nanowrimo's started. I have half a mind to unfollow NanoWordsprints and Chris Baty and nanowrimo on Twitter until the month's over... The tweets are somewhat depressing only because I'm not participating and I want to because yay community and all that. Next year again, maybe.
I'm still reading the pep talks, though. They're great outside of Nanowrimo too.
Writing at midnight. Last year was the first time I did it outside of my bed. It was, naturally, for Nanowrimo. I remember I felt giddy with adventure, and tweeted as much. I joined Twitter in the first place for the word sprints, and then of course ended up following a bazillion people-- well, no, like 65, but anyway.
There's something about being alone at night, in the place where you spend most of your waking hours, writing away while others sleep soundly upstairs. Something magical. Just you, your mind, and the words, matching crystal-clear images in your head.
Tonight I will dream of you. Writing it shall make it so. You showed up last night after a week-long absence and oh, darling, you know I don't like it when you do that. It must be once every other night, at the least. I know I can't force you. But you must make it every night, preferably.
With the midnight magic and the dark, I will conjure you. You bring out my basest desires, and where else can I indulge without consequence? This terrible longing requires routine relief.
Seize my mind, X. Let me relinquish control.
The door slammed against the wall, letting in the sound of howling winds.
He kicked the door shut. She eyed him warily as he stood dripping over the carpet.
"You said--" He pointed a slow accusatory finger at her. "A shower, you said. Bit of a wind, you said. Instead, I get... *that." Yanking off his shoes, he flopped onto the floor, looking at her sullenly.
"I made hot chocolate," she said.
"Oh. Did you?"
She nodded. "On the couch with you, now."
"But I'm all wet."
"I don't care. Sit with me?"
He smiled. "If you insist..."
The nights are crowding out the days. Warm is yielding to cold. The stars are asserting their hold over the dark sky, and tonight the strengthening moon watches over them.
Outside the house, inside my head. The quiet fills me to bursting. Breaths freeze in my lungs on their way out unless I breathe into my hands, but otherwise the chill loses its battle against my heavy, puffy coat. My blood feels warm and more vital than ever in my veins.
Settling into the snow, a tree as my backrest, I gaze at the sky, daring to ask its secrets.
Time-change pro: gaining an hour.
Time-change con: dark at four PM. Depressing...
So omg you guys I'm doing the Writer's Digest Poem a Day challenge. And it's like, totally fun. Only I missed a few days because even though I'd been on and off considering it last month, somehow I managed to forget about it when November actually showed up. Like Nano, though, if you're behind you can catch up. Which means I'm only a poem and a half behind. Yay me.
So yeah, poetry is definitely catching up with prose in my writerly likeability index.
100 more words before I go to sleep. Cheat to free time for tomorrow for more poeming. Yes, poem has been (momentarily?) verbified, and it's not my fault; the guy leading the PAD Challenge said it first, so all is well in my opinion.
Today's prompt, I mean yesterday's prompt, except I'll be writing it tomorrow since I'm behind (I mean today!)-- the prompt is addiction, and I know what my subject will be. Nothing earth-shaking or edgy. It might even be shallow. But I must write about it all the same.
Mr. X, I blame you utterly.
Again stealing time from the night, when I should be sleeping. All these voluntarily induced late nights are, strangely enough, not detrimental to my sanity or health (yet). I always wake up relatively refreshed in the morning no matter how much I kick myself the night before for doing it AGAIN, when I said I WOULDN'T. Every time I say "tonight I will turn in early" and then whoops, it's two in the morning for the fifth night in a row.
It's only 12:30. I'm determined to turn in after this.
I need to dream of you.
Your voice is an electric current, shocking me with every breath. The hold it has on me is painfully strong. I can't but I must but I can't...
I can think whatever I want. They're only thoughts; I can't hurt anyone with them unless I act on them, which I won't, if only because I can't. Even if I could...
No, I still wouldn't. Knowing that, I'm free to put you in the dirtiest situations I can conceive. To do anything to you, make you do anything to me.
You'd never know by looking at me.
Or would you?
Oh snap. I'm falling down on the job here. Figures, I decide not to do Nanowrimo and then get involved in the PAD Challenge and oh god do I have to submit a chapbook really can't I just keep them for myself and not edit and everything else. But I don't think I'll have much editing to do, and since I won't have to do that every day, having a whole other month is plenty of time. I hope.
Oy. 500 words is really not a lot. I'm such a wimp. This is important! I need discipline! For godsakes.
I'm like, 4 poems behind. All the different prompts are cool, but I'm trying to keep up and-- ooh! I think I can treat it like Nano and put down the first thing that springs to mind and not worry if it's short because that's what editing next month is for, like fleshing them out and stuff! Only I don't want to embarress myself putting crappy poems on the blog... I could stop putting them there because it isn't a requirement anyway but it feels weird to stop after putting up everything I have so far. But would anyone care?
Okay. I'm going to be a bit more fast and loose about this PAD thing. I'm a total n00b at poetry, and they did say all skill levels, and the rules are quite relaxed so I should stop worrying about nonexistent things... But will they notice the switch from less-polished to-- er, lesser-polished? Hah, that's assuming anyone sees them under the mountain of comments.
So yeah. Screw it. I'ma do what I gotta do. At least for this. Obviously if I enter more tightly monitered contests I'll tighten up my freewheeling, or whatever you call it.
...make that 600 words, seeing as how it's past midnight. Yay, I'm catching up! Now I will have less of a weight hanging over me, though it probably shouldn't be hanging there in the first place, it's not a big deal to blather about whatever in 100 words a day. Working on a novel/short story/etc. in 100 words a day? Yeah, bigger deal.
But. It's still WORDS. And I am trying to do it every day. I like to think as long as I write a little each day, no matter what it is, it still counts.
Well, I just finished one poem and I'm working on another one. I will wait to look at the other prompts so I can have each idea fresh and ready to write. It's going to be a snap judgement kind of thing, until I catch up, maybe after that too. Because I thought I'd have more time or it'd be easier or something. I'd really like to stay on top of the 100 words business and the PAD because then I won't start feeling guilty or anxious or... Jeez, am I just like, super-neurotic and have no idea?
I'm starting to annoy myself now. Starting to go in circles. I need to take a deep breath, possibly several, and remember that I totally have first-world problems (insert hashtag) and to stop spazzing. And then "but I NEED to spaz out I have so much to doooooo"
Shut up. You just need to manage time better and really you kind of have it made right now so don't complain. No one will kill you if you don't complete the PAD. I know you want to but it's the first time. Stop beating yourself up about it.
Woop woop, I caught up. With the PAD Challenge and 100words! And a few other things too. I feel so much better *sigh~*
Now I will go back to keeping at it. And also try to roll with the punches better.
I just need to write today's poem. That shouldn't take long, but oof, tired. I will do this! An open-ended prompt, which I like. Lots of room to maneuver creatively. Should be relatively easy...
And then I will go to sleep and sweet dreams and by the way Kurt get out of my head kthx.
Playing piano games on iPod Touch is annoying sometimes. I'm sure they're much better suited to an iPad, with the large screen and all. But it's still kind of fun.
Piano lessons tomorrow, yay. I mean today. After midnight, again. Things are going swimmingly, which reminds me I have a make-up swim lesson this evening too. 8:30 to 9:15, ergh. But at least my house is five minutes away from the pool. Next week it'll be back to the usual Tuesday at 7:00 - 7:45.
Jeebus cripes I'm boring. How many people read these?
In my next life, I would like to be a dolphin. Or a mermaid. Maybe a hummingbird. On the human side of things, I'd like to be a musician. Or an actress, or an Olympic ice skater or gymnast.
I don't know what I'll be in this life. At first I thought a writer. But now I think it won't work as a fulltime career. As much as I love it and can't live without writing, I'm pretty sure I'm not cut out to be a novelist.
It's strange, letting go of a long-held idea about yourself.
He's been gone two and a half years. Miraculously I made it through the holidays. I was even happy. So why am I starting to feel sad this year? Have I been number than I realized and it's just beginning to wear off?
It's getting to that time of the month too, but I really don't think that's the only reason.
He'd want me to be happy. I keep telling myself that and most days it works, but...
I don't want to be depressed. It's a horrid feeling.
I'm scared. Will I get this dark every year now?
Thanksgiving is almost here. It'll be just this three of us this year. Like it was last year, and the year before that (the hardest, not that the two after are any easier). Before *that* it was just the four of us, occasionally the five of us. It's been at least six years since we've had any extended family over. Which is fine. Everybody was happy breaking into pockets. But it was also fun when we had a bunch of people over.
Funny how a death makes folks talk to you much less.
Guys. This one ain't catchy.
He'd want Oreos. He didn't like pie. Oreos and those mini Hershey bars and the occasional Kitkat were the whole of his dessert universe. I was the one with the ginormous sweet tooth. Guess he decided I could handle that end.
I don't believe in God. I doubt the existence of an afterlife. But now I feel like I have to at least believe in that to stave off crippling depression. I've done pretty well for two and a half years. But lately I've been remembering, oh yeah, you'll have to do this for the rest of your *life*.
Lung of love
leaves me breathless
Tongue of fool
lap me in enmity
Four-walled secret lies among the hessian
and a flicker of the future could have saved the cindered sister
And I'm motioning still
They stand inside me
the moments until the one I leave
Colorless I kiss her cold forehead I feel life
Lose it in a minute with the ones to come feel too far to care
And I'm motioning still
They stand inside me
the one I leave
~Frou Frou, "Flicks"
What's been playing in my head ad infinitum for the past four days.
2+3 = 5. Cornflower blue (sometimes navy), golden yellow and burnt umber, respectively. Rather autumn-ish, at least the last two.
Tomorrow and the next day I am assistant chef. Doing prep work and strategizing and whatever other bits and bobs need doing. Driving to the market if needed because it's nearby and I need practice, woop woop! In my cute little old car. A Geo Prizm. I love how that sounds. I love my cute little old car. It'll be a year I've had it this Christmas. A year already. Jeez.
The third Christmas already. Jeez...
After midnight again.
Prep work is done. Tomorrow (today) the main event: rock Cornish hen instead of turkey, since it's just three and we wanted to try something different anyway...
My mother is way into cooking now. She had been years ago but it drifted to the wayside, which isn't to say she was ever a bad cook.
A cooking class three years ago, she didn't want to go. So soon after he died. But my father and (mostly) I convinced her, and now she's a cooking fiend. "If it weren't for me," I remind her, half-jokingly...
Today I am tired, as befits post-Thanksgivingness. I vacuumed extensively today because it was needed and I felt like it and I have slight OCD when it comes to cleanliness. The PAD Challenge is going well.
I'm at sixes and sevens. I want to read I want to write I want to play piano and I'm simply fidgeting about aimlessly because I somehow have no brain and can't decide. Ah, first world problems.
Yesterday's poem: just finished now. Today's: working on it.
After I will either be further inspired and go off on a writing whirlwind, or play piano.
Dreams of glory dance through my head. Through the written word they will be, if I can get over my fears and insecurities that hold me passive. A few contests here and there. What could go wrong? I could lose. But of course. So I need to do my best. Except I can never tell if my best is good enough. And then all the doubts cascade around me again. I'm definitely not cut out for this if I'm as thin-skinned as I suspect.
Either way, I'll keep writing. If only for myself. It's become necessary, like breathing.
The chords are dark and wistful. His voice soars above them with words of longing, condemning religion, imploring the masses to think for themselves.
This will make you love again...
now you're safe
to feel the rays
the sweet delays
and shoot the breeze
So full of passion he overflows with it. As if he can change the world through a song.
And the music fades. He leaves the stage amid the flashing lights.
Five minutes, just to gather himself. And then back out in time for the mood whiplash, to a hard-driving, hedonistic song. Time for controlled chaos instead.
Winter's coming. It's not here yet, but I can feel it pressing down in the sky, hidden by the thin layers of weeks almost past.
White all around. Nothing but. I can go out and immerse myself in it, pretend I'm in another world. That I'm someone else.
Pretend that you're alone now and everything's gone
Just primal desire, no right and no wrong
Forget about the future, forget about the law
To lose myself in the fairytale blank slate of snow. For a little while, I just want to be.
Maybe magic will follow me back home.
With this session I'll have reached 6,000 words. Wow. Imagine if I'd written something constructive. Imagine if that total wasn't over two months. I have, of course, written that much in a month. But spread out in different things. If I counted every single word in everything I wrote, well I clear 10,000 a month easy, maybe 15,000. But *writing* writing? Like poetry, fiction, fanfic? Yeah. Not so much. I know I have discipline. And motivation. I'm doing this. so why can't I do 100aday on my fic? Because it feels too little to count?
I'm thinking of peppermint and pajamas, hot chocolate with marshmallows, a roaring fire while the snowstorm rages outside. Sleepy cozy winter night things. Because I'm tired, probably. And I want these things, to dull the pain that's dogging me now. Christmastime is wonderful; I've always adored it. I'm slipping into the gentle content feeling that comes with it, but there's that sadness, too, at its sharpest since it started two years ago...
"The Prayer." I never want to hear that song again. Ever. The last time was at his funeral. Just typing the name makes me want to cry.
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