he wears the smell of blood, and death, upon him, as if it were a perfume. the scent entices me upon him entering the carriage. it draws me to him, dark and cold. the death is new, but also old, a sign of a longtime…memory? a death committed long ago, but still raw. he sits in the empty seat across from me, smiles over at me. it’s a sad smile. soft, gentle, like a slow piano mix on a rainy night. it calms me but i don’t smile back.
he makes no attempt to remove anything from the small bag now seated beside him on the bench, just sits there. sits there and watches. watches the quiet, empty meadows flick past outside. his shoulders have dropped now, but the smile is still there. if one didn’t look hard, watch close, he would come across as happy. but he comes across, in reality, as calm, soothed, but sad. it’s as through there’s a memory haunting him still. a long passed memory that he cannot get over. he reeks of death close up, and yet, the scent isn’t fresh. it’s old. very old. the death has long since been, the body buried long ago. but it’s kept alive in his brain. kept alive my him.
the man continues to stare out the window. his eyes are lowered, almost attempting to watch the tracks we roll along. they’re sad. blue. pale blue. ice blue. but sad. there’s nothing there. nothing in them. they’re empty eyes, empty eyes for the empty man. he should be full of life, his eyes full of joy, happiness, youth. but they’re not. they’re filled with despair, sadness, age. they’re the eyes of someone who has seen one too many battles, bore witness to one too many creeping shadows. i understand that. that makes sense.
as the journey progresses, he shifts slightly. his posture becomes stiffer, his back straighter. but his shoulders stay slumped, eyes stay lowered, smile stays still. the carriage rolls quietly onward. he watches the mountains pass, the rivers caressing them on their routes downward. it’s as though he’s seen them before. at times, the scent of death he emits becomes stronger. heavier. the smell of blood fills the empty carriage. he makes no attempt at covering it. no attempt at masking the scent now wafting about the cabin. maybe he doesn’t notice it, smell it. he has lived with it so long, it mustn’t smell of much now. usually, however, one would cover the scent, no matter whether he could smell it or not. the scent would be masked somewhat by a vanilla, a lavender, a calming chamomile perhaps, but not his. his is spread wide, no attempt even, to hide it. to hide the pain he seems to have suffered through.
that’s what it is. it’s the scent of pain. the scent of blood and death. it’s pain. whether it be his, or that of another, it a different story, but it is the scent of pain. perhaps that of suffering, but that’s unlikely. it’s pain. a sharp jab of a needle, the aching wound of a knife. and yet, here he is, looking through the window, acting calm. it’s as if he believes that nothing has ever happened. those memories have been shot down, down, down, deep into the crevices and creases of his memory. maybe, now, he doesn’t remember where the pain was. but it’s still raw. new. fresh. it’s current, yet far, far, far away.
so far, he has not turned. seemingly, he has not noticed my watching. my staring. he has not noticed the things i have taken in. his short, sporadic breathing, irregular and seemingly unnecessary. the fact that his body stiffens slightly as the carriage drifts to the side, turning with the path of the track. that smile. that soft, sad gaze. full of pain and memories. events from long ago. i watch him a little longer.
the sky slowly darkens with the approaching dusk. he stays watching it. watches as the sun slips below the mountains, as the sky turns from grey to pink to yellow and finally a deep, murky blue. i continue to watch him. he does not seem to notice.
‘what are you here for?’ my voice, echoing around the silent carriage, does not startle him. he does not turn from the window, darkness outside roll by. the world outside is no longer visible. ‘i’m ready,’ his voice is deep, yet somehow, soft. it’s quiet and melodic, like notes blown slowly from a flute. ‘i’m ready to go now.’
So that was a story I wrote a couple of days ago following the prompt I found on Pinterest, ‘he wears the smell of blood and death like a perfume’. I don’t know how or why, but it somehow clicked and this story was born. I’ll let you decode it as you wish, come up with your own theories and the like. But I hope you enjoyed it and it made you feel something, anything really. It was a lot of fun to write as well, which is always nice.
It’s been forever since I last talked, since I last posted. I’m sorry, but here’s why.
On the 8th of July, I became older. It feels no different, but it feels very different. It feels weird. I’m now 15, halfway to 30. It feels no different, I am not a different person than I was on the 7th of July, but it’s very different. I’m one year away from being able to drive, three from finishing high school. It all feels very surreal and weird. And yet nothing has changed. I’m the same person I’ve always been, have the same sort of tastes, same issues, same everything, and yet, everything feels so different, so NEW, so weird, and I don’t know why that is. But yes, I turned 15.
I Struggled to Form Words
I’ve always had this issue with my confidence in blogging and forming correct and proper words and sentences to fill the pages of this blog, and it became a little bit harder. It became harder to like the content I was writing, making to put out to the world. Even though it was really not that bad, it was really quite good. But I didn’t like it. I still don’t. But I’m posting it none-the-less. I’m posting the works I’m unsure about, because I’m sick of the 147 drafts in my wordpress drafts folder. I’m sick of not being able to post and form the words I so like. I don’t like this piece of work, but I’m still going to post it, because it needs to be done.
I Went Downhill
In my mental health, that is. Everything got boring, sad, empty. I couldn’t do the things I once enjoyed. Everything turned dark, everything I’d once enjoyed. My art, my writing, it all had underlying suicidal tones. I became more anxious, anxiety attacks became more regular, my sleeping became worse, I stopped taking care of myself. Of my body, my brain. I became bored, the muscle cramps became worse, my music became softer, sadder. It all turned into a mess. My art became art, my schoolwork lowered in standard, I became sick. Sick of myself, of the world, of the people I so love. I began snapping at the people who are always there for me, my friends, the people I consider to be my family. I stopped posting on Instagram, taking pictures, blogging. I stopped bullet journalling, then writing, then journalling – taking notes on my day in the evenings, talking and then finally, drawing. I stopped everything. Stopped taking photos to post on my Instagram, talking to the online friends I’d once communicated with daily, even the friends I knew in reality, I stopped talking to. I hid myself in my mind, pulled back from everything, shrouded myself in sarcasm and my phone. Hid myself away from the world. I stopped going to my counselling sessions, started lying more to people. Lying about what I’d eaten, how I was, how much I slept. I told people I’d slept well when I hadn’t slept at all, told people I was full of energy when all I wanted to do was sleep. I slept at the weirdest moments, fell asleep at school, during breaks, when I got home. It was all for no reason. People asked me how I was doing and I said I was good when really, I didn’t know. I felt calm, but panicky, full of emotion, but empty. I felt sad unless I was with few calming people who made me happy.
I stopped doing everything. I lied. I pretended to be alright, when really, I didn’t know how I was. I’d put a pencil to paper and no words would flow, although the voices in my head were telling me what to write. No thoughts could be put into sentences that made any amount of sense. I paid less attention to the lyrics of songs, just listening to the same four songs on repeat. Sad songs, empty songs, soft songs. Not the fun, happy rock anymore, the slow, sad indie now. I hyper-fixated more than ever. I tidied a closet for six hours, taking everything out and putting it all back again, until it was perfect, not stopping once. Ignoring the people who made me smile, made me laugh. I pretended they weren’t there. And focused on this. Until it was done, until it as perfect. And yet, I couldn’t do that with homework. With reading. I couldn’t do that for any more than 10 minutes without being bored and having my brain give up.
My schoolwork was pushed back, my English and Social Studies grades dropped, fell to low marks from the heightened marks I’d worked so hard to reach. My art work began to be forgotten, the work I’d once done so well on left behind, falling with the rest of things. My fashion work became less focused, fell again. The lines, once so perfect, became messy and fast, done in 15 minutes, rather than the required 3 hours. It all became forgotten. Maths became more of a focus, something I spent hours at a time on, numbers became a calming force. The pages in maths textbooks suddenly filled with numbers, scrawled everywhere in pinks and blues and blacks. And yet, when it came to the test, nothing made sense. The graphing lines were confusing, the words floated around the page. It wasn’t the numbers. The numbers made sense. The words didn’t. The words flew about, became as though a spider had crawled across the page, legs covered in black ink. The letters couldn’t form the words I knew they once had. Nothing made sense. Nothing but the equations. Science became a hobby, yet a bore. The class notes had already been taken, the electricity became boring, repetitive. The out of class conversations became interesting, the old notes and definitions became fun. The formulas became second nature. Yet nothing was fun. It was all boring. All known already.
It all became scary. A deep hole of work, words, confusion. Things not understood, not followed. Because I had differing thoughts to others. I read further into the lines than believed, didn’t use methods the teachers enjoyed. It became confusing. It became upsetting, unbearable.
It’s still like that. Boring, slow. It’s the things I cannot remember. I cannot remember things that happened just yesterday. But I can remember things that happened four years ago. School’s over for the next week, but then everything comes back. And nothing can be correctly understood. But I’ll cope. I’ll remember.
I’ll go back to the counselling. Try to sleep. Stop listening to the voices. I’ll paste the words onto the paper, even when they make not an ounce of sense. I’ll draw the girls I once did. Go back to the books currently laying forgotten on the shelves. I’ll leave the sugar addiction in the past, eat the proper foods. The music will stay the same, calm and quiet, soft and slow. The hyper-fixation will continue. Because those things hurt to stop. The anxiety is too hard to slow. The anger spasms should be able to be stopped. Eventually. With help. With work. Maybe one day there will be no more anger spasms, no more tears shed in futile attempts to sleep at 3AM. Maybe. One day. Not now though.
I’ll pick up the bullet journal, now lost under piles of work. Collect a new one. Find new pens, remove the dead and dying. Forget. Renew everything, start a new. Try again. I’ll collect the empty packets of sour lollies littered about the room, throw them out. I’ll pick up the pens, textbooks, visual diaries and try again. Take as much time as needed to collect the words, form the spider mess into sentences, no matter how much time it takes. Try until the grades are picked up from their current low places.
I’ll start again. Try again. Pick all the issues up. Write them in the journals, capture them in everlasting memories, pin them up, draw them. Capture and create memories. Leave the past where it is now, stop dwelling on the things that scare me.
Maybe that’s ambitious. Too ambitious. But it’s a goal. A dream. A hope. It’s something I can aim towards. I can shoot towards. And maybe not reach, but try to reach. I have the ability to try it until I reach it. Or I’ll give up, set new goals. Try again. I don’t know. It’s worth a try.
My Physical State Became Messy
I became sick. My chest became rattly, they put me on medication. I took x-rays, had blood drawn. I missed a week of school, didn’t get out of bed. Ate nothing but fruit without throwing up for a week and a half. Everything became forgotten. I slept for 20 hours a day, but still woke up tired. I began feeling dizzy, woozy, as if I were about to pass out. I was constantly on medication. I wasn’t alright. But then it got better. I began to be able to walk around without wanting to faint. I started eating real food again. Not have to sleep all day. The medication started working, the x-rays came back clear. I felt better. Became better. Everything went back to its old ways. Everything was normal once again.
I stopped running about a year ago. I stopped workouts about two months ago. My physical state, physical well being became equal with my mental. My weight began fluctuating. My skin became a mess, as did my hair. Everything became forgotten. I didn’t look after myself. I began wearing the same clothes over and over and over. Hoodies and leggings. Day in, day out. My bedroom became messy, and then clean. The processes fell into misery, mayhem, mess. They became repetitive. They still are. Still are like that.
But they’re being picked up. I’ll go for a run, work out again. Wash my face, eat better. I’ll change from the clothes I’m habitually pulling on. Clear up the clutter from the floor. Remake the bed. Maybe. Hopefully. I’ll try.
I Gave Up
I gave up on everything I loved. The people, the creative outlets, the creatures. And yet, I continued to collect them. I found new friends, bought more stationery, collected more plants, found a new rabbit. And then I forgot about them. Gave up on them. Hid myself away with the same people I’ve always been with, left the pens in closed drawers, sat the plants on the windowsill, moved the rabbit from one cage to another. I gave up on the blogs, the lifestyle, the words and pictures. I gave up on the organisation I so loved, the stories the world so loved.
Now, it’s the time I pick that up. The time I choose between the friends, let the ones I can’t have the time for go, leave them to their own devices, fallen into the past, yet still there when they need me, leave them with the other friends they have, tell them I can’t hang with them, return to the people who have always been there. The time to pick up the pens and notebooks, fill them with the doodles and words and numbers that clutter my brain, cover the empty pages in colours, open them up to the thoughts and worlds that are hidden away. Maybe there’s nothing much to do with the plants, change their pots into nicer ones, find shelves, cover the walls with them, let them see the world from a different view. It’s time to give the rabbit more attention, let him sit with me at the desks I work, let him out into the open more often, find better food, more grass for him. Restart the other blog, pick up where I left off with this one. Find new content, new recipes, organisational skills, new poems, words, images. It’s time to forgive the things I’ve once forgotten. Time to start a new.
Now, it’s time to restart. Forgive myself for the things that I’ve never let myself forget. Start a new with everything I’ve always hated, always loved. It’s time to bring you on that journey with me. Enjoy the new.
the stereo on the dresser emits sound. a piercing, quiet melody plays, the artist’s unknown, the voice unfamiliar. it sits at a distance, there, but not there. it casts shadows through the papers, steady and still, unmoved. the song plays out, comes to a close. nothing plays after. it room falls quiet.
a car drives past. through the silence, the sound of its tyres on tarmac echo. a burning sound, paper consumed by licking flames, crackling and crying out. it fades out as the car proceeds on its way. it’s no longer there. the room rearranges itself, falling back into silence. nothing passes through it.
a stomach rumbles, a sound like paper crunching underfoot. the gurgles slowly fall away. they’re a reminder of the uneaten meal downstairs. it’s untouched, now forgotten. no one will remember it. only when they do will they realised what’s happened. the growling stomach come back, begging for the food it deserves. it’s complaints fall upon deaf ears and it recesses.
echoes of the wind down the chimney creak through the air. the fire goes out, confidential letters left with their edges blistered, yet to be destroyed. breathy whispers swirl through the open network, wind muttering untold secrets to the still, unwoken world. the quiet mutters die with the breeze, slipping into silence again.
a dog barks, falls silent. a siren plays, dies as someone attends it. a plane flies overhead, becomes quiet once passed. another car, another fire. it dies as quick as it came. a distant cow cries out for its child, stops once reunited. the world falls into a silent disarray.
the air allows thoughts to excel themselves into the silence. they echo around, fearful, bizarre formations of illogical concepts, quietly emptying themselves into the unknown. the peaceful tranquility broken by fragmented images.
through the open window, cold breeze flows. crisp and sharp against the warmth of the room. it cuts through the air, a single channel of cold. the wind blows in steadily, soft and nurturing. the corners of the journals lift, fall to the ground, dead.
heat ribbles against the chills, a stark comparison. it’s quickly overtaken, left to mingle amongst the layers of vellum left on the floor. the more the waves fight, the less they achieve. they allow the bitterness in. the gusts become stronger. a silent chill falls over the room.
the curtain billows open, a shadow flicks itself across the wall. branches from a tree outside illuminated across the empty wall. they cover the papered surface, empty thoughts and images, each full with a story never to be told. they move with the light and the breeze. fall back to their original, empty states as the curtain lowers itself once again.
the stars through the window blink. they sparkle and glitter through the dark, each a burning ball. they’re sparse, freckled throughout the universe, white dots on a dark canvas. they blink expectantly, hopeful. their prayers go unheard, called out through the silence.
the lights outside dim, an unwanted reminder of the ever-approaching dawn. a hint of the soon to be disturbed quiet. the air that will soon be touched by the warmth of the sun. the bright, intrusive colours will presently be surrounding the world. everyone will be awake, she will fall asleep. everyone will know no more than they did, no less they have.
That title originally said to save my lice which is lovely and awfully entertaining. So, today I am her to give y’all some wonderful writing tips, even though I’m struggling and can’t write anything well at the moment. You could take these tips and use them, or you could ignore them and have fun reading this utterly fantastic and humorous post. Now we must begin.
Kill off your favourite character
Now, hear me out before you begin to scream and yell at me. If you kill off your favourite character, it makes the world seem as though it’s ending and your readers hate you. This means you get awful reviews on that part of the book. Back to what I was saying, if you kill off your favourite character, you’ll get a Hunger Games effect where *SPOILER* the favourite character dies, everyone gets very upset and it seems as though nothing will ever be good again. Y’know the one? Yeah. That’s a very real feeling though and when you do that, you can really make the world end and everything explodes and there’s a big KABOOM and your story is finished. That’s a great way to end your book if you’re struggling to find an ending.
Write your story from the villain’s POV
Look, we all hate our villains (unless you’re me who would happily marry my villain because he’s amazing, but he’s kinda fictional and I’m kinda gay) BUT our villains are fantastic. If you rewrite parts of your work from your villain’s point of view, you’ll get an entirely different story. Describe what the villain feels who they look at your hero or MC or whatever, describe how the MC looks from a warring side. You get more ideas when you do this, get a *completely* different view. Your character has more depth to them, they’re suddenly not this amazing, wonderful person who can’t do anything wrong. You get the villain telling you what they’ve done wrong and why it’s been harmful, you get the villain telling you why they did what they did. If gives you a new perspective on the whole thing.
If in doubt, kill someone
Bored? Can’t decide what to do with your story next? Kill of someone. Start a war. Have someone come into their house and they smash them over the head with a frying pan and they die. It adds something to the story and gives you a good way of leading on to the next part where the MC is grieving or in shock or something like that. Kill off the villain, a rock falls from the sky and they get crushed and BAM, no more villain. This leads on to you talking about what the MC does next, how they set about restoring the society the villain destroyed. It lead you into the next barrier they face.
NEVER DELETE ANYTHING
A page you don’t think fits? Copy it into a new page, rename it and add it to a new folder called ‘unsure pieces’. Write something and don’t look back at it. Write until you reach the end, go through the piece in your editing process, edit it there. Don’t edit it as you go. Leading on from this, if you’re missing a word or an idea for a certain part, don’t delete it all. Write something random like ‘BAMBOOZLED’ in the place you’re missing something and when you have an idea for it, press Ctrl+F and type BAMBOOZLED into the search bar. You’ll find the piece you’re looking for and will be able to add the missing information in. This also works if you’re in need of more research. I’d recommend using a different word than the one for the last part, but it works super well. If you don’t want to use words, you can also colour things. Highlight a piece word (like missing word, missing information, research needed) in a colour and when you go through the story, you’ll be able to see the parts you need to add work to. Use different colours for each piece so you know what you’re looking for.
Not sexual tension, just tension. You know when you’re reading a story and it just seems to be lacking something? It’s probably tension. Make the villain and the hero become locked in a staring contest and then have it broken by someone yelling and they both look up to see a bullet whizz above their heads. Tension means that people want to find out what happens next, they don’t want to stop reading. No tension and people get bored, the story isn’t gripping. JUST DON’T ADD TOO MUCH TENSIOn. That’s as much of an issue as no tension. You can’t have two characters locked in a battle for a full 300 pages, it becomes boring and no one wants to read it anymore. Just think about that.
DO YOUR RESEARCH
Writing a POC as one of your characters? Don’t just base your story on what you know (if you’re not a POC), look up struggles people of colour face, look up places they can have come from and the like. Research stereotypes. And don’t just describe them as “She had dark skin, the colour of chocolate. Her hair was short and braided intricately, a dark waterfall flowing down her back.” because that’s boring and very much what everyone else does. Look at people of colour and look at their skin tones. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m sick of people being described as chocolate. Don’t stereotype characters, make them break stereotypes often associated with their races. In general, don’t stereotype, it’s boring and ordinary. Writing an LGBT character into your story? Don’t ignore the bad bits of being an LGBT person, don’t ignore the glares from people as your MC and her girlfriend walk down the street holding hands, don’t ignore the people who don’t understand pronouns and continue to call people by the pronouns assigned at birth. Have a trans character? Do your research on body dysphoria, gender dysphoria, voice dysphoria. Talk about your character wishing they had the money to afford top surgery, hormones. Have them explain to another character their pronouns, how they’re feeling. I’m sick of trans characters being a girl one minute and then suddenly they come out as trans and have a perfect male body, are super happy with their life and are doing great with everyone being accepting and sweet about it. That’s not what happens.
Don’t worry about quality, quantity is what matters
Editing and second draft is where you can bump the quality up. Don’t worry about what you’re writing, just get the words on the paper and get them down in chunks. Get to know your story better. Don’t worry about the order, write each new idea on a new page, create a new Google account to use, write your entire story on that in different pieces and then stick them all together in an order. Write 1000 words at a time. DOn’t worry if your writing has grammar mistakes, spelling mistakes, anything like that, just worry about getting words down on the page. According to most sites, your first draft should take your between 2 and 6 months. In that time you need to get down your work. NaNoWriMo gets you to write the entire story in 1 month from start to finish. You don’t have time to worry about what you’re writing and delete pieces in that time, you just need to get the information down on the page. Use the next month to fix it up.
Get to know your characters and setting
Get to know your characters better than you know yourself. What do they like, dislike, how do they react when something goes wrong, star sign, rising sign, what was their upbringing like, how many people have they crushed on, education? There are so many character sheets out there to complete and you can end up knowing your character super well. I’d also recommend drawing or commissioning someone to draw your character. Colour the exact colour of their hair, draw their style, work out the perfect colour of their skin. You need to know what’s going to work with this character and what’s not. Don’t have a redheaded character and think that their hair is going to work with a bright red sunset, because chances are that it’s not. Work out the character’s temperament, personality type, everything like that, write it down. Get yourself a notebook and spill all your character ideas into it. Same goes for the setting. If you’re using a real place, either visit that place and get to know it, or do research. Don’t have your story based in Antarctica and have sandy, hot beaches the whole way along it because that doesn’t make sense. Work out when the story’s set, if it’s Summer, find out what it’s like in Summer, if it’s Winter, what’s it like then? Don’t get your facts wrong because that’s always embarrassing. If you’re writing your own place (made up) do what you did with the characters. Get to know it too well. Know things about it that people who live their don’t. What’s the history of it? What’s the terrain like. Again, you can find hundred of questionnaire templates online for these sorts of things.
BUY NOTEBOOKS AND PENS
Buy yourself a bunch of $2 notebooks from Kmart (or whatever cheap shop you have) and some cheap pens. I bought a pack of fineline pens and 8 A5 notebooks from Kmart and spent a grand total of $13. Buy different coloured notebooks and have different books for different things. One for ideas, one for character ideas, one for notes, one for setting ideas, one for research, one to carry around with you in case you get an idea, one to write sentences into and another one for everything. Use the pens to note everything down. Have a code for things. Have questions? Write them in blue. Have an idea for a character? Write it in pink. Colour code each character, have a specific colour for each one. These notebooks never have to see the light of day, but you’ll find then super useful in the long run. Write down everything you think in them, blurt random things into them. You can come back to these things when you’re stuck for ideas.
Buy a plant. And write with it beside you
You’ll find that this plant becomes your best friend. If not a plant, a fish. Buy something living and have it beside you on your desk when you write. It’s there to hold you accountable and keep you company. You’re able to rely on that fish, plant, whatever, to hold all your secrets, listen to your rants, take notes with you, NEVER JUDGE YOU FOR WRITING FOR 12 HOURS AND THEN EATING 4 CHOCOLATE BARS. At 4am when all your friends are asleep but you’re still writing because you NEED TO FINISH THIS CHAPTER, you’ll want company and that creature will be super helpful. You can get a fish tank for $30 second hand online and a fish will cost you $10 (an average sized fish that will be pretty). A plant will cost you anywhere between $5 and $30ish. It’s worth the investment too. Leading on from this, music is also your best friend, as is a notification blocker. GOt Instagram on your laptop? Email? Use a notification blocker to stop getting the notifications that WILL distract you from your writing (if I ignore your messages on Instagram, this is why).
And finally…set VERY low goals
A goal of 200 words, write 200 words and you’ll be proud of yourself. The Best Writer Ever™. Set yourself these goals every day and aim to accomplish them. And short term goals too, what are you going to have written by the end of the hour, not by this time tomorrow. What do you need to write NOW. Think about the here and now, not the there and then. You’re writing now, maybe not then. You think ‘I’m going to write a battle scene where Caleb kills Joel’ and do it. Use another notebook and write goals for each day you write in it. It really works. Like, really.
So, now that we’re done, I’m actually going to go and do some real writing. Like, of my own story. (another note, think of it as a story, not a book. writing a book makes it seem like a massive task, writing a story does not) I hope at least one of these tips help. Someday soon I’ll do a post about what I use to write (everything mentioned in this post) so keep an eye out or that.
so this is a thing. i don’t know about it but i hope you like it??? it’s titled by the date i wrote it on. i kinda have these insane so yeah.
the time we spend here is short. too short. there is not enough time to do all that we wish we can. its a book. you open it and read, but there are not enough pages to continue the story on, so you have to start another, once that story is finished. some books are short. some are long. the time we have here is the same. some spend longer here than others, some spend just hours, some several decades. fate decides the length of time we have, decides how long one is to stay, stay here. any time, however, is too little. there is not enough time to complete all that we wish to complete in the short time placed into our hands, mere years. we waste so much of that. like the book. so many of the pages are wasted. wasted on pointless chat, filler sentences. so much space that could have been used to extend the story, wasted on pointless waffling. the hours we spend on the useless – the mundane – could be spent on so much more, so much more than that which it is. but the pages of the mundane are important. important to help tell the story. to give the reader a break from the frantic action of the battle. we have the ability to hurl ourselves into a constant book of battle but no pausing could break us, smash our fragile core, weakened by the blows taken on the battlefield. we must pause, let the waffling play out as it will, in order to create some sense of order and calm in the story. we must break before tossing ourselves back into the chaos of the battles we fight to continue on, keep on as we must, to get through.
we are in control of the story we write ourselves. in control of the battles we write into it. the wars we choose to fight. we are in control of the amount of pain inflicted on the characters, ourselves and those around us. we choose how we cause them pain. we write their pain into our stories. the pain shapes us, shapes our character development, forced us to change as we are. the pain makes us and breaks us. but it heals. it heals. it causes the pain and the shock necessary to keep one wishing to continue on with the novel they choose to pick up and read.we must keep the interest, the interest is kept only by keep inflicting harm upon those, keeping the battles going, keeping the characters on their toes. we choose the battles we fight, those we choose to win, those we choose to lose. we write those losses into the story, carefully crafted so the pain necessary is there, but the blow is not too brutal, too harsh.
we write the ways in which we must. we write the things that happen in our life, the things that are choices. fate decides the rest. the fates tell us the things, they are further in control of our stories than we are, they are the ones who make the final decisions on the stories. they are the editors, but also, at the same time exactly, they are the authors, possibly the narrators. they give the ideas, the guidance, the guidelines and then proceed to leave the entire story alone, leaving us to write it in the ways we wish. they come back at the end and cull the parts of it that they dislike, remove the pieces they do not agree with. the fates make the final cuts on the written works. the pieces we write, the stories, must go through them before they are published to the outside world. the page counts must be chopped, more pieces of work must be eliminated. the length must be cut down, to ensure reader interest or to ensure that more stories are read, the world will never know. the fates will only know that.
we spend the time we have fretting. fearing that we are not writing the story correctly. afraid that the words will not make sense to the one who chooses to read them. dreading the day the fates ask for the piece to be handed in. we fret about the grammar, the spelling, the punctuation. we do not fret about the content. we know the fates will deal with that. they will cut the unimportant pieces from the story. they will cut it down so it is less waffle and more battle. the fates will do the job they know they must. we fear the worst for the things we do. we spend more of the novel on the fears we have about the end result than we do on the real content of the story. the body. more of the time we have is spent crafting the story than actually writing it. it is spent planning out the ideas, separating the paragraphs, outlining, creating characters, scenes, a structure. we do not focus on the format, the wording. we focus more on the planning. plan it to a t.
we think about the end more than anything. about what will happen in the end, how the fates will react. we dont think about the things we are writing. the content. the battles. the waffling. to us, all that matters, is the end. the end. what will happen at the end. how the ending will go. we focus not on the story we tell, but on the end. we seem to plan from the end, through to the beginning. writing the novel of our lives in a backwards fashion that we think will help us. that we think will be useful. we write everything backwards. the battles. the deaths. the harm caused, pain caused, to those around us. we write the result and then the method.
we dont know, right from the start, our place in the world. we ramble on and on, pages upon pages are filled with our rambles as we attempt to find our way in the world. find our place. the place that we belong as people. we go on and on until we find that place. where we believe so much that we will be happy. from there, we lead ourselves in another rambling mess, speckled with battles. rushed wars fought against the world as it attempts to cut us down, take us before our time. some of us are taken then. taken before our time. some of us continue. fight further more battles. make further more sacrifices. we continue on, without those who were there. those who were taken before their time. and we go on. without, them.
so yeah. that was a thing. it kinda ends oddly, but i kinda speak when i write things out and they turn out very different when you speak them the way they’re intended to be. i might record something like that one day, who knows?
this is going to be me ranting at y’all about the struggle i am having trying (and failing) to write an actual outline to my novel and possibly come up with some actual plot ideas. i hope you enjoy.
as another note. this is going to be written without capital letters because i’m using my tablet and it takes too long to try and work it out like that. so yes. have fun reading this fun lil rant-y thing i’ve compiled for y’all!
i just wanted cute gays to get together. and sweet trans kids to be accepted. but i also wanted stabby things. and sparkles. like, jewel sparkles. and gold sparkles. or sparkly stabby things for cute trans gays. also, i wanted nature in there. I wanted some tension in there. and also some stars and flowers. just because i like those things. and if i could include some kind of paper plane too that’d be fun. like,,,they go and like,,,communicate to each other through like,,,paper planes. anyway. but there must also be some death. but not too much death. or blood. i want some kinda soft angst. and then some really not soft at all angst. but you cannot get that actual balance right because it’s like,,,difficult and i don’t like,,,have the patience to like,,,learn to skills of that. anyway. i also want some cute gayness. and i need some levels of vulnerability for the characters to be created. i want some silly sword fighting. but also characters not getting along. but also huge gun battles and gunshots shrieking through the sky and exploding in the dust on the other side of a battle field. i need some silly moments when everyone is just sitting around laughing and having fun. and then others when they’re all in tears and it’s just raw and sad and awful. i want it to feel like there are times when the entire world is ending because i’m struggling to write so much and the characters are mimicking what i’m feeling and it’s just awful. but then it all carries on. OH! and i want music in there,,,like,,,one of them playing music but,,,like,,,the others not knowing. and then they find out. and they’re like,,,super impressed. and it’s something soft like a flue or a piano or something and everyone is super like,,,shocked and it’s real nice. there needs to be some amount of heartbreak and then reparation (is that a word? (it is now)) of said heart. i want sweet and tender moments followed by moments or chaos and urgency. i want war but then also like,,,calm. i want pirates and gangs and guns and things without being clique and copying every other story line around. i want beautiful characters who love each other so intensely it isn’t funny. but then i want them to also hate each other with a passion. i want characters who grow together and learn to love each other as cute gays. i want teasing and flirting and blushing. i want others to ship the pair together but on the dl. but i don’t want it to become so much like that that it become a freaking romance or a fanfiction,,,because that’s like,,,very boring. i want to to be cute without being too cute. i want this to have moments when someone is just screaming and ranting and super upset and angry and someone else is just listening and doing something else and just like,,,nodding every now and then. i want them to have to make adult decisions at a young age and be forced to give up things they really don’t want to then. but i also want them to be children like,,,five minutes later and just be like,,,joking and playing about and shit. i want them to be loved by everyone but also like,,,piss everyone off so much they hate them all and are like,,,nope. not dealing with you today. i just wanted it all to go to plan
AND DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT IS TO DO??? ESPECIALLY THAT LAST PART??? IT’S INSANE AND I DON’T GET IT OR LIKE IT OR ANYTHING.
so, that’s my little rant over. i hope you enjoyed it and actallly felt some of my struggles as a writer having to deal with cutting all those ideas down into something that hasn’t been done a thousand times over and is actually good! it’s all going great so far, i’m not really annoyed about the fact that i have no actual plot and just have characters who i’m not giving up for anything. not. at. all.
anyway, if you’re a writer, do tell me about your struggles. also your novel ideas. and whether you’re doing camp NaNoWriMo this month (i’m not). and anything else you want to talk to about your novel, do so!
and if you’re not a writer, that’s cool too. just talk to me about how your life is, what you’re doing. what your hobbies are. the like, the like.
This piece is confusing. It’s something I’m not sure about sharing. But I hope it helps someone, it’s pretty, in my opinion at least. I’ve been feeling weird lately, and this is a depiction of that, in a few words. I find it pretty and it’s soothing for me, both to read and to write. I hope it’s able to help you too. I love you, always remember that. xo
Tonight, I’m at peace. With what, I’m unsure, but I am at peace. At peace with the world? With myself? With the universe? The stars in the sky? The breeze in the trees? No one shall ever know, but I am at peace. And it’s nice. It’s calming. Soothing really, being at peace. It’s enjoyable, stable, smooth. The world feels calm, life feels soft, I feel nice. I am at peace. Life feels undaunting, smooth and loving. It has gone in a hectic way, but now the boat has reached the smooth waters. For now. It will reach the storms again, I know, but for now, the sea is smooth and still. It’s gentle. The stars are above, and the ground is below. The air is trapped between, as am I. But I am at peace with that. Everything is calm and steady for once. The path of life has given way to a few moments peace. Steadiness. I don’t know where I will go, nor where I have come from, but for now, that does not matter. What matters is that I know where I am now. At peace, ease, rest. I am calm with the stars and the moon in the sky with the breeze, and the water and the fish in the sea by the trees. It’s soothing and calm. A first, maybe a last. But ease is nice. It’s steady. No where to go, but no issue in that. I am where I am, not where I will be, not where I have been. The world is calm and quiet, the stars are steady and bright, the sea is still and dark. I watch it all tonight, and I am at peace. At peace with myself, with the world, the universe, stars, sea, trees. I am at peace with it all. Tonight.
Remember that I’m here if you want to talk. I care for you, I love you. Goodnight, friends.
I’m also bored. And I’m writing a blog post about writing again. But that’s fine.
As premise to this post, I stopped writing my last novel about 3 weeks ago and only got around to posting about it sometime this week. Which is fine. For the past week or two I have been working on the latest idea I have had. No. I’ve been working on the characters and writing them out before I do anything else. I do have ideas but I’m working on the characters for now. This is going to be a post on how I write my characters whilst kinda giving you sneak peeks into them and their lives. Shall we begin? (Yes is the correct answer here)
I write my characters in some very, very fun ways. Briefly, the characters are Kaito, Luke, Aria and Asterin. They’re all very important and I love them very much. Let’s get into the ways I write their descriptions and I’ll pull out the most important things from each one. Get ready for some entertainment.
We’ll begin with Kaito (Kai).
Physical description fun points: – Very hot (but not as hot as Asterin) – Actually looks his age – Hella attractive – Like,,,very attractive – Far too attractive – It is not fair how attractive he is
A lot of the reasonings for saying these things will become clear soon
Mental traits: – BEAUTIFUL – Very controlled – You do not actually understand how controlled – SO MUCH SELF-CONTROL – Unforgiving. Don’t you dare get on his bad side – Legit all the houses. – Actually super adorable and sweet – But like, not adorable or sweet – Actually heteroseksual???
Other Notes (me, hyperventilating about my characters): – I WANT TO BE HIM – Can I be him?! – please… – Is it possible to be any more amazing than Kai? No. – Did I mention the fact that he’s very attractive? – He gets far too much entertainment from upsetting people by being aroace – I WILL ADOPT HIM. HE IS FICTIONAL BUT I WILL ADOPT HIM – He is my baby and no one can ever hurt him – Kinda a little like Nico, but also like Kaz, also like Draco, and also none of them
Conversations with Kai: – “you actually cannot hug me. I will punch you.” – “hi. No. You can’t date me. Sorry not sorry.” – “no, I ran away. My life’s much more entertaining than yours.”
Next up is Luke or Lu or whatever you wanna call them.
Physical description fun points: – Looks mature (we’ll come back to this soon) – Not fit. Like,,,not fit at all – Looks about 17 – Is actually 15 – Is possibly the most Irish you could ever get – Is actually not someone people would want to date – But is actually very attractive (WHY IS EVERYONE SO FREAKING ATTRACTING, MY GOD)
Mental traits: – VERY immature – Is not actually a teenager – Is probably about 10 – I want to say he’s very entertaining but he’s actually not – SO ENERGETIC – Not calm. At all – Fun. That’s all
Other Notes (me, laughing about them, that’s all): – Is actually very unimportant but I love them too much to cut the out so they are staying for as long as I can possibly keep them because of that. – THEY WOULD BE MY BEST FRIEND – Kinda literally a cross between Holt, the Weasley twins and Leo. But I don’t know how that would work. – Porbably would be able to pass as a Weasley – Talks so fast and with such a strong accent that no one can understand a word they say but no one actually cares – Is a child. – Has far too much energy for As and Kai
Conversations with Luke: – “no. Just no. Don’t even bother asking” – “You. Cannot. Kick. Me. Out. Never.” – “ready to die, bitch?”
Aria or Ariel if you’re Asterin:
Physical description fun points: – Is 16. – Looks 12 – Has the biggest baby-face – Hella adorable. – Rich, white girl look-alike
Mental traits: – Crazy is the only way to describe her – GAY AF – You have never met more of a Hufflepuff in your life – Talkative. – She talks too much. Way too much. – Soft. – You do not understand how gay. – Too gay to comprehend
Other Notes (me, hating on my character): – She would wind me up so much and I would hate her so much – Is kinda a little bit like Luna – But is also Luna’s opposite – She’s adorable and I would actually love her – I actually hate her – She’s like,,,too nice – She is actually someone I know and hate. But also love. So…
Conversations with Aria: – “no honey, you actually love me, just admit it.” – “I will NOT shut up. Don’t tell me to shut up. I will not shut up.” – “Hi. I’m gay.”
And lastly…Asterin (As (pronounced AZ)) (this will get interesting and I would recommend reading it):
Physical description fun points: – HOT,,,VERY HOT – ‘HI, DATE ME’ HOT – Witchy vibes…watch out – Very, very, very fit – Hot – Looks very mature – Well-built – Is actually perfect – Supermodel beautiful – Supermodel tall – IS ACTUALLY A SUPERMODEL
Mental traits: – Cold – Dark. – Sarcastic – Scary if you don’t know her – Also scary is you know her – Scary. – Slytherin – Charismatic – DO NOT GET ON HER BAD SIDE – Disruptive – So mature it isn’t fair
Other Notes (me, being gay for my character): – Look, I want to date her – There is not doubt that, given half a chance, I would date her – HI. CAN ASTERIN NOT BE FICTIONAL SO I CAN DATE HER. – Winks. A lot. Like,,,a lot, a lot. Like, more than Luke a lot. – Can someone please let me date her? – Think Reyna but think Bellatrix but think Rosa but think none of the above. – I’m gay for her. Very gay for her.
Conversations with As: – “don’t. Just don’t. I’m not in the mood.” – “don’t. You. Dare. Look. At. Her. She’s mine.” – “no, there is not a bird on my shoulder. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU IDIOT?!”
So that’s the end of that. The end of me hyperventilating about how amazing my characters are. I love them all and they’re all very important to me. Thank you.
I gave up on my story. My WIP has died. Lilia and Melanie and Nya and Noah And Eleanor have all been quietly replaced. ANd I would like to explain to y’all why I’ve given up/stopped writing the piece I was. Lettuce begin.
Very simply, to begin, I didn’t know what else to write. I had the basic outline for the entire thing, but I just couldn’t get my chapters to be long enough, it just didn’t work. I could write for hour and hours and hours and have 3 part-written chapters that didn’t make sense and were 1000+ words off my goal (about 2500 words). It was becoming difficult to come up with things to write in that wouldn’t just be fillers (fillers being unnecessary pieces that you will cut out upon redrafting and editing). I had all these ideas but none of them seemed to fit with the theme (very real, very deep).
Next, it was boring me. I couldn’t find inspiration to keep writing and hadn’t written anything for several weeks when I finally decided to give up and put that to rest. It was boring me and I didn’t know how to overcome that boredom. With that boring me, I was beginning to find writing boring and not doing it as much, I wasn’t reading, wasn’t writing that, wasn’t writing short stories and wasn’t writing blog posts. The quality of my writing was dropping drastically and it was all effecting me. I was finding writing a chore and it was becoming something I dreaded, rather than looked forward to which was a shame.
I was triggering myself. This is possibly the biggest reason for ending this. I was finding the whole process of writing about mental health, suicide, self harm, eating disorders, homophobia, abuse and the like so difficult and it was actually hurting me to write about it. Everything that I was writing about was reflecting my life, my mental health, my eating disorders and the homophobia I have faced. Everything was so real that I would finish writing a piece and be so triggered that I needed to get everything out. I would come away in fits of tears, shaking, crying, not knowing why. The whole point of writing it was to bring more awareness to what teens face when they suffer from the things mentioned above, but it was having a really bad effect on me and I was beginning to feel like I was writing the story of myself and predicting what was going to happen to me.
I didn’t know enough. I didn’t know enough about religion to write about it. Enough about dealing with mental health to write about it. Enough about anything I was writing about, to write about it. The place it was set was somewhere I had never been. I have never been in a relationship like Mel and Lilia were, where they’re so in love with each other they’d rather die than hurt the other in any which way. I fet as thought I was going to be ruining people’s perceptions and possibly further injuring the things I was trying to help heal.
It wasn’t making any sense. None of what I was writing was making sense. My head was a mess (is a mess) and felt really foggy and none of my thoughts were (are) clear. It was difficult to form correctly formatted sentences and ideas from that mess . This was meaning that everything I was writing was ending up sounding really off and really murky. None of the ideas were clearly ‘there’ and absolutely everything was repetitive and really badly written. I hadn’t bothered to outline anything or go through the correct process to write it, I hadn’t come up with character information that went further than describing the things wrong with them. It was all a mess and nothing was making sense to me.
When I gave up on the work it was sitting at just under 30,000 words, about half-way to my goal of about 60,000 but I couldn’t form correct ideas or anything for that. I just felt like I had to tell y’all about what was happening with that rather than coming at you with another idea and having y’all go ‘woah! dude! What! New story! But what about the other one!’ because that would be completely reasonable. But now I can just send you this link and I’ll know you haven’t read this post!!!
Anyway, that’s all I can think about writing tonight, I hope it made sense and I hope y’all have a great night!!!
Thank you. Thank you for being there, for being a year in my life. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for teaching me so much. Both about myself and the world. Thank you for letting me grow. Thank you for giving me the courage to keep going. Thank you for giving me experiences I will remember forever. Thank you for giving me insight into what is going on in my head. Thank you for everything, 2018.
You made me cry. You made me hurt. You made me not want to go on. But you let me go on. I made it to here, and I didn’t think I would. I didn’t think I would be here now, still breathing, my train still running along its tracks. I didn’t think I would be able to make it to here, because it hurt too much. But you gave me things to get me here. You made me laugh. You made me smile. You made me remember why I was here. I opened myself up to people and made new friends. I didn’t think people would see me as they do, but it would seem they do. I didn’t think I would be able to laugh as I did, because I didn’t think that happiness would be there. But you gave me things to make me happy.
You taught me about myself, about who I was. About what I wanted. You taught me about the world, about how much reality hurt. You taught me about love, about how I don’t need romance to be happy like the movies say. You taught me about people, about how people can be harsh and horrible. You taught me about secrecy, about how secrets can really hurt everyone. You taught me about things that hurt me, about triggers and fears. You taught me to love people, to love the people who matter. You taught me to forget the people who hurt me, to remove them from my life. You taught me to follow my dream, to do the things I want. You taught me to let go of the past, to enjoy what’s coming.
You taught me that it’s okay to hurt, that it’s okay to be in pain. You taught me that it’s okay to ask for help, that it’s okay to be vulnerable. You taught me that there are people out there who will love me, that there are people who care about me. You taught me that smiling is okay, that it’s nice sometimes. You taught me that crying is a human thing, that it’s okay to cry. You taught me that it’s okay to be different, that it’s okay to embrace that. You taught me that people will hurt me, that it’s okay and I will get through. You taught me that it’s okay to tell people that they’re hurting me, that it’s okay to not be able to take what they have to say to you. You taught me that I am not going to be treated the same by everyone, that people will treat me differently. You taught me that it’s okay to open up, that it’s okay to put myself out for criticism. You taught me that it’s okay to talk about my feelings, that it’s okay to talk to people. You taught me that internet friends can support me just as much as friends in real life, that people don’t have to be with me to support me. You taught me that I can be myself and people will love me for it.
You gave me the music that shaped me this year. You gave me tutors to help me grow into what I am now. You gave me friends to never forget. You gave me classes that made me laugh. You gave me people to love with all my heart. You gave me memories to remember forever. You gave me help to improve myself. You gave me courage to express myself as I want. You gave me smiles to stay positive. You gave me sunshine and plants to brighten my life. You gave me love to pass onto those who matter. You gave me hope that the world will be better. You gave me knowledge to share. You gave me sunsets to end beautiful days. You gave me places to keep my memories safe forever. You gave me things to always remember, and people to never forget.
The sunsets over the hills. The walks through the shops. The photos in the park. The hours in the sun. The paintings on the walls. The jogs through the streets. The words on the pages. The meals by the water. The smiles with friends. The home stretch sprints. The flowers on the trees. The balls over the net. The quizzes in class. The split competitions. The ‘ballroom’ dancing. The birds over my head. The goals met. The dreams kept. The hope to keep going. The love to spread. The colours to mix. The people to love me. The music in the car. The tears in offices. The lights of the city. The stars over the water. The paint on skins. The moon at 3am. The songs on the stage. The snow in Spring. The cupcakes and chats. The cats over Instagram. The numbers in books. The calls into the morning. The handstands in skirts. The celebrations of awards. The times spent together. The friends I made. The things I will take into 2019. The memories, the joy, the emotion. The love.
The memories made. The promises kept. The secrets told.