Really Crappy Decisions,

Surprisingly, this is not about the myriad of really crappy decisions I make on a weekly basis because I hate making decisions sometimes. I have a couple of very crappy deicisions to make at the moment about the future of "the" book. Thee is in ""s because, as I think I have either stated or eluded to before, I work on a few at once. The one I am talking about was supposed to be around 31000 words by the end of Camp NaNo and to say that that did not happen is an understatement. 

This is another of these things that I've been trying to write for what feels like something close to forever. It is something that I love, have tried out before and then either gotten annoyed with a character or took a stab out, the middle came out gooey and I figured it needed another few minutes (well, months) to stew and take shape. The first iteration of this thing was started in tiny notebooks bought from a giftshop because it was the only thing available and I was bored with time to spare. The characters are sweet, the storyline feels beautiful and half of it is set in Manchester reliving some of my favourite parts of childhood. And writing it hurts. 

People that don't really write (and some people who do write, but are built differently) don't understand how much it hurts if you feel every emoition of the characters. I would hate to think of them as flat,, emotionless pawns which are used to narrate and navigate a story, but the problem is that I draw on experiences I've been through to fuel the characters feelings and going back over some of that can hurt like hell. I've already been struggling with my mental health for the last couple of weeks, and last week was just heinous and I know that I just, if I put myself through too much of it at the moment, I will suffer and those around me will, too, and I've leaned on them a lot these last few weeks. 

Here in lies the problem though. Even when I am as close to okay as I ever get, this novel hurts. I'm not sure I can count on only one hand the amount of times that this novel, in it's several forms, has had me in tears already. Granted I wasn't always sober, but that's not the point. It seems ridicuolous to try and write it whilst knowing that parts of it will hurt, and they have the potential to make me struggle and I find it hard to knowingly do that to myself. That being said, it is really hard not to write. No matter how uncomfortable, one day I will have to come to a decision as to whether to just do it, or just drop it and it feels pretty crappy. 

On that note, I should probably go to sleep, but I think the writing bug might have paid a visit. God, he's an inconvenient git! Catch you later. 

Ready for NaNo,

I'm normally the worst person for being ready for NaNo. I start the competition sleep deprived and end it like a little zombie. I eat quick food and a lot of snacks and drink far too much tea. I know what I do to myself, truly I do, but I do it regardless. 

What is disappointing is that this month is not one of the Camps. I always thought it was April and June. However I was apparently wrong and it's April and July (or is it August), but the problem there is that I'm ready now. I am sitting here ready to write and with a project to work on, but I know that the competition helps. I also know that I will not be feeling like this next month, which really sucks. 

I think I'm in the mood for doing something crazy, like attempting another 15k day, or attempting to push it past that and see how far I can really go with it. That is always an option. It might, of course, include me finding other more magical and inventive ways to write for longer periods of time, or prepare myself so that I have a full 24 hours of awakeness to work.

I might just make myself an Excel spreadsheet and get on with it myself. Have my own little camp in June and hopefully, maybe, have another novel under my belt by the end of it.

Catch you later...

Butterflies,

So, occasionally there are things I want to do, and I make a commitment to them, and then life doesn't pan out the way I think it will and so things go slightly off course. Or very off course. 

I had committed myself to the idea of writing every day in June, and I wanted to stick to that, but I haven't. In many ways it has been a difficult month. Finishing university felt like such a flooding relief because I didn't have such an amazing time of it, as has been evident, but the thing is, my expectations of myself were really unreasonable and I felt as though I would have all of this freedom and not know what to do with it. The actual fact is I have been run down and exhausted from going back to working full time and it's all felt pretty none stop. I have made myself feel quite ill by just throwing myself at it at full force instead of allowing myself to just stop and just be for a bit.

The good news is I have been writing, just not on here. 

I'd love to say that I have got a new novel finished or been editing or something, but the fact is that I am struggling. 

I'm tired and I'm not doing great at being healthy - in the sense of eating three proper meals a day and sleeping properly and making sure I'm taking all my vitamins and such. More than anything, I've been coasting myself along a little in lieu of a major kick up the arse. 

The fact is that at some point I need to accept that I'm 22, not 17. I'm not on a summer away from college and I don't have a separate study where I can hide out, not eat, work frantically from when I wake up at 10 in the morning and only hear my stomach yelling "feed me!" at something past four in the afternoon. If writing is something I want to do, and it is, I need to get my life sorted and be able to accept that things are different from before. I am no longer able to throw all my time at it, because I have to keep a job, pay bills and all that sort of thing. 

Saying that, there is a lot of things I could learn from 17 year old me, and I'm trying to.

Despite a habit of being something of a jeans girl, I put so much effort into how I looked at 17, not because I needed anyone else to tell me I looked good, and not because wolf whistlers don't piss me off, but because it's something of an ego boost when you walk out of the house thinking, everyone else can think what they think, because I am happy with how I look today.

On the other hand, 17 year old me is just going to have to accept that maybe Scivener isn't as bad as she thought. 

The overarching thing that I am trying to emphasise is this - the somewhat constant state of flux which my life is currently in means that I am kind of awful at making concrete plans for what to do with my noveling career, but the fact is that I am no more willing to accept that it's a pipe dream than I was at 17. If anything, the last few years have taught me to respect the fact that I can't change who and what I am, and an integral part of that has always been, and will always be, the dream of being able to write, and publish and anything else is just a bonus.

Everything In It's Place, Even If That Does Mean The Floor,

Generally, if someone asks me where something in my room is, the answer is preceded by a lengthy erm, and normally sounds something like, I last saw it on the floor near the... Currently that is not the case, and no, it's not because I have started believing in all that tidy room tidy mind ----stuff (really trying not to swear at the moment and it's really difficult!!) that other people spout. No, it's because I am moving out of my current abode into somewhere new, in another different part of London.

As much as it's really exciting, but also really stressful because of the actual physical transportation from House A to Flat B, what I find more frustrating is that because the majority of my stuff has already been boxed by a slightly over-enthusiastic Ben and myself yesterday, I keep thinking oh, I could do... oh, no I can't, it's in a box, or I could wear, ... no, also in a box. It's only those times where you can't get to them, such as when you're moving or on holiday that you think of those really obscure pieces of clothing that live at the back of your wardrobe on any normal occasion and you think, yeah, that's what would make me the happiest person I can be right now. I think my brain actually like me being like, well, that sucks. 

Another fantastic example of this is thinking about novel notebooks that I haven't touched for so long that they required dusting before packing - and yes, there is a point to that, and it's so you don't transport the old dust to your new place der, I am not the weird one here -.- - and they're now in the bottom of a big box, which is at the bottom of a big pile and behind a stack of other, let's call it what it is, crap (and no, that is NOT a swear word, just FYI) so of course my brain now goes, here are all the wonderfully magical things we could do with this... And I end up being like, Dear Brain, Hold your horses, Chill your bean and Keep you ----socks together for just a week and then we will make all of these magical dreams come novelliciously true, but I already know that is not going to happen, because using the words Calm down to my imagination is like telling me Don't stress, and if you want to know how pointless that is, speak to my boyfriend, because he really knows. Yeah, if my brain and I had a contract, I would be seriously trying to renegotiate it's concept of when it's acceptable to be thinking about novels, because this flexitime nonsense that it has going on at the moment is just not really working for me. I genuinely worry that I will be in work at some point, someone will tell me about some vicious ailment they have and I'm going to spout some glittery garbage about how I'm dispatching the unicorns to fix it. As much as it would probably be amusing for a few minutes, I'm pretty sure that I would end up some combination between sectioned and fired, and none of those look too pretty from where I am sitting.

So, I have a to do list longer than any piece of string, and it seems to casually keep getting bigger, I have two Orchids to attempt to move without inducing plant-y panic attacks, and my very antique typewriter is currently in quite a lot of bits across my coffee table, which if you follow me on Twitter, you will have seen. As much as the many parts are now a severe amount cleaner than they were when he was all together, he's not quite as easy to put back together as I thought/hoped, though I'm pretty sure that I have it in theory now, it's just the actual practical getting all the screws back in the right place, but I've felt that way about driving for a while - as in, I'm well aware how to do it, it's just actually getting my brain to stop going ARGGGGGGH, I DON'T LIKE THIS!!! WE'RE BEHAVING LIKE TOO MUCH OF AN ADULT!! MAKE IT STOP!!! and to actually engage with the task at hand, aka not crashing, is a "little bit" more difficult than I have ever hoped for.

Basically, the upshot of all of that is that the novel that was meant to be edited by the end of last year might end up getting put off until the end of this year... I don't know. It'll happen when it happens, and I'm far too comfortable with that fact quite frankly. It also means that I'm probably not going to be posting blogs as often as I would like, and I am attempting quite loosely to aim at once a week this year, and if I could set aside an hour, of one day every week then I would be like 'here's the day I will attempt to publish it on' but considering how chaotic just everything is, I don't really think there is much point. But, the good thing is that the a forenamed 'computer which potentially works' ought to now be known as 'Zeus' because he's fast as lightening, has a funny symbol on the front that looks like Zeus' headdress and also because he is basically the God of all my writing machinery, so might as well be named such, so when he and I move into our new place, we have no worries of major technically hiccups getting in the way of dissertationing, blogging or general wordsmithy, so that is a major plus.

So, essentially, follow the yellow brick twitter page....