Let's Add Socially Awkward to the List!

Ugh.

So last night I went out with my husband to dual birthday party for a couple ladies we know. 

I so did not want to go. I don't feel fit for social gatherings. I'm the size of a house, I hate it, it shows, and I know I get judged for it. I'm shy to begin with, but now, with my size and my long break from anything like a 'normal' life, I don't have fuck all to talk to folks about. Awkward. I am painfully socially awkward.

What do I mean by normal life? I mean a job, employment. Regular social engagements. That sort of thing. I don't have any of that.

I don't work. I can't work. But other than being the size of a house, I don't look sick. I don't look disabled. Hell, even my like 65+ yr old teacher at UofT asked me the first chance she got me in private if I really couldn't work. We had to introduce ourselves in the first class. I mentioned I was disabled and couldn't work due to chronic illness. If she doesn't even believe me, then how can I expect perfectly healthy young people to?

I don't have anything in common with them. They all work, they all lead full lives. I lead the life of a recluse, a social outcast, a hermit. Even my own parents are shocked by the....isolation in my life.  I've gotten used to it. It's not so bad. I've always had hermit tendencies. Without...close friends or any reason (like work) to interact with others.. I don't really. I don't even know how I'd do it in my state.

I'm fat, useless, boring, old, awkward, and just plain miserable. I do not have anything to offer.

So I spent most of my night sitting in the corner of the couch, with a fake smile plastered to my face, saying very little. I was incapable of chitchat. I didn't want to be so fucking silent, but I couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

It's not like anything really interesting happens in my life. I just... I didn't know what to say. Half the time I knew some people just never liked talking to me anyway, so I didn't bother to make an effort. Other people I so very much wanted to say something, anything that would be interesting or engaging or something... But I just.. I blanked. When I did say something, It... I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut.

I was so fucking self conscious I wanted to burrow into the couch and just be invisible. I did not want to be seen.

I mean, if my own doctor, who bloody well knows what kind of chronic pain, exhaustion, and social anxiety I live with tells me I'm fat because I'm lazy.... How can I expect perfect strangers to understand?

I just. I hate meeting new people. What's the first thing some asks? So, what do you do? I don't. I can't work due to chronic illness. That sure puts a stop in the conversation! Then they feel guilty, awkward, forced to console me, and ask about it. Then they hurry away as fast as they can. I'm a fucking social leper.

I don't know anything about corporate life. I barely even remember what it was like to work with people. I'm a fucking housewife. With no children. Who does a really shitty job at you know, keeping the place clean. I'm a waste of space, and I know it.

"Are you sure you can't work?" "So you can't work at all?" "There are lots of temp jobs" "Couldn't you do freelance?" Yeah, with what freaking credentials!? I mean, besides my physical limitations, I was a secretary, an office manager, a jack of all trades, but I don't have credentials for any of it. And it was so long ago, I don't know if I could do a lot of it now anyway. I mean, my last full time job was FIVE years ago. Ugh.

I couldn't do 8 hour days. Not even 8 days a week. I'm that fucked up. But I don't look it. So people always ask. They don't realize, that that outing, the bit where I'm being social or am in school, that's my activity for the day, and in all likelihood it will take me 2-3 days to recover from it.

*sigh*

I just.... I want the ground to swallow me up. I want to sleep and never wake up. I want an easy way out of this mess. Perhaps my doctor is right, and I'm a fat useless fuck because I'm just too gods damn weak-willed and plain old lazy. Yup. That's about right.

Baby Blanket Progress And Life.

I can't show you the baby blanket, because it's a gift, and I want it to be, mostly a surprise for the mom.  But it's coming along! I have actually finished the knitting, after like 10-12 days of straight knitting. We're talking 40+ hours of knitting my fingers off.

Much to my dismay, when I finally got it off my needles... it wasn't square. I did the add two stitches every other row, like the instructions I found for corners told me to.. I'm thinking it might have been better to add two stitches every row... But once I was done, there is no way in hell I was ripping out 40 hours of work!!

So. Acylic..... You can't really block it. Not the traditional way, washing and pinning, it will just jump back to it's pre-washing state. And besides, baby blanket, it's going to get washed, and mom is not about to block the dang thing.

SO! I 'killed' the two bottom boarders. Killing, really isn't as bad as it sounds, you just have to be careful! For instance, leave garter stitch alone as much as you can, as you will flatten it, and it will look...not great. The flat patterned parts stretched really well, overall, and it flattened out the elephants and loins really well, so yay! I did accidentally catch part of a garter stitch ridge in a few places, but I didn't flatten it too too badly.

This entire blanket had been a lesson in imperfection for me. I'm a perfectionist. I can't seem to help myself. But, in making this blanket, I've learned to weigh 'time to fix' vs 'who other than me will notice'. As a result, I've left a few errors that I didn't think were super obvious, left some things alone or did them quickly, when I otherwise would have spent hours upon hours trying to fix.

In the end, the blanket is lovely, and once I get the dang backing on it, will be a lovely edition to a baby's life; imperfections and all. It has character damnit.

On another note, sitting for like 12-16 hours a day knitting, is actually really hard on my body, and I've been crazy stiff and sore for the last two weeks. This week I've also been battling crazy nausea. I've been eating lots of candied ginger, which usually helps, with no avail. I've been fighting with all I have to do what little I've done.

Monday I worked for about five hours straight on the backing and trying to pin it to the knitted blanket. This was before I blocked the blanket. What a mess. And I messed up cutting the backing and ended up making a lot of work for myself. Oh well, that's life.

Made for a very frustrating day. So much work, with so little to show for it. All the while battling enough pain to make me dizzy when I moved too quickly. Fuck it was a hard day.

Yesterday was better. If for no other reason my class distracted me from my pain. But as soon as I left I realised my jaw was in grave pain - I'd been clenching my teeth to combat the pain. I even went to the grocery store. But I didn't have the energy to work on my blanket last night. Every time I moved I was overcome with nausea, and had to sit my fat ass down again.

That's been today. Pain and nausea warring for control over me. Right now the pain is winning and the nausea is more in the background. Which means, I've been able to at least iron down the edges of the backing, which will make it much easier to sew when I get there.

Feeling sorry for myself. Or.. Well... Disappointed in myself is more accurate. I fate being this size. I really do. If I think too hard on it, I get a panic attack. And yet I can't seem to control myself. I have no discipline. I can't resist chocolate, or.... giving in when I'm having a bad day. It's so bloody hard. Food has become my comfort, my balm when I'm in pain. And I don't know how to control it, never mind fix it.

I think about women like Laurell K Hamilton. She's been writing since her early twenties I think. She wanted to be a writer, and by gods, she has worked her ass off to get there, regardless of having a day job, a husband, a failing marriage, a baby, or anything else that's been thrown at her. Still she finds time to write. Still she finds her muse, and fights for what she wants.  Even if I'm not the biggest fan of everything she's written her drive is awe inspiring.

I don't have that. I know I don't. I always have an excuse for everything. The only thing I've ever been able to ALWAYS make time for is knitting. I would likely knit in my sleep, if I could figure out a way to do it. I love to knit. It's to the point I just can't sit and watch a movie or tv. I can't. Not without something in my hands, not without some kind of knitting.

But I'm not The Yarn Harlot either. I'm not funny. I can't tell stories about knitting. I so can't write that sort of thing... it's not in my make-up. Besides, my knitting isn't pretty - the process that is. There's a lot of planning, math, calculator and pencil, graph paper, humming and hawing, and through, always the cursing. I curse like a sailor. If I drop a stitch (rare), or mess up a row (not so rare), or if I don't like the pattern I've chosen (often), or if I'm doing the math, and have to figure out increases and decreases, I curse. My husband is used to me muttering and cursing as I work. He worries more when I'm quiet. lol.

And now, I've used all the energy I had. The pain is taking over my brain, and I can't put the words together to say what I wanted to say. Damnit.

Living like this is really lonely. I mean, aside from the reality that I spend most of my days alone, and my nights across the room from my husband, not really conversing.... It's the knowledge that 99% of the people I know, don't have a fucking clue how hard my life is. I know in so many ways I'm lucky. Things really could be a lot worse. At the same time, my life sure as fuck isn't all sunshine and roses.

The pain eats at me. The nausea binds me to the spot. The stiffness makes me feel like I'm 100 years old. I visit my parents, who are really my grandparents both around80-ish, and both of them are more spry than I am. Both of them do more, are more ambitious, than I've been in a long ass time. I wish I was more like them. They can't sit still, they can't do nothing. The push. They do. They have gumption, drive, follow-through.

I've always been naturally lazy. I actually do like, for the most part, sitting and watching a good movie, or reading a good book. I like sleeping in. I like slow, lazy days.

My fibromyalgia forces me to take it slow, to sit around and do fuck all. And I hate it. Yet I rarely push past the pain. Most days, the pain wins. I crumble.

I feel so fucking weak. Touch my shoulders and hips, even lightly in certain spots and I'll scream in pain.  I ache, all the way through me, and there isn't a fucking thing wrong with me. It's all in my head. Literally. Fucking FMS.

I.... Ugh. I feel like, if it was my mom who had this, she'd push. Even at 78, she'd push and do and be active, and live her life. She's lived with pain all her life too. But unlike me, she almost never complains, and very rarely ever lets it slow her down.  I wish I could be like that. I wish I knew her secret. I just don't have that in me.

I'm disgusted with myself. On so many levels. Disease or not, I'm a disappointment. So many others have what I have, and yet they work full time jobs, they have kids, husbands, houses to clean, and they do it all. Somehow, the do it all.  Me, I just.. I don't have that in me.

I wish I had that strength of character. I wish I had discipline and control. I don't. No matter how I try... I'm just... I'm not that kind of person. Ugh.

I don't.. I don't know how to fix this. I try. Gods know I try. But I just don't seem to have it in me. Makes me...disgusted with myself. I'll never be strong enough.

The Day I Lost My Faith

My hubby sent me a link, that brought me somewhere else - to a blog entry recounting the writer's journey from Catholic to Agnostic: http://goo.gl/iCJLT. It's from 2007, but that doesn't matter, it's still as poignant and thoughtful today.

The article made me think about my own conversion as she puts it. Hers seems... much more thoughtful and torturous than my own. Though, I don't think mine was any easier.

I was 13 when I started thinking about god, and whether or not he was real. I read the bible, hoping it would re-kindle my dwindling faith. I even got baptized in hopes it would help me feel a connection to God. neither worked as I'd hoped. Instead I was left angry and faithless. I spent the year in turmoil before I eventually made my decision.

I read the bible, up to maybe Genesis; it's a whole fucking chapter of who sired who. Watching paint dry is more interesting. But the bits that stuck were before that. The bible straight out says that women were evil, just for being born. As a young woman, this pissed me off to no end. It made my blood boil. I'm evil because Eve opened Adam's eyes to the truth, to the real world?! I didn't see how that was such a bad thing in the first place.

On the whole, the bible is pretty misogynistic, at least that's how my 13 year old brain felt. I haven't picked up a bible since, I don't see any reason to either. I decided then and there, that sunny afternoon, that I wanted no part in any religion that thought me evil or somehow less just because I was a woman. I refused to believe that just because I had a vagina instead of a penis I was less worthy, of less value, less capable, less anything.

I'm pretty sure I was baptized by the time I came to that conclusion and I know the experience weighed heavily on me then, and for years after. You see, I wasn't a 'believer' when I was baptized. I was, instead, confused, scared (who did you turn to when God wasn't there?), and wanting to please my religious mom. My actual baptism was a nightmare. See, I have asthma, so I've never had good lung capacity, and during a baptism - at least at the church I was going to then - the preacher dude held you under the water while he did the ritual, much talking was involved.

They did baptisms in batches, since they had to fill this tank in the floor of the stage with water. Really cold water by the way. And we had to wear white shifts. When my turn came, I gasped as I stepped into the cold ass water. He grabbed my wrists, and pulled them behind me and held them in one big hand. He told me to take a deep breath, then wrapped his other hand around the back of my neck, and dunked me. About half way through his long-winded speech, I need to breath. I tired to pull up, but he pushed me in farther. I squirmed and tried to get away, but his hand was like a vise on my wrists. I should mention, that at 13, I was 5ft 6in tall, and a size 13. I was not child-sized. The water was under 4 ft, so part of my problem was my body was doubled over and confined by the floor, and his body pressed to mine. I was terrified. I thought I was going to die. I needed AIR, and this brute just squeezed my neck harder!

When all was said and done, I didn't die, clearly, and I didn't like Christians one little bit. All I could think, over and over in my head was "he tried to kill me!"  For at least ten, maybe fifteen years after this, any time someone touched the back of my neck, I freaked out, like hyperventilating panic attack. You can imagine what a damper this put on any chance I had to make-out with boys/men! It didn't matter that I wasn't in water, that he wanted to kiss me, pull me in to him, not kill me, I couldn't handle it. To this day I don't like it. I tense up. My husband knows, as I've shared this story with him, and doesn't touch the back of my neck. So yeah, the baptism only secured my dislike of Christians and their views on women.

For years I had a hatred of Christianity. Anytime the religion was brought up, an intense feeling of betrayal, hatred, and disdain filled me. I didn't hate the believers, my mom believed, and still does, in God, and I love her more than I can ever articulate. But I think pushing your beliefs on others is just rude. I don't push my atheism at others. That's one of the things I respect most about my mom: she believes in god, she goes to church, she prays, she says grace at meals, she prays for non-believers in her life, just as she does believers, Christ/God/Christianity is part of her life, part of who she is, but she never pushes, she doesn't try to recruit others. I try to emulate her in that.

I realized back then that religion was a safety blanket for dealing with the world, a way to make it less scary. And when I abandoned mine, I was scared. One of my favourite sayings in my teen years was "ignorance is bliss", and I believed that with all my heart. If I'd just stayed ignorant, if I'd just not questioned God, I could believe in him, that he was helping me, that he had a plan, that my life didn't end with my decomposing body. But, I couldn't not question. I'm not the smartest person, but I have heavy doses of skepticism, common sense, and feminist pride.

Ironically, when I was in first year university, I tried on a lark, to pray to Fria, an ancient Germanic goddess who was an early incarnation of the Viking goddess Freya. I was in so much pain carrying my 50+lbs of school books home with a broken backpack. I saw the moon, half full in the 4pm blue sky, I thought of her immediately.

How did I learn of Fria? When I was 14 I read a book that was based on historical fact, about the time the Romans were invading what is now Germany/Austria.  Fria was an earth goddess, her tree the oak, her 'planet' the moon. Women here sacred, but they too could be warriors in their culture. Women's menstrual blood was scared, because it signified a woman's ability to make babies, to create life, so they believed. Fria caught in my mind then, and at 19, I still wanted to believe. I don't actually believe she's real, and yet... I prayed to her all through university. I have marked my flesh with her moon where my lifeblood runs close to the skin (inner wrists). I freely give her part of my soul.  If she were to command me, I would follow.

That day, with the moon high, facing off the sun, so prominent, I prayed. I prayed for her to take the pain away, to help me get through it, to help me get home without breaking down, overwhelmed with the pain. As I stared at the moon, begging for Fria's mercy, it came. The pain was still there, but somehow, miraculously, it didn't touch me. I could feel it, but it was like I was outside of the pain somehow, like I was looking at it, not truly feeling it. In that moment I believed, or at least I wanted to. My logical mind just can't believe in something there is no proof for. I can't help it. And yet, I made my allegiance to her that day. Whenever I say the moon from that day on, I thought of her. I saw the moon as my symbol for her answer. If I could clearly see the moon, then everything would be all right. If the moon was clouded over, if it kept hiding in the clouds, then everything wouldn't be all right. And you know, it worked for me. It really did. Seeing the moon clear, even in hard times, made me feel like I could concur whatever came at me, that with her at my side, I would be fine. That is the power of faith.

Do I still believe?  I'm not entirely sure. Do I still love Fria? Oh yes. Pain is a theme in my life. To be given a reprieve, even for so short a time, for that one act of kindness, she had my heart and soul, and will always have a piece of me.

I guess I just couldn't live without a safety blanket of my own.

Tattoo Ponderings

So I've been thinking about getting another tattoo. For over a year now I've wanted to get the word fight tattooed on my left inner forearm. But I wanted something...more to go with it. Some kind of imagery.

Lately I've been thinking Tigers. Something like this:

Only, I'd want the tigers to, well, for their stripes to actually look like tigers. This would also be too much detail for such a small space, but gives the general idea of black and white cats in a cartoony/simple form.

Very recently however, when trying to... flush out a persona for my writing. Writing I really need to get on doing (Why do I always feel like I don't have enough time?) Anyway! Point is, I said, I spent every day fighting the good fight. Which I think is a very positive way to speak of my battle with pain from FMS, and a whole host of other things. I'm trying not to let the pain win. I'm learning half an hour of sweaty exercise a day actually makes me feel better - as long as I'm not you know, curled up in a ball of pain. So I've been pushing, to get myself more active, and overall, I feel like it's helped.

So, do I get Fight or Fighting the Good Fight?!

I can't.. I'm not sure what I want now. I'm leaning towards Fighting the Good Fight. It.. I think it would have more impact, and would have the added benefit of making more sense to everyone.

Having other visible tattoos, I know I'm going to get asked, buy friends and strangers alike, what my tattoo means. Fighting the Good Fight seems a heck of a lot more self-explanatory.

Thing is, fighting the good fight, is a fairly long phase. It will likely fill up my inner forearm quite nicely. 

But, I've been looking at Lemur's (from Exotix Studios) work, and I'm.. well, I'm smitten. I really love his use of splurges of colour in an otherwise black and white piece, and I want him to do that for me.  I'm just... I'm not sure if the tiger will work, or if it's even really me (the tiger not the phrase).

I'm almost wondering if having the tiger wrap around my forearm, under/around the words would work (artistically) and suit me. I'm.. I'm not sure...

I don't see myself as a tiger person, per say. I'm more of a kitty cat person. Or a big dog person. I'm not fierce. But fierce is exactly what I want the tattoo to convey.

I've been wanting to book a consult for the better part of the month, but.... I'm not totally sure what I want, which I don't think will be helpful. Also, this month has been just one thing after another, either health, or shit that needs to get done. *Sigh*

I just. Flip. I don't know what to think. I miss Neda. I miss having her to bounce ideas off of. I know this is going to sound strange, but she's helped me decide on more than one of my tattoo ideas. And I.. I don't have anyone in my life now that I can do that with. She and I aren't close anymore. Heck, I don't even know what country she's in.

Do I just get Fighting the Good Fight, and leave it plain and simple? Do I get Fight with tigers? Do I go see Lemur and ask advice? I mean, flip, I really feel like I should have more of an idea before going to him.

Also, I'm worried how well I'll take a bigger project. I don't have any pain meds per say. I have meds that help the fibro pain, but I have nothing for migraines, or other headaches, or to help with the tattoo pain. Since developing FMS my sensitivity to pain, of any kind has skyrocketed. It's fucking annoying as hell, let me tell you.

So I don't think getting anything too big is a good idea... but how do I convey the fierceness I want to visually?? How do I put into visuals the grim determination I have to keep fighting? How do I make the tattoo motivational??

I just... I'm not too damn sure.

*sigh*

Thank the Gods that I'm Canadian!!!

This: GOP Controlled Virginia Legislature Passes Two Of The Most Restrictive Anti-Abortion Bills In The Nation Just makes me sick. I'm speechless (okay, almost).

Personhood starts at conception, and birth control is banned? WTF Virgina?!

It fills me with fear. Fear for the women of America. This is such a huge step in making women not just second class citizens, but property of the men in their lives. What's next, taking away a woman's right to vote and her status as a person?! It can't be far off.

*sigh*

It's shit like this that makes me infinitely glad I'm a Canadian!

Our federal gov't may be a bunch of idiots trending this way, but they move much slower, and seem to have more real opposition with their heads on straight.

On a side note, I've been writing a novella (okay I started it in November and I've been mulling over how to end it since) about a woman that goes to Virgina to spend some time with a man she's falling for. A Marine Lt. Colonel. I was going to end it with her getting a job in Washington and coming to live with him. But I just can't do that now. I can't.

I know it's a work of fiction, and it's set up as a summer thing, and this is February, but fuck a duck! What's going on in the states right now scares me. No, I don't want my character to stay and fight the system. It's not even her system! No. In good conscience I can't have her move there. It would give me a panic attack to think of doing it myself, so I can't let a woman character do it either.

And how could a good man, which my Marine is, how could a good man, with his head on straight advocate such a loss of rights and liberty to the woman he loves?!

I'm a firm believer that love is always enough.

But I make a caveat to that...
It has to be a deep, true love, on both sides. It has to be love with respect of both (all) parties, where both (all) are equal partners, with a true desire to do and allow what is best for the other party(parties).

It can't be a selflish love, nor an 'I love you, but you make me so angry sometimes, and I just have to beat you' kind of love, nor a love where one partner 'knows best' and the other is powerless/doesn't have a say in what happens to them.

But I can't let her move there for him. I just can't. At the same time, if he really loved her, would he allow her to? With the way things are going? Could he, really let her move to a country that makes her a second class citizen!?

Do I have her stay for six months, from Aug to the middle of Feb, where this shit is now happening. Maybe then they both leave. Come back to Canada where she can be safe from oppression. He's in his early 40s. He's done 20 years for the Marines. Maybe it's time for him to retire... Live the good life, in the great white north, as it were.

I know it may seem so damn... trivial that I think of my story... but in my heart I'm a writer.. When I write, as when I read, the characters become real for me. Sometimes more real that actual people. I fall in love with them, and it breaks my heart when they die. It likewise puts me at great unease when bad things befall them, as they are wont to do. And I route for them, for their happiness and their safety...

And I know it's not likely that my story will ever get out. I know it's not likely anyone would buy it with such anti-American content, but it's NOT about that. It's about doing what feels right. Call a spade a spade, or in this case, a bastard a bastard. I will not back down. I can't; it would kill something inside me to do it. No. Just no.

Beauty Ideals, aka She's fat

So my hubby sent me a link to a...interesting/disturbing link from the Toronto.com: Anna Utopia Giordano gives Venus a new lean, mean figure

So Anna, is the Italian "artist", who photoshopped Renaissance masterpieces of beautiful women of the day. The ideal then was, as far as I can see, about size 12-14 in today's sizes, with small perky breasts. To me, they look like real women. Healthy, "sturdy" women (i.e. you won't break them when you fuck them).  I look at these women and think: fuck, I'd love to be that skinny!

The article calls these healthy, women, with not a fat roll or bulge among them, BBW (Big Beautiful Women), and plus-sized. When did having a little meat on your bones become plus sized?!

The photoshopped versions are much leaner (to the point of impossibility in some spots), but of course still have the boobs. The boobs that looked smallish on the originals, end up looking large/fake on the skinny versions. I mean, you just don't see many size -1 women with D cup boobs that are real, 9 times out of ten, they had a boob job.

The interesting part for me, is that I find the photoshopped versions look sickly. The original women look enticing, in my eye. The photoshopped women look too skinny, and frighteningly frail. They put me in the mind of starved, dead, Plague victims.

The other thing is, I've had skinny friends, so I know for a fact, when women are that skinny, you can count their ribs, since they show up in high relief in many of the poses. Of course the artist didn't photoshop them in. Making the photoshopped versions, basically impossible to replicate in real life, that is, without having the model surgically remove ribs. Ick.

For me, the bigger picture, or perhaps, more resounding worry/message is:

If the (delightful -IMHO) Renaissance women are fat, Big Beautiful Women, and plus-sized, then what the hell am I ?!?!?!?

I mean, I'm actually plus sized. My honest to god, goal in weight loss right now, is just to get back to the size I was when I met my husband, when I was still morbidly obese, but was about 4 sizes smaller. I'll never be a size 12 or 14. I'd be ecstatic to maintain size 18-20, for fucks sake.

Perhaps this explains some of my other issues lately (like doctors ignoring me or telling me outright they can't help me) -- I'm so fat, so far beyond the "norm" that people don't know what 'box/category' I belong in, and like most things our brain doesn't understand, they just ignore the data, and therefore me.

I'm the hulking invisible fat woman!

Sigh.

Too much Thinking. Again.

One of my favourite quotes, talks about dreaming, something I do a lot of.

"If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time."
--Marcel Proust

This is one of the things that I struggle with. I also struggle with fear of failure and chronic pain that kicks my ass on a daily basis. Though, sometimes, I kick it's ass. Like yesterday. Yesterday was a good day. But, as payment, today I'm exhausted. I'm still hoping to do something with myself. We'll see.

But dreaming. Dreaming I do a lot. I dream about simple things, like tattoos I want, how life would be different if I just have the energy and nerve to go to the gym (no really), I dream about being braver, being obese rather than morbidly obese, about pretty shoes I'll never be able to wear (I have no arches).

I dream big too. I dream about what life would be like if I'd made different decisions, if I was a different person -- this is often where many of my stories come from, or at least how I flesh them out to make them feel real. I dream about being a writer. About being published. Of course my actual issue is finding the energy/time/creativity/bravery to actually write, to allow myself the possibility of failure. I have such a hard time with failure...

Proust is right though. They key is to dream all the time. If I did, I'd write. I'd look at my fear, face it down, and just keep going. I'd fight, I'd find the motivation, somewhere, somehow, and I'd fight. Fight the pain, fight the exhaustion, fight the fear, fight the doubt that screams in my head.

But how does one do that? How does one dream all the time? Is it even possible? Is it selfish??

Oh how I want to write. I want to write modern love stores, sex stories, mysteries, life stories. The mundane and the fantastic swirl in my head, and come out in my dreams. I want to put them on the page, I want to make them come alive in words. I want to share them with the world.

But if I'm going to write, perhaps I should look to write for money. Freelance? Make some small amount of money writing crap for hire. Ugh. I find it horribly distasteful, but as my husband pointed out, he wouldn't pick his job, if he had money enough not to work. Work is work, it's not fun, it's not something you enjoy, it's not something you may even like, but it gets you money so you can sleep in a warm bed and eat regularly. Reality shitting all over my dreams.

I have so little energy. So often I pick doing dishes, getting groceries, making food, instead of going to the gym, or sewing those curtains that have been sitting there for a year, or doing something for me. Writing is just sitting at my laptop, which I do already, but, it's still work. I still require my brain to be with me, I still require a pain level that doesn't blur my vision (yes, this can be an issue). Writing still turns my brain to mush after a few hours.

So do I dream, or do I let reality shape me? Ugh.

I mean, I take November, and I let writing be my job. I attempt to write for eight hours a day, sometimes more, because my muse, she doesn't show up when I want her to, she's like a cat, she comes and goes at her will. The point is, that month, I put everything else on hold to write. Because, you know what? Being chronically ill means, I just don't have the energy to write all day AND do dishes, buy groceries, clean the apartment (a job I find difficult when not working), watch our budget, or do fun things like, spend time with my husband, or knit or read or craft.

One thing Nano has taught me is, I can't write 'full time'. I just can't put in that many hours. I'm just not capable. I don't like letting everything else go. There needs to be balance. I just don't have a clue what that is yet. So I haven't written since then. December was devoted to Christmas. And these past two weeks?  I've been dreaming a lot about the various stories I want to write. I've also been trying to get our lives more in order, and I've been dealing with some very painful times.

I want to dream. Oh how I want to dream. In my dream, my writing eventually pays off, in that, I make some money, not a lot, but some. I've never dreamed so big as to think I'd be in line with the greats, with the women writers I love, but, man, would I love to be a footnote. I'd just like to see something I write, eventually be in print. Like actual print. Though, the first step, I think, is online publishing. Getting my work on someone's kindle, ya know?  I want to be read. I don't care if all it ever brings in is pennies. I want to be read. I want.... I want to be a writer. I have since I was a kid. I still have the same problem, I still have trouble with actually getting it done. I guess, the real issue is giving it time, taking time to write. Allowing myself the time, and space to fail, to write really badly, to learn from it and get better.

I sit here thinking about it and worrying. Worrying if I take the time, if I make it a priority, if I write what I want, my husband will get upset with me. If I can use my limited energy to do something that doesn't get me a paycheck, then I should use that energy to find a way to make us some money. I don't even know how to go about finding freelance work. I looked once, and was totally overwhelmed. I don't have ANY experience. There's nothing I can put in a portfolio. I've done some technical writing, but everything I've written was under a non-disclosure agreement, and so long ago anyway, that I don't know if I could do it again. Not well. So how do I manage to get someone to hire me?! No clue. Man do I feel unemployable.

Thinking Too Much. Again.

I just got the 'you should be making money, not living your dreams, you need income' lecture.

*sigh*

Ironic really since, just this morning I was thinking, that maybe, just maybe I could do what I've always wanted instead of what I was schooled for. I thought it was amusing that I went to school, to secure a career with a steady pay, but since I'm now chronically ill and totally incapable of working full time, I might actually be able peruse what I wanted to.

I've always wanted to write, but I've never liked the insecurity, the knowledge that I may never get paid enough to live one, the knowledge that creative writing won't feed you, and you'll have to have a 'day job' to fall back on, or learn how to be a commercial writer.

My husband just suggested I seek out freelance work to write crappy websites.

I'm ethically against ad farm websites with dubious and badly written content, just on principle; they're sneaky and sleazy.  Besides that, I'm not actually sure I could write that sort of content. What I mean is, I'm not sure I have any writing skills outside of the creative writing field.

There is of course, pay by the story options. Maybe? Someday?

Right now I'm just beginning to learn how to write. I feel like I'm a toddler, trying to pick out a career. I.... I don't feel ready for that?

All I really want right now is to finish my nano story, let it rest a bit, and then attempt editing it. I've never edited anything half so large. I think it will be a huge undertaking and learning experience.

I also really want to read more on the art, the science of writing and editing. Maybe take a course on mystery/suspense writing, and the one on writing for women and selling it - that one is sounding more and more like something I need to learn.

I want to sell my work. I really do. But I'm not even sure right now what kind of stories I'm capable of writing. I don't want to be some literary genius, I just want to write things I'm mostly proud of, things that others will read and enjoy. I'm perfectly happy being the cotton candy of the writing world. I love cotton candy!

It's been almost a year since I took the creative writing course. I haven't accomplished much since then. I haven't done any of the reading I'd hope to. Life has intruded. Also, a deep love affair with the cotton candy of the writing world. I have read so many romance novels! And most of them were yummy. I'm not entirely sure what I learned, except that I really love simple, cheesy, cotton candy romance stories.

My tummy hates me tonight. I'm not at all sure why it's angry like it is. I haven't eaten anything to set it off. But I know how I'm feeling isn't helping. Right now I'm feeling very guilty and worried.

Guilty for being a penniless burden. Guilty for wanting to live my dream instead of trudging to make some amount of money. I want to believe that living my dream, that writing what my soul wants to, would lead to money, but I know it wouldn't do it as fast as if I just sought out freelance work and wrote, gods knows what. Hell, I feel guilty for wanting to write instead of doing other useful things like getting groceries, doing dishes, cleaning our apartment, doing laundry. I can't do both, at least, I can't write mostly full time AND do errands or anything else. Nano has taught me that getting 100 pages in a month means ignoring everything else in my life. I can't keep that up long term, I'd burn our or contract some filth-related disease.

I'm worried my husband is finally starting to understand the burden he's placed on himself (me). Worried that he's worried about money. Worried that he feels the pinch of having a useless wife, and is, understandably blaming me for not helping out. I'm worried that I'm being totally selfish even considering trying to become an author. Being married to an author sucks, authors don't make a lot, but work a lot, and me, I work best at night - he might as well be single. As mentioned above, if I were to take a more serious attempt at being an writer, I'd have to devote time otherwise spent taking care of us. *sigh*

I feel utter selfish for wanting to live a dream. Just because I live with chronic illness, and my life is pain, doesn't mean I'm entitled to anything. As my husband pointed out, he wouldn't be doing what he does if it wasn't for the paycheck. I have no right to expect to like my job, never mind love it. I have no right to peruse something that won't help us financially.

I'm beginning to wonder if I should just give up this silly idea, and look for part time work a chronically ill person might be capable of. Clearly, I need to be making money, not living some foolish childhood dream. I'm an adult now. I didn't pick a field I loved in the first place, I picked one I thought would get me a steady pay check. I need to put that goal first again. Just because I'm chronically ill doesn't relieve me of the duty and need to actually support myself. Dreams are for bedtime. Work is for waking hours.

Thinking too Much. Again.

So I read this blog: http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/ A lot. The woman who writes it, whose blog it is, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, is amazing. She's like my knitting hero. She's one of those people that I think, when I grow up, I want to be Stephanie Pearl-McPhee.  Of course, part of the problem with that is, I'm already grown up, in that I'm 32 years old. I also have zero desire to have children, never mind three girls. But knitting/career-wise? Stephanie is amazing. She's written five books on knitting. Five. Her latest is on the New York Times Best Seller List. How awesome is that?!

It's funny, when I first started knitting, her blog was one of the first things I found. It didn't impress me much. It had awards down the side for like 5 years past Best Canadian Knitting blog, and the like. Her blog hasn't changed in format or look since then either. It's very basic and felt dated, and I can be a techie snob sometimes, okay most of the time.(I should say now I appreciate the simplicity and it's appeal. Coming to her blog and reading it feels like coming home, like spending time with a well-loved friend.) Also all the entries I read were about socks. I hate knitting socks. Okay, to be fair, I've only ever knitting one pair of socks, and I don't think I'll ever knit another pair. I hate knitting anything on needles that small, for one thing. For another, my feet are too stupidly sensitive and I know I could never actually wear them, so what's the point? Last and not least, until very recently I've been just rubbish at knitting short rows. I've knit a lot of short rows now on the knitted sea creatures I've made, but I'd still hate to test my short row skills against a sock! No thank you! So, in length, you can see how her blog just didn't appeal to me.

Thanks to twitter, and a crochet-crazy acquaintance I have on my feed, I re-discovered Stephanie about a year ago or more. Yes, she talks about socks a lot, and I can't really identify, but she talks about a lot of other things too. And she's funny! She makes me laugh out loud until I have tears streaming from my eyes. Mostly though, she's just... endearing, entertaining -- she's the most likable writer or knitter I've ever encountered. I really don't know how else to put it, except that she's a joy to read, and I wish she was my friend, 'cause I think she's awesome.

She's having a book signing here in Toronto today. At a chapters downtown. I kinda want to go, because I want to support her, and maybe meet her. But I've never actually bought or read any of her books. I want to, but I just don't have the $$ right now. If I went to the reading/signing, I'd feel obligated to buy her latest book (I do want to but again, $$).. But after spending $35 dollars on tea this week I think my husband might blow a vein if I spent more. *Sigh*

I was just reading her latest post about how we Canadians are quiet with out enthusiasm for writers and other famous people. I am so very guilty of that! A few years ago when I got to meet Kim Harrison, who is my all time favourite author, I was so excited I could barely speak. I had so much love and admiration for her, but I didn't know how to show it. I just ended up being awkward and telling her she made me love reading again, and I almost cried, because she really did change my life, and I didn't know how else to express my gratitude.

I know if I went to see Steph tonight I'd be the same way. I'd barely be able to speak to her. I know I wouldn't be able to tell her how awesome I think she is, or that I wish I knew her in real life, because from a 'fan', that can come off really creepy, and that's the last thing I'd want.

I also really need to work on my Nano novella today as I haven't worked on it since Monday and I'm likely 5k words behind by now. *sigh*  FMS has really done a number on me this week. I'm not in anywhere near the pain I was yesterday or the day before, but my brain still feel exhausted. Being in that much pain for that long takes a mental toll on a person, and it's that toll I can feel myself paying today. Bah. Hopefully by Saturday I'll be well enough to enjoy some time with my friends!

Story Research

So I've got it in my head to write this cheesy romance story between an older military man and a younger geeky/nerdy civilian woman. As I've already mentioned.

I really wanted the story to take place in Norfolk VA, or Washington DC. NCIS (the show) is based in Norfolk, and there's lots of military types to be had there. I thought it would be a good location for my military love interest.

Trouble is, I wanted my heroine to be from somewhere far enough away that a visit would be a pretty big deal, but not unreasonable. The connection between my characters would be his sister. So my heroine and the sister would go to university together.

This made me start researching US universities. OMFG! The price for ONE YEAR at MIT is more than I paid for all 4 years of university!!! Jesus. How do they do it?? I mean, even if they did get loans, they'd have like $120,000 of debt!! That's just INSANE. INSANE!! So, I can't imagine coming from the kind of money that could afford that. I just can't. I don't understand how anyone but the very rich could ever afford that. That's just... Hell, it would be cheaper to go to school in Canada and pay the international rates than it would to go to many of the US schools. It just boggles my mind.

Anyway, point is, I can't see a where or how for my heroine in the US. And non-us citizens can't get jobs as civilians working with the military, so that connection is out.

I really wanted him to be a marine. I admit it. Gibbs gave me a total hard on for marines. And Semper Fi has just stuck in my head.

So I'm torn as to what to do. Do I just pretend that university isn't insanely expensive and somehow that both women went to MIT and live in Boston? And he's in Norfolk VA as a marine Commander?

Or do I dump Semper Fi, have the women in Toronto (having gone to UofT or McMaster), and him in Ottawa working for the DND perhaps as a Naval attache?

I just.. I don't know what to do... And I can't get over the price of university tuition in the states!

Canada Day was a few days ago, and you know, I'm just so damn glad to be Canadian! I really do love where I live, I have a hard time seeing how I could be happy anywhere else.

Something Old, but Well-loved

When the long night comes,
And the tiger’s claw rips apart the twilight sky
What will you say to the one?
Will you give your excuses,
Or will you stand tall and proud?

I see this tattooed around a cartoon-ish tiger with with the claws of one paw ripping blackness onto my shoulder blade... The tiger would wind around my side...perhaps..

That is, of course, dreaming I'll ever have money for tattoos again. Or enough pain killers to get me threw it. Fibro makes tattooing almost unbearable. So sad. I wanted more ink than I've got, that's for sure.

Cheesy Romance Story Plot

Okay, so I had this dream the other night about a Gibbs (Character on NCIS) -- like man and a 30 yr old woman.... He was 40-something, and had two sons. He was a Navy Commander, I believe.... She was very not Navy... They knew each other, somehow, like online emails, not in person... But she comes to visit him and sparks fly. The sparks, oh how hot they were.

I can't really get him out of my head. I'm thinking of writing their story. Or rather inventing it, because there isn't much story to the dream... I mean, I do realise meeting man you thought of as friend, getting all hot and bothered, then fucking him spur of the moment isn't much of a story! I suppose I could do a lot of sexual tension, but I'm more about fulfillment. Besides, I am a terrible flirt, meaning, I'm BAD at it. Like really bad.

So! I was thinking, if this was a cheesy romance novel, what would happen? The woman, or both of them would have to be in some kind of danger, and he/they would have to same her/themselves. This woman isn't in the military, she isn't a cop or a P.I.. she's just your average business type. Everyday Jane, so to speak. What kind of trouble could she get in? Not much. My Navy Commander could be threatened. Maybe he killed some 'terroists' and they want payback, or someone could be blackmailing them to have him endorse their company/product or to embezzle money for them. BUT, if someone wanted to get to the Commander, they would go through his kids, not this woman he'd only just met. That leaves her to be in trouble. Or his kids. They could get themselves messed up in something and the father and woman could do something. BUT if she's just a regular everyday jane, how could she possibly help? She'd have to have some kind of special skills. Maybe a techy that could track the phone calls and find the boys???

The only other possibility I thought of was a stalker. What if she had a stalker, who was like hardcore, and followed her to this other city where the Commander lived. He staked out the house and saw them through the curtains of an upstairs window, naked, and kissing. He goes ballistic, and decides she's betrayed him and has to die. He could bomb her rental car. Try shooting her when she gets the paper in the morning. Take shots at her when she's going to her business meeting, that sort of thing. Then the Commander can be her hero, and catch/kill the stalker.

The other trouble is... Well... I've been watching a LOT of NCIS. So I'm thinking Military, especially Navy.... So do I write these as Americans?? I mean, how much Navy does Canada have. I'm kinda under the impression our Military is tiny and sad....

I'll have to do some wee research on the topic of placement and country.... But I think it could be a lovely, cheesy short story. I'm hoping so anyway. lol.

I can't believe I'm seriously thinking of writing a cheesy romance story!! Gah.

Also, Victoria BC, for the Naval base, OR Ottawa for the Headquarters of National Defense? I originally thought he'd be in Ottawa riding a desk, or maybe training.. But I don't know as they DO training in Ottawa.... They do in BC... And I have no idea what RANK he should have. I was thinking Commander, but that's like WAY up there.... like, running the base up there... I was thinking a leeeetle less high profile than that! Maybe I'll ask for advice.. I do know someone who was a cadet.. Though she'd likely throttle me if I told her why I wanted to know. LOL.

Anyway! Lots to think about! I hope I get some time soon to do some writing!

What Makes a Story A Story?

You'd think after taking a class I'd have that question more sorted out, but I really don't. In part, I think all writers struggle with finding the story, it's all part of the craft. But I can't seem to see when I don't have it. I'm not sure I've really found it yet for any story...

The trouble is, I don't like conflict. I really don't. So the bits of the stories I'm drawn to, that my mind seems to easily come up with is the... back story.. The bit that happens when things aren't interesting. Just everyday kinda life stuff.

I keep finding characters I like, bits and pieces of stories, but I don't know where to take them. I know something is missing, and I can't seem to figure out what it is/how to fix is.

One thing I've not yet tried since the course is just blurting it all out on the page. I want to try that. And soon. Just write everything I can about the characters, the scenes that speak to me, and see if somewhere in it all a story presents itself.

Our teacher told us that the story begins when the status quo is challenged, that's the crux of things. But it's tension and conflict, overcoming obstacles, that's the story, that's what makes a story as opposed to a pleasant anecdote.

Part of my trouble is, of course, is that I love pleasant anecdotes. That's what I've spent my life telling myself when my life isn't what I'd wish. Or when my life was too full and I needed to to drift off to sleep. I'd escape to another world, be another person, live another life. I wouldn't go have adventures, so much as I'd go have romances. Gods, that's embarrassing to admit! But I guess, for most of my life, that's the bit that was most glaringly missing. We didn't have conflict/trouble/adventure to pull us together, but rather time. A slow, true deepening of trust, knowledge, etc. Or sometimes they'd just be hot flings. Much more like life than any story.

All this leaves me wondering if I'm capable of writing stories at all. It's the conflict, the tension, where it all seems to fall apart for me. *sigh*

Maybe I just need to keep writing. Maybe I just need the courage to allow myself to try, and fail. It's okay to fail, as long as you keep trying, as long as you keep writing. If Alice Munro (who is apparently amazing) has false starts, and takes many wrong paths before she gets to where she knows what she wants a story to be, then it's perfectly natural for the same thing to happen to me, a novice.

I just have to learn to let go. To just write, without expectation. To just see. To not feel the effort wasted if the story doesn't come immediately. *sigh*

So where do I get all this courage?

Playing to Your Audience

So, assignment 5, the last one, is to revise a previous assignment in 500 words. I decided to go with Assignment 2, about Maddie the homewrecker and Alejandro the adulterer. No one liked my characters. It's hard to be likeable when you're dating an engaged man, and the audience is all married. LOL But I like her. I want her to be likeable. A younger woman I know read my piece, and said she felt badly for Maddie. So maybe it's just that they're all old?? I really don't know.

Anyway, the point is, I revised my work. Twice.

The first time, I reworked their relationship entirely, so they were dating casually, with no strings attached anywhere. The cravat being that Maddie wanted more from the relationship that Alejandro wanted to give. Argument ensues.

The second time, I reworked the piece so the ending was very different. Maddie was still dating an engaged man, but we learn that he doesn't love her (the woman he's going to marry), doesn't want to marry her, but is. Maddie is shocked to say the least, and heartbroken for him.

I'm not sure how I feel about the casual dating rework. It feels kind of wishy washy to me. I'm not sure how to explain, but I guess it feels unreal to me, the argument feels false. Maybe that's because I've never had that particular argument.... Maybe it's because I didn't write it well. I can't really tell. Maybe it's because I know full well that I'm playing to my audience of white middle-class, conservative, married women, and it rubs me the wrong way.

I'm not why playing to my audience irks me so, but it does. It just feels so damn wrong. Though I"m sure part of it is, I really don't identify with them. I guess I am technically middle class now, but I don't feel it. I was raised by labourers, that's who I identify with, that's the kind of life I understand. I'm a practical person, but I'm also very young at heart I think. I understand that you can fall in love with someone you really shouldn't, that you can't always help it.

I want to write this story. I want to write it so badly. But I'm afraid it won't make sense, that no one will understand. That, as my husband put it, I've bitten off more than I can chew. *sigh* Maddie is so much a part of me that I can't help but love her. Heck, I even love Alejandro a little bit, and he's pretty much a jerk. I want to tell their story.... but I'm not so sure now which part of it IS a story. Blarg.

Stories, good stories, are the significant moments in people's lives. Little blocks of time, at least the ones I tend to read, where they are faced with a decision, with a change to the status quo.... I can't write them falling in love, that bit takes time. But maybe, just maybe, I can write the moment when Maddie realises she has fallen for him, and her decision process on what to do about it. Is that a story?? I'm not sure I can tell anymore.

My Third Assignment

So today was class, again. We got our 4th assignment, which is 300 words, open topic. I sure hope I get some middle-class, middle-aged, married, white woman friendly inspiration sooner rather than later!

Trouble is, I feel like writing for that group totally puts me at a disadvantage for what I'm good at, but I guess in a way that's a good thing, as it challenges me. But it does also make me wonder... Like if writing within my favourite topic, if I'm better or worse at it. Maybe I'll see if they have a course in paranormal.....I'm not sure if science fiction/fantasy is close enough, but likely as close as I'm going to get..... And they do have a course in that. So perhaps that will be next. Not entirely sure.

Anyway! I wanted to share my last assignment, #3. The goal was to show, not tell, a character's desire. Though, I've realised she wants more than just that, and tried to hint at possible obstacles to him getting what he wanted. Apparently I should have had more interaction, and shared what those obstacles was. *Sigh* How the hell was I supposed to do ALL that in 250 words, I ask you?!

I feel like my teacher is just never happy. I was happy with this piece until I got her feedback. And damnit, I still like it. I made a conscious decision not to have there be a conversation. I made a conscious decision to only hint at the obstacles, and in doing so, from comments made by my classmates, they all took it in different directions/ways than I meant it, they made it more romantic than I thought it was, more meaningful. And damnit, that's a good thing. *sigh* And for the record, yes, cuddled is the right word.

Without further ado, my piece:

Nate stared at the woman in his bed. A wistful smile stole across his lips. Even in the dark, he could see the pale outline of her arm and shoulder against his red sheets. She was curled up on her side, a teddy bear clutched in her arms, pressed against her cleavage. He remembered how incredibly shy and embarrassed Lizzy was when she asked to leave the teddy bear at his apartment. He would’ve said yes to almost anything in that moment, so adorable she was then.

She was still adorable, and so very inviting. He undressed quickly and crawled into bed beside her. He cuddled his tall muscular body around her soft shapely one; they fit perfectly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight.

“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” Nate sighed happily. He’d been waiting all week for this moment.

Half asleep, Lizzy wiggled her butt, snuggling in against him. She wrapped her arm around his, her long fingers playing over his hand.

"Please God, let me keep her, just a little while more." he prayed, his lips caressing her back.

His world was too complicated by half: one life for his mother, one for his company, and a third for himself. Silently, he prayed for guidance, and the courage to follow through. He tucked himself in closer to her warmth, pressing every inch of himself he could against her soft, smooth skin. Nate closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.

Today, I think, is a Good Day.

So yesterday Chris took the magnificent coconut cake I'd made (minus the few slices we ate) to work. It was gone by 11:30am, which, at far as I can tell from Chris is a good thing. He also said he got lots of "thank you"s, and "thank your wife for the delicious cake" so yay! I really do like it when people like my work, be it cake or knitting or writing or what have you.

Poor Chris has a nasty head cold that seems to be getting worse today. He messaged me to say he was congested and woozy. This is not good news, but the fact I've yet to catch does add to my good day. I want him well, but I also don't want to get sick. I'm not shunning him, just no mouth to mouth kisses until he's better. He still gets hugs and cuddles.

Oh! Which reminds me, on my way home from class, by way of the grocery store, I nearly got run over. Again. Drivers seem to pay such good attention to stop signs on U of T campus, yet two short blocks from there drivers barely pause at four way stops. Makes me crazy! Anyway, I started to cross the street and had to stop because the minivan driver thought he'd take his turn while I and a taxi were crossing his path. I stopped and glared at him. He stopped, rolled down his window and called out "Sorry sweatheart!" I just glared at him, then turn my head and grinned. I smiled full out the rest of my way home. I couldn't help it. He seemed genuinely nice about it, and it's the first time ever I've had a driver acknowledge they were in the wrong. It was kinda nice. But I still have to glare at him, cause I'm a bitch, especially when I'm sore. I haven't yet been rained on today, but boys oh boys is it damp, and my fibro just makes my body sing with pain in the dampness.

Class today also went well. There was kind of quietness about it, likely due in part to the fact that our regular teacher was sick so we had another lady sub in. She was really nice, and helpful and all, but I guess it just wasn't the dynamic we were used to? There was a lot of long silences between one of us reading, and the rest of us collecting our thoughts I think. That's what gave the whole thing a feeling of quiet. The best part for me was everyone seemed to like my piece this time. Yay! They got a good feeling for my main character and what he wanted, but also that he was conflicted, and that they were a new sort of love. All the things I'd hoped I manged to get across. So yay!

One thing that worries me though. There is one member of the class whose writing I really don't care for. I find it, kind of jarring and unfinished. I just don't think it's good. But I can't say that. At the same time I want to.... help her by giving her useful feedback, so she can learn to write better, but I just don't know how to do that, without being.....harsh. I did speak to what confused me, which I hope is helpful. But there is no nice constructive way to say that I feel her writing is....clumsy.

*Sigh*

Realizing today that I just didn't like her writing, but wasn't able to express it, so I tried to pick up on bits and pieces I did like.... The images/scenes she was describing were interesting enough, but the way she described them was less than stellar. Like her words were falling over each other to get out, and ended up falling on the page in a jumbled mess. Yet I managed to sound positive about her piece, and so did everyone else. This makes me wonder how much of what anyone said about my work was real and how much was just...being constructive. Though the woman in question did manage to go away realizing her work wasn't 100% clear to us, which is good. So maybe they did really like my piece this time? I hope so. I still like it anyway.

Now I have to somewhow find the energy to make soup and wash dishes. Almost every dish in our apartment is dirty -- neither Chris nor I has been feeling too great this week. At least I don't hurt at badly today as I did yesterday! Small mercy that!

Blogger Fail, Mel Success?

So I posted my working assignment and Blogger had a moment of FAIL and lost my entry. *Sigh*

Thankfully, I didn't use Blogger to keep my only copy of it. Ha. I just lost the comment. At least I have the email so I know what was said! Thanks Jess for commenting!! <3

So this is what I have so far (the assignment is, in 250 words, to show not tell what a character desires):

A sleek black lexus crawled between vibrant grassy hills on a white gravel road. The tires crunched to a stop in the silence of the cemetery. The car door gleamed in the weak sun as it opened to reveal a three inch, thick-heeled, leather boot attached to a long leg in slim black slacks. Silvie unfolded herself from the low car and slammed the door. Her hands buried deep in the pockets of her short, black trench-coat, she strode across the grass. Her chestnut locks bounced with each step.

Silvie stopped in front of a tall, grey headstone. Her hand shook as she reached for the cold marble. Her tears fell freely. Her fingertips caressed the smooth stone.

"Oh Marty," she breathed. My brave, brave human, she finished in her head. “I should never have let you talk me into it. Never,” she whispered. A succubus demon in love with a human. Of course it ended badly.

Silvie read the tombstone hoping, somehow, it would bring her comfort this time, ‘Beloved husband and father’. She blinked fresh tears. The wind flung her hair in her face. Impatiently she pushed it behind an ear.

“I want to raise our daughter, but…how am I to keep my sanity without you Marty?” She asked in a strangled whisper.

Her knuckles went white as she gripped her own elbows, hugging herself. She longed for arms that would never again hold her. Tears fell in angry grey streaks down her face; her waterproof eyeliner finally failing.

I rather like it, as a thing, but I'm not entirely sure I convey her desire well. I think her desire is a muddled thing. And the one thing I really wanted to convey that I think I fail miserably at, is her utter terror of loosing her sanity again. But, at the same time, this is where this piece wanted to go. I think it makes sense as a stand alone. I hope so anyway.

I think part of the reason my last writing assignment didn't go over as well as I would have like is two fold:
(1) I tried to cram too much story in too small a space, resulting in nothing working out well, and
(2) I didn't stay true to myself, and what I love writing/reading about -- paranormal romance/life/adventure

So this time, I slipped a little paranormal in there, and I tried to go where the piece wanted me to, what made sense for the word count instead of the founding idea.

Not completely satisfied, I'm working on a second piece, but it's not jelling just yet. And it's no where near as compelling to me as this one is. We'll see. If nothing else the exercise of trying to show not tell is good for me! I tend to expound more than I should, but thankfully not as much as some romance writers!

I just finished this romance book. Took me forever to read it because it was just bad I couldn't handle it in big pieces. The author did way too much expounding, it was ridiculous! Made me feel better about my writing, I tell you what.

Update:
So Blogger found my last entry, and snuck it back it, formatting and comment was gone, and the tags were a mess, but the meat of it was there. So not bad for a recovery that was none too elegant on their part. I deleted it, since I no longer needed it. But I thought I should give Blogger credit for getting it back.

Update.

The weather lately has been fantastic! Sunshine, not too cold, not too hot either. Rather lovely. Today, however, looks like the last lovely day in some time - the forecast calls for all kinds of rain for the foreseeable future. So I'm hoping to go out today and do as much as I can. I'm not sure how much I'll manage. Chronic illness means I never have enough energy for the ambition/goals I have.

This weekend we are having a birthday party for my husband/apartment warming. I have no idea who is actually going to show up. Most of our friends seem to have other plans this weekend and can't make it. Makes me sad, but oh well. As Chris said, we tried.

I'm not sure if it's my particular mental stint, or if it's reality. I'm just...wondering if...friend is the right term. Maybe acquaintance is more appropriate. I mean, when we asked for help painting, and then moving the only offers we got were from my father (!!) and Shasta who lives with more pain than I do. I was shocked that my father was willing to help, he's basically ignored me my whole life, and I was saddened that none of our acquaintances cared enough to even make excuses.

It makes me realise why I've heard so many women say that their husband is their best friend. Many women marry men they would be friends with under other circumstances, but as it is, what with being married and all, their husbands are always there, always willing to listen, to help. I've always been jealous of women who say that. So very jealous. If it wasn't for the sex, for the marriage bit, Chris and I would not be friends. I love him, but I can't talk to him about a lot of things - things I would talk to my friends about, that I used to talk to my friends about, when I had close friends. But life, time, space, have combined to mean I just don't have close friends anymore, and Chris is my best friend. Poor man. I know he would never willingly take that post. And it's not that anything's changed. I still can't talk to him about chick things, or matters of the heart, or most of the things that eat at me, because he either doesn't want to hear it, or doesn't know how to respond. He's also a very solitary creature, and I often get the "I've had people talking at me all day, let me have some peace" speech when I do try to talk to him. So yeah. I try very very hard not to talk to him about most things. Even attempting to share my day with him never goes well.

I'm not good at making friends. I'm... not good with people in that way. But I mean, I can't relate to most normal life experiences, and most people have no clue how I live my life. I don't work. I don't even do most normal housewife things. I don't have kids (thank the gods). I live in chronic pain. I have no energy for anything. I just can't do so many things healthy people do and take for granted. How do I relate to them? I can't. That's the truth of it. So part of me holds back, but part of me just doesn't know what to say. =/

Anyway, thinking about this isn't going to make it any better. I don't know how to fix it. And dwelling just makes me sad.

Stymied by Depression

I'm been fighting depression all week long. Sadness, worry, anxiety, fear, stick to me like a fucking fungus. Heart-breaking defeat a gangrene in my psyche.

I feel stymied. Frozen by fear. Fear that if I move, if I do, if I say something I'm going to break, I'm going to hurt myself, hurt him, make things so much worse. So I do nothing. Say nothing. Put all my energy in not doing. In getting by in silence. I am not silent by nature. It's not fucking easy for me.

Ironically, I've been more active this week than I have in months. At least, all in a row. I've been out and walking, carrying, pushing, every day but Wednesday. I needed to sleep, I was exhausted. But I was out again yesterday. I'm hoping to go out today. But as usual, I'm afraid.

My fear pisses him off. I don't think he understands how paralyzing it can be. Maybe he's been here. Maybe he's beaten it and doesn't understand how I can't. But I can't. It's part of who I am. I can fight it, but it will never be gone.... It will win sometimes, and sometimes I win. I'm not as strong as I wished I was. I know I'm not as strong as he thought. Everyone gets disappointed in me for that at some point. I've seen it in the eyes of everyone who has ever believed in me. They do it wrongly. I'm not worth it. Even when I worn people, they don't believe until I disappoint them. =/

Maybe I have some kind of anxiety disorder. It's totally possible. I mean, who gets afraid of going on the subway when they haven't for a week or so? Who is afraid of rush hour on the subway to the point of avoiding going out?! Who is afraid to go to the gym because they haven't been in months? It's not that I'm worried about what the people that work there will think, it's not even that I've forgotten etiquette or how to work the machines.... I'm just..... afraid. I can't explain it. It doesn't make any sense. Maybe it's because I'm even bigger now, and I'll be the fattest person there. I mean, fuck, I was before, but now I'm fucking gargantuan. *sigh* Maybe I just don't want to be seen... I'm embarrassed by how I look, by my ugly body, by my weakness for getting myself here. It's my own damn fault and I know it. But that doesn't feel right either. That's not why I'm afraid. The fear has no logic. Perhaps that's the sign of mental illness.

Not much of a surprise. I've been battling depression on and off since I was 13 maybe? Maybe 15? I've been battling pain since I was 15 too. Correlation? Maybe, but the pain wasn't constant back then. It's only been constant for the past 6 years. Six fucking years. And there's no end in sight. This is how the rest of my life is going to be. A battle for every day. And I'm going to lose more than I win. I'm going to be fucking useless like I am now. I just don't have the strength to fight like I know I need to. I just. I don't have it in me. I don't.

We hate in others what we hate in ourselves, the bits we try to hide. I hate weakness. To me, it's unforgivable. And it's my most hated flaw. I'm weak. I have no discipline, no drive, no determination, no motivation. I let the fear win. I let the pain win. I have no fight left. I'm weak. And I hate it. But I can't fix it. I just don't know how.

Setting - as in City

So I'm trying to work out Maddie and Alejandro's story..... Alejandro is clearly of some kind of Hispanic descent, as is his fiance. That doesn't necessarily mean the city has to have a large Hispanic population, but... that was where I was leaning.

See, I had this dream, and it stole into my brain the setting for this story. A hot city street, so hot there were heat waves rolling off the pavement. Flat roofed, five story apartment buildings with stores on the first level lined the street. Above the street everyone had windows open, fans on. Old woman were sitting in the shade of their balconies with hand fans, trying to beat the heat. Above the street there were wires strung from one building across the four lane street to a sister building on the other side of the street. Maddie is sitting in her convertible at a red light. She looks up to see a young man start across one of the wires. On the other side another young man appears. The two young men walk to each other, long heavy poles in their arms. There are men on the ground watching, some are taking money, making bets. There is an eagerness to the men that wasn't there a moment ago. The heat forgotten as they watch the young men risk their lives. The light turns green, a horn honks, Maddie tears her eyes from the young men, and speeds on to her next job site, utterly flabbergasted.

I don't know why, I guess because of the later dream, I just always assumed the above scene would happen in a Hispanic district of some kind. It's just where my brain went with it.... But that would mean Southern US. Arizona, New Mexico, or Miami Florida maybe. The more I look into a real city, the more I realise I don't know shit about life in places like that. I mean, jesus fuck, how do you survive regular summer highs of 40˚C???? How do you live without a lake, or river near you? How do you live without a good source of clean, fresh water? I live in Canada, on the great lakes for fuck's sake. I really don't understand land locked at all.

I just don't think I can write about a city I don't know..... So much for wanting it to take place somewhere in Arizona. *sigh* I just can't picture life there. Now I have to figure out how to make it believable *here*.

Hell, can it be?? I mean, I wanted part of the 'in' for Maddie was that she spoke Spanish or Mexican (I don't even know if there is a difference. Ignorant, I am). But if it takes place here what's the likelihood of there even being a Spanish/Mexican/Cuban/something Hispanic community, or hell, even just one of the young men being Hispanic of some variety?? I mean, I live here, but honestly, I don't think I could tell Hispanic from general Caucasian without hearing them speak. I see other Countries represented, but it's more clear.... Can I just assume there has to be some number of Hispanics here since Toronto is such a diverse community? I don't mean assume there is like an area that is very Hispanic, I haven't found that to be true, but would it be too much of a coincidence if at least one of the young men was from Mexico, just as Alejandro's family was?? Hrm.. I just.. I don't know...

What I do know is, I can't fake American. Maddie is... well, she's a demon, so that needs to show through, but.... Land locked, hot as fuck cities? I don't think I could fake that. I'd have better luck with Miami. At least I've seen aerial views with CSI Miami, not that I believe I know the city from a tv show, but at the very least I've seen bits of it which is more than I can say for the rest!

If feels kinda.... boring writing about Toronto, but I don't know any other city, aside from my hometown, even in the least. I mean, I have the GTA in my brain, I have a feel of them, but elsewhere, not a clue. I've visited Montreal more than any other city, and I don't think I could write about it. There is a culture there that is foreign to me, I wouldn't get the feel right. So I guess I'm stuck writing about what I know. That's a saying though, isn't it? "Write what you know".

It's not that I wanted to hide that I'm Canadian or anything of the sort. I love where I live! It's just......I had an image in my head, and where I live didn't seem to fit in a reality/believe-ability kind of way. Maybe it's the hole tightrope walkers thing.... But I want that to be crazy. That's the point.

Maybe I'm thinking too much.