I had rather a manic episode today. I mean in the actual bipolar sense. It wasn't too bad. It made me extremely hyper, gave me an attention span that would have made goldfish proud of theirs, and caused me to flail my arms and scream about toupees. (I was listening to a song called "Purple Toupee" at the time, so it sort of made sense, but still.)

I couldn't really focus on my projects, and I was trying to write several things (including something for that John Lennon project, as I'm referring to it as). And knit. And draw. And hold text conversations with my friends and acquaintances (though I did that with frightening lucidity; never let it be said that I am/was the sort of crazy person whose speech was unintelligable and incoherent.) I wasn't really able to focus on things, though, so I mostly ran around the house (which was thankfully empty) and yelled. The sort of happy yelling that one does when one is silly. And singing. I sang a lot. Mostly They Might Be Giants songs.

I calmed down once I realized that I had to get around to writing my John Lennon song. So I just sat down at the piano and sort of...I don't know, sort of hammered stuff out, I suppose. (I use the phrase "hammered out" quite a bit, actually.) And then I gradually became more focused and settled down and got actual stuff done. Yes.

You know, I think this is the first time I've ever really described bipolar disorder in detail on this blog. So, uh, have a description of what I'm like when I'm rather manic. I'm not a frightening insane person or anything. Just rather off-kilter and prone to screaming about toupees.

Anyhow. Tomorrow's an exciting day for me because I'm finally going in to shoot the interview/song for the John Lennon project. I wrote the song today (yes, the "hammering out" thing, that was when I did it). It's a rather convenient fact that the same time of my life when my personal appearance has become actually relevant (such as giving authors' pictures or being in videos and stuff) is also the same time of my life when I begin dressing respectably ("respectably" being a word which here means "wearing cardigans, button-up shirts, and ties pretty much every day"). It's nice. My aesthetic can be now described as "nice professor guy" (which an acquaintance of mine said was "the best fashion label ever") and I finally look like the sort of writer I probably am. I'm not quite certain. (Well. I feel as though I've spent too much time talking about my personal appearance here and I feel vaguely embarrassed. Anyhow.)

Things are becoming interesting in my life, then, I suppose. At least I have projects. I'm really alive when I've got projects, I suppose. Things are going okay, even if I do have moments of mania. Yes.

In which I am invited to write about John Lennon.

Well. I got some really quite exciting news today. The mother of an acquaintance of mine has a publishing company that is working on an Apple iBook called “A Lennon Pastiche”. It’s about John Lennon (who hopefully needs no introduction here) and what his work and life mean to various fans. There’s going to be a “page” for each fan, and there’s going to be text, art, music, videos, etc. involved (it’s going to be this awesome interactive-like thing).

Anyhow. My friend’s mum asked me through means of an e-mail if I’d like to participate in the making of this (she is aware that I am good at writing and that I like the Beatles). I said yes. I haven’t fully discussed with her what I intend to put on my page, but I’m planning on writing something about him, obviously (specifically about his particular ideas and thoughts contributed to making the Beatles pretty much the most-renowned band in the world and how you can learn some things about his own life through listening to the songs) and a psychedelic-style piece of art depicting him. I haven’t done psychedelica for rather a while, but I don’t think it’s one of those things that one really forgets how to do (or at least this is true of me, I think).

A notable thing about my involvement with this project is that I’m going to be the only member of my generation to contribute to it. (I’m eighteen, for those who did not know.) I really feel rather honored; I think the younger generation has a lot to say about the music of the past in general, and it’s quite telling that the Beatles and John Lennon are still just as popular with us as they were in the past. (Okay, not exactly as popular. But much more than you’d expect.)

I have a feeling that this may be my Big Break (capitalized for emphasis). This is going to be published by Apple. Apple is rather big. People shall be reading this. People shall know the name of Jude Conlee. I rather feel that publishers may even be impressed by this. I don’t have to really explain why this is an exciting opportunity. I’m really excited about this. I really am.

A good day and a number of ways to say "let's do this thing".

The poem I sent to Romania got accepted yesterday. I was happy. I wanted the bragging rights. I wanted to be able to say, "Hey, guess what? I've got something that was published in Romania." Very soon, I shall have the right to do so.

They wanted a picture from me. Well, two pictures. They wanted to publish it with my poem. I didn't have any good pictures, so I got my sister to take a bunch of pictures for me. Then my little cousins wanted to take pictures of me, and their work was actually really good. I sent the Romanian people two pictures that were taken by the two little cousins who got to handle the camera. It was kind of a surreal experience, somehow, to send two pictures taken by a seven- and five-year old to a literary magazine in a foreign country. 

Yesterday, I also made cookies with said little cousins. Well, I decorated them. The cookies, that is, not the cousins. I made a gingerbread man that looked like the Fifth Doctor and some circular cookies with the TARDIS and the word "Allons-y" and 3D glasses on them. I express this fact to the world and I am not embarrassed. It's a sort of childish thing to take pleasure in, and I possibly enjoyed it more than they did, but I'm not ashamed to admit it. Life is too short to not make Whovian cookies with little cousins. Life is also too short to do these things and not post it to your blog that no one reads.

I had a really nice day yesterday, really. Which was good, because that was a thing I needed. I've been needing more nice days lately. My days come in three flavors - nice, bad, and dull - and "dull" is by far the most common. The dull days don't make me hate my life, but they do make me like it less and less. They keep making me feel as though everything I do is slightly futile. And yes, the dull days are usually comprised of the things everyone else does on a regular basis, and I probably ought to get over it and be as well-adjusted as everyone else, but I just feel useless on the dull days, and I don't think everyone else is quite as obsessed with doing good for others or being sure their actions are all for others' benefit as I am. I may or may not have talked about this in a previous blog entry, about how I'm obsessed with doing good for others with every action I take. It's an impossible goal, yes, but since I always fail to reach the goals I set, it's nice to think that, if I aim for perfection, I'll probably reach something close to it (even though I don't succeed). I guess I just needed an enjoyable day to remind me that life isn't always dull, even though I didn't help anyone through my enjoying of life.

In other news, I'm considering occasionally posting some of the drawings I do on this blog. I'm not sure if anyone else would want to observe them (especially since, as I've iterated before, no one reads my blog). But, on the other hand, since no one reads this thing, it doesn't matter what I put on it. Besides. As I said last blog (and have been saying to myself relatively frequently), carpe diem. Or, as the idiotic kids of the nowadays say, YOLO. Or, as the Tenth Doctor says, allons-y! Or, as I often say, "We're doing this, man. We're making it real!"

Carpe diem all the way to Romania!

I did something rather interesting yesterday. I submitted to a literary magazine in Romania.

It's called Nazar Look. The link takes you to the site. There was a very specific reason I did this, too. It wasn't for any of the usual reasons I submit my writing. Usually, I submit my writing so I can further my goal of becoming a well-accepted, widely-known writer and have total strangers remember my existence after I die (I'm serious, this is what I do it for. I do it so total strangers will remember my existence after I die. That and because I like it and because I'm sort of good at it and I want my stuff to become part of people's inside jokes.) Oftentimes, with my writing, I'll submit it to a market that pays well, or at least pays (I took this up after realizing that 1. there are more paying markets than I thought there were and 2. this stuff is work, sod it! Hmm. "Sod it" is not something you're supposed to say in England. I say it relatively frequently because I'm from America and no one much minds if I use impolite British phrases. I try not to be impolite on my blog. I apologize, hypothetical British readers.)

Anyhow. I apologize, hypothetical readers of all nationalities (American, British, Romanian, otherwise), for that digression.
 None of the aforementioned reasons were the reasons I submitted to the Romanian place. There was a very specific reason, and it was possibly even a good reason.

Bragging rights.

I'm not even kidding. I submitted something because, if I get accepted, I will be able to say that I am published in Romania. They'll be able to look up a copy and stuff. I'll be there. Published in Romania. (This is assuming I get in. According to Duotrope, they have a rather high acceptance rate, so if I don't get in this time, I'll probably find myself getting in pretty soon thereafter.) But my stuff will be published in a foreign country. One that doesn't speak English. One that most people don't really think of as a great place to get published. I don't know anyone who has been published in Romania. Of my circle of friends, acquaintances, and otherwise, I shall be the first. I shall have bragging rights.

Let's face it. I hate sentences that start with "life is too short", but life is too short to spend all your writing energy submitting to known places or paying places or known paying places or what-have-you. Sometimes, you need to do things for the bragging rights. Sometimes, you need to do things for the story you can tell everyone. Sometimes, you need to do things because you now can say you're the only person you know who has done a suspiciously specific but still kind of awesome thing. You know, there's this thing - carpe diem. Seize the day. I don't entirely know how carpe diem applies to this situation (in the literal sense, anyway - perhaps YOLO, "you only live once", is appropriate because, in this one life I have, I can submit to Romanians, but I sort of despise "YOLO".) But you know what I've done? I have done it, I have submitted, and I am going to carpe diem and send to all the foreign countries I like in hopes of getting accepted and being able to say "I HAVE BRAGGING RIGHTS! A FOREIGN COUNTRY ACCEPTED MY WORK! WHAT CAN YOU SAY ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?"

Okay. Maybe not entirely like that. But something like that. At any rate, I shall have bragging rights and one more publication, and I think everyone wants that.



 

A major award and a not-actually-failure to write.

One of my pieces got accepted again. It was a flash fiction piece called "Patience". It got accepted by Words and Images. They're going to pay me, too. According to Duotrope, they pay 1-4.9 cents per word. It's about 500 words long. Not bad, not bad. Also, they're from Maine, which is odd, because the only other place that's paid me so far was from Maine. What is it with Maine people and paying? I don't know, and I'm not going to question it.

One thing that pleases me is the statistics. According to Duotrope, they accept 4.48% of what they receive, and they only publish once a year. I find this somehow significant, because it means that I only had one real chance this year to submit it, and I succeeded. (So it's not like I could have sent them anything else later on in the year.) So I (sort of) beat the statistics, which I find somewhat comforting. A lot of the other places that accepted me came with statistics somewhat in my favor (30% acceptances or more). So this one shows me that I actually am rather a good writer (something I haven't really believed for a while). Right on (a phrase I have never used before and hopefully shall never use again).

In other news, I gave up my NaNo novel (if I didn't already post about that; I don't think I did). It was because every word was feeling like torture and I was ashamed of what I was writing, and if I were actually complete the bleeding thing, I'd be working on it long into December (it was going to be longer than 50,000 words). And I'd rather write things that I enjoy. To that end, I am writing some short stories involving two characters that were in the NaNo novel. They're doing things that have nothing to do with the novel itself (one story has them going to a small town and investigating the presence of Lovecraftian horrors that they believe are keeping the town in a constant state of fear; I want to write a series of stories where they investigate such situations). I don't know what I'll do with the stories. They're supposed to build up a sense of continuity that would be hard to appreciate by sending them to random literary magazines, so maybe I'll make a blog where each entry is a short story and have it as a sort of serial. I think that'd work. I don't know. I'm just going to continue my writing.

Oi. You guys. Look at this.

Here is a link to the site on which my first officially accepted piece of short fiction has been published today. That is, it's The Fast-Forward Festival, and this is the page on which they published my time-travel story "After Twelve". I'm quite pleased with it.

In other news, I am doing National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo, as it is often called). My story is called Things Stuck Together, and I am pleased with it so far. I am telling it in a rather confusing, amusing, experimental order, and I so far do not know if it is one of those stories where you would read the first two pages and say, "Oh, this is interesting, I wonder where it's going", or if it is one of those stories where you would read the first two pages and say, "Oh, this is weird, I have no idea what's going on, this is confusing, how can the first two pages be so confusing?" And...that's honestly all I'm going to say of it right now, mostly because there's nothing else I can really say of it right now. But yes.

Outlining and NaNoWriMo.

"Outlining and I have heard each others' names before. I believe we once attended the same meeting and even shook hands. (What we shook hands on, I shall never remember.) But we never developed a proper relationship, and if I need the help that outlining can provide, rest assured I will not receive it."

- Something I said about outlining earlier today.

I was talking to a friend on the subject of National Novel Writing Month. We are considering doing it on some level. I'm going to take a story idea I currently have (which of the story ideas, I'm not yet completely sure). I have already written some scenes for it (whichever one I choose), and I am in the process of writing some scenes for it (again, whichever one). So I'm not completely starting from scratch, but I've decided to embrace the idea that I can do the parts of it that I don't want to do and just do the parts I want. That is, I can write 50,000 words in November, but if I want to include some words that weren't written in November, that's fine, too. I am seriously just doing whatever I want here.

I have nothing more to say on the matter.

In which I say something awesome, Doctorish, and witty.

Yesterday, I did something I'm rather proud of and that I feel very good about. It started out with me reading this article (which is about how scientists have discovered a distant planet that is essentially a diamond bigger than Earth). The first comment I see is by some dude who basically says that this is uninteresting and unimportant because a giant planet made of diamond cannot benefit our species. I reply with this stinger:

"I don't mean to insult you, but I think it's the mark of an awfully small mind to think that a planet is only valuable or interesting if it's habitable by humans, especially if said planet has some kind of distinguishing factor such as, I don't know, perhaps being made of diamond."

Another guy posts soon thereafter, telling me that I'm absolutely right and that he approves of what I said. He then says something about how this is valuable because we've learned something about our universe (or somesuch) and I tell him that's a great summation of what science is like.

The first guy then says something to the effect of, "Okay, it's a planet made of diamond, yaaay! There are billions out there like it, what's the point of it, other than that it's a big diamond in space?"

My response:

"See, here's the thing - there are some things that are amazing because they can benefit us in ways we had never expected. And then there are things that are amazing simply because we find them and we think, 'Wow, that's completely out-there, we never thought we'd find it, it's beautiful and strange and fantastic!' If I were telling someone just a few days ago about the concept of a huge diamond planet, they'd say, 'Oh, that's a nice fantasy. Go write a sci-fi story for it. That IS what you were talking about, right? Just a story.' But now we know that one exists, and it proves that the universe is amazing and incredible beyond what we think it is.

Things don't have to be useful to be valid. Sometimes, it's enough for them to be beautiful. Sometimes, it's enough for a planet made of diamond to exist to qualify it as amazing. Now, I understand that it's important to use science to find things that benefit humans. I perfectly understand that. But at the same time, some things that science discovers are beautiful just because they ARE. Have you ever seen or been exposed to something - a sunset, a painting, an animal, a really good song - and think, 'That's beautiful' or 'that's wonderful', even though it didn't benefit you or humanity in a utilitarian way? That's what this planet is like.

As for whether or not there are planets like this out in the universe - you're right, there probably are more huge chunks of diamond that we can't use for anything, just going in circles around stars our telescopes can't even reach. What makes this one any different? Well, just because there's a lot of them doesn't make it any less special. That's like suggesting that one person isn't special because there's, what, seven billion others on the planet just like them. Like saying, 'No, why do you think you're a special person? The world is full of people. There's loads of people. Many of them are even like you in a lot of ways.' But no. It doesn't work that way. Whether we're talking about people or planets, each one is special and important and magnificent in its own way, simply by virtue of existing and being what it is. And you don't get that. I'm sorry, but you really don't get that? And I don't say that to be patronizing or insulting or anything. It just makes me sad that things like this don't fill you with even the slightest bit of wonder and that you think that, just because we can't do anything with it to serve the human race or because there are most likely billions of other diamond planets out there, it's not worth our time or attention. That's really quite sad."

The guy who posted the original comment then says, "LOL......ok.....smh......lol.....wow....LOLOLOL.....You're a real doozy......"

I said, "Why, thank you."

So yeah. I feel like a winner.

Image? What image?

Before all this stuff with the major awards (i.e. acceptances) and back when the only things I had actually published were two little poems - this was perhaps three or so weeks back - I was talking to a friend of mine about how the only two things I had ever published were about suicide and how I wondered if my next publications would continue in that theme.

Her response - and I of course don't recall everything she said, but imagine that my paraphrasings will suffice in place of exact quotes - was, "It takes a certain image to pull that off."

And I had this moment of, "What, precisely, is she talking about?" So I said, "Image? Expound, please."

She said, "Themes like suicide are associated with whiny goths or Byronic heroes. It takes a certain degree of jerkishness and controlled darkness to pull things like that off effectively."

I said, "Ah, I see." But inside, I was thinking, "Image? What image?"

I know there are a number of would-be writers/musicians/artists/other such people who worry an awful lot about what their "image" will be - how the public will perceive them, how they will present themselves as a persona, etc. I worried about such things when I was, what, thirteen. At the age of thirteen, I was still under the impression that, when I wrote, it would be appreciated by the mass public and that I would appear for book signings and talks in front of people, and all that stuff.

Nowadays, I don't think about an image at all. Perhaps if I were a musician or actor or sort of person who makes public appearances as part of the job, I would worry about how I was perceived by people and thus try to shape an image for myself. But I'm a writer. The thing about being a writer is that people don't see you. You don't appear on movie and television screens. You don't go on stage in front of hundreds of people. You don't even go to art gallery displays and talk about the cryptic meaning of your sculpture that looks more like a cross between a bicycle and a bucket than anything else. Alright. That last sentence was less me being serious and more me having fun with the idea of "art people". I acknowledge that, in art, people probably don't "see you", either. But I honestly don't know how the art world works, nor am I talking about it. I am talking about the writing world. 

I don't know how that works, either, but I do know that people don't see you in the writing world. You're just the name on the book cover and maybe in the "about the author" bit, if such a bit exists. (Assuming you're publishing books and not short stories/poems. If the latter is the case, then you can forget about having an image even more so.) So my writing about suicide and the sort of "image" I would have to work for really don't cross my mind at all. Since I'm almost certainly not going to gain any level of fame - not the sort where I'll be making public appearances and people will even remember what I looked and acted like - I don't have to put any effort into an image whatsoever. I don't.

For those who are curious, though, if I did find myself in such a place where I had to develop an "image", I would act in a sort of understatedly quirky way, the sort of way one might act if one didn't entirely know what one was doing where one was but had been told there would be some exciting adventure and was currently acting like said adventure was already going on. But I'd also discuss dark or sad things with great cheerfulness and no hesitation about disclosing the details of my psychological dysfunctions. But after talking about that for thirty seconds, I'd likely want to turn the topic to something else, such as what a former teacher of mine told me about sea hares or how I microwave my tea when it gets cold. I'd wear a vest or coat or something, and I'd always have my question mark pin on somewhere. I'd sometimes wear a hat (which would probably become my "iconic item", so I'd of course have to wear it all the time) and I'd always wear jeans of some dark color and scuffed-up/adventurey-looking boots. Sometimes, I'd do something completely different and dress up like a psychedelic dandy from some 1960's band, still acting the same, of course. If it seems like I've put too much thought into it for something that's not going to happen, know that this is essentially an exaggeration/distillation of how I normally act and dress.

So there you have it. A basic run-down of how I feel about image and the like. In other news, I just discovered that I do not have my medications with me (having left them at a relative's house), and I won't realistically be able to acquire them at least until tomorrow afternoon or so. This means I will miss at least two doses. My bipolar disorder (which I have been trying to be more out about and accepting of) has been acting up ever-so-slightly lately (actually, possibly not very slightly - I seriously don't know anymore). I do hope I take everything pretty well.

Also, I just realized that I mentioned I had bipolar disorder. Which is, to some people, a form of crazy. I totally forgot that "crazy" can be part of one's image, too. I suppose I'll add "crazy" to the list of all the wonderful things I thought I'd be like in that paragraph. Hurrah.

My story found a home.

I got another short story accepted. The place is called Linguistic Erosion, and I'm not as proud of that acceptance as I am of The Fast-Forward Festival (because, according to Duotrope, they accept over 80% of what they're given), but I suppose it's worth mentioning.

The story will appear on 10/10/12. It's called "Seen But Not Noticed". It's kind of pathetic, and I had a tough time getting it accepted to anyplace else, but the fact that Linguistic Erosion accepted it is nice, because it now has a home. I like it when my stories find homes. Even if they're not the best of homes, it's a home.

So for this one, if I do celebrate a little bit on the inside, it's not because I got accepted so much as it is because my story found a home. Even though it wasn't a great story, I did like it because it had an unusual storytelling style and premise. So hooray for "Seen But Not Noticed" finding a home.

It's a major award.

Alright. Something really very rather extremely good happened today. It made me very, very happy when it happened, and I spent about thirty seconds screaming very, very loudly about it, which frightened my mum and sister an awful lot. They actually thought something was wrong, and it took quite a bit before I could rationally explain to them that, no, everything was quite fine and I was actually quite happy. Being now more restrained and calm, trying to replicate my reaction right now would be silly, but I posted a Facebook status in the moment, and I'm going to copy and paste it here, for comedy value.

"AGGCGCGBK;AJL;WPIRAPS'JAER'PGOAJRE;GO'PIAWREJGO'P/;IARSDOIPGSRSLDF

IT'S A MAJOR AWARD IT'S A MAJOR AWARD OH MY GOODNESS YOU GUYS IT'S A MAJOR BLEEDING AWARD!!!!!!

AAAAADGKLCLJKLGHR.HGALPAQVNljer.nhsam!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It does not, perhaps, capture me at my most articulate or intelligent, but it does give a good impression of what I'm like at my most emotional. For those who do not know (which I suspect is an awful lot of people), "it's a major award" is my codephrase for "a piece I have submitted to a literary publication of some kind has been accepted, which, to me, is such a happy occasion that I feel I must scream and use a reference to A Christmas Story to explain my ecstasy". (Well then. That was certainly an articulate alternate phrasing.)

Details for the interested: the piece, after a lot of retitling, is currently called "After Twelve" and will appear under that name upon being published. It's about time travel (of a very, very wibbly-wobbly sort) and time travel is apparently a rather hard sell, so I feel very fortunate that I was able to get it accepted. (Good thing, too, because I was literally running out of places that might accept it.) The name of the publication is The Fast-Foward Festival (link takes you to their site, on which my story will appear due November 1). This place specializes in time travel fiction, and, in my opinion, they look really pretty cool.

There are a few things that make this acceptance especially significant to me. It is my third-ever acceptance, and I had this sort of self-imposed rule that, if I got published thrice, I could begin to think of myself as something of a published author because of the "rule of three" - something every writer should believe in, I think - and the fact that someone (I don't remember who) said something to the effect of, "If you get one book published, it's an accident. If you get two books published, it's a coincidence. If you get three books published, you can begin to call yourself a writer". Furthermore, it's my first-ever piece of fiction to get accepted. (The other two publications were poems, which do not count as fiction. They count as poems.)

Happily, this story breaks out of the theme of suicide that my two poems set up. (One of them was called "A Suicide Sonnet", the other was about restraining oneself from jumping off a bridge; funnily enough, a friend and I were having a discussion about how these poems were possibly going to set up a certain "image" I would have to work hard to maintain.) Furthermore, this is nice because there was a part in which I could have mentioned suicide in a list of ways to die but, for some reason or another, did not. It does, however, involve death (the main character calls himself up from beyond the grave, which is how the story starts).

But do you know what makes this especially nice? Well, since you're not me, you obviously don't. But I'll tell you. I had been having...well, something of a crappy day earlier today (and "crappy" is not a word I use). Or rather, I was feeling crappy, which is, from some perspectives, the same as having a crappy day. In fact, I was feeling really rather sad/angry. It would sound silly to say the reasons ("sad" because I don't have any friends who I regularly see in real life, "angry" because I don't like human nature and I was just thinking about that and how it's easier for me to find a reason to hate humanity than find a human to love). Well, I've said them. I honestly wanted to scream in sadness/anger/frustration/upset/horror.

I did scream today. I screamed so loud, I scared people. But I screamed out of delight, not horror.

I made a female character that I like.

Something remarkable has happened. Or rather, I have done something remarkable.

I have made up a female character who is not remotely evil and who I unambiguously like.

Her name is Jane (haven't figured out a last name yet). She's a journalist, and she likes to "investigate" in her spare time (e.g. if anything is "off", in her opinion - like if people start acting funny or something that normall

y happens does not happen - she considers it her job to figure out why.) She's kind of a ditz, in a "smart person acting stupid because they actually like acting all happy and random all the time" sort of way. She's very smart, though. She loves animals (especially pets) and actually knows a fair bit about them beyond "oh my goodness cute kittens adorable little hamsters pretty fish look at this stuff". She always wears something she calls "the vest of prepared" (which resembles a fisherman's vest and has a whole bunch of pockets, in which she puts a load of things that she thinks could possibly be useful).

She's fun. And she's female. This doesn't come into the story much (other than the fact that one of her first appearances involves one of the male protagonists trying to date her - they don't form a romantic connection, but they remain friends for the rest of the story.) There's a bit of a mystery element to the story, and her plot function is mostly that of finding evidence (and going to great lengths to do so - she's a determinator, so to speak, especially if the situation interests her). The character could be male and fill the plot role just as easily. I just decided to make her female.

Most of the female characters I write are either slightly bland (because, in honesty, I don't know very many female characters in fiction who I actually like who aren't really love interests for the male characters - and I've decided that, if there's romance in my stories at all, it will be either plot-relevant or strongly downplayed) or villains (because I don't see an awful lot of female villains, either, but the ones I do see are often very cool and I love cool villains).

Jane's a good guy through and through (which doesn't mean she's perfect, of course, but you don't have to be evil to be flawed), and she's not a love interest (beyond the one date that I mentioned, which, again, is plot-relevant because it's her introduction). Okay. As my planning of the story goes on, the male character who dated her once may develop a crush on her (unrequited; she's not very interested in romance), but if so, it'll just be there to add drama and maybe emotional impetus for him to get involved in the case that she and the other main character (also male, explicitly non-romantic) is involved in. (And as the story goes on, there will be a very good reason that she shouldn't get romantically involved with either of the guys.) And she's not the boring "love interest girl" that I'm so guilty of writing (because I'm so guilty of reading), nor is she a villainess. She's - she's just a female character who happens to be female and is pretty fun. Hooray for triumphing over my literary misogyny!

One of my characters.

Remember when I said I wasn't going to post about writing anymore and instead focus on other aspects of my life? This was an inaccurate statement. I seem to be incapable of not talking about writing. This most likely proves I have definite dedication to "the job", so to speak. (I'm practically married to the job, anyway. Which I say mostly because, due to my personal nature, I'm not going to marry anyone/anything else. Hey, look, topics that aren't writing.)

But I digress.

The reason I am making this blog post is because I want to talk about a certain character of mine. His name is Clive Benedict. He's a rather pathetic painkiller addict who's afraid of pretty much every aspect of life or could potentially be so, and he's pretty self-hating and apathetic (about many things, mostly his own life), but of all the characters in this story, he's the one I admire the most. You know why? Because, when you look at everyone's motivation in this story and you get right down to it, he's the only one who's motivated by kindness. 

Everyone else is trying to defend their ideals/factions/interests, and while they're nice people who do care about what happens to others, this guy is the only one who is doing what he's doing specifically because he wants to help someone. It starts with him wanting to save his sister's life, and as he comes to care for more people, he wants to make sure they don't come to harm, but the reason he doesn't run screaming from the adventure is because he loves his sister and thinks he can help her and he has no underlying ideas or ulterior motives like literally everyone else. He just wants to help someone.  

You wouldn't expect it from him, either. He seems pretty self-absorbed (in the sense of "I don't want to come to harm") but his personality traits are not mutually exclusive to working out of love for another person. This makes him interesting (in my opinion) and it makes his virtue seem even more virtuous, in a way. If he can overcome his selfishness and fear, then it proves that his love and concern is very strong, possibly stronger than everyone else's - most of the things that the other characters do are relatively easy for them, or are at least related to things that come naturally to them.

He's working out of kindness, which is more than you can say for everyone else in this story. And that's why he's so far the only character in this whole story who I admire. He's not the only one I like. Far from it. There are amusing characters, nice characters, good characters. He's just the only one who does what he does out of purely selfless ideals. He's the only one who's not preoccupied with something that doesn't inherently relate to morality. I like him.

What became of my writing and what will become of this blog.

I was actually writing up a huge giant post about why I haven't been doing this blog so much, why I didn't end up writing anything over the summer (much less the stories I was talking about here), and why I haven't had any fiction published yet. I was going to give you all a detailed explanation so you knew what was going on inside my head and so that I seemed like not a temperamental, narcissistic writer but just a narcissistic one (if we go off of the assumption that railing on about yourself is narcissistic; I'm assuming that because I'm honestly not very good at telling if I'm taking up too much of someone's time when they didn't want me to do so).

But. I'm not going to do that. I'm going to summarize it and say it was because I was taking my writing far too seriously (instead of not seriously enough, although I have done that at times). I don't want to talk about it. See, there's me being temperamental again. I don't want to talk about it.

(That said, I am writing something, and I personally think it's a very good something. I'm only about 5,000 words in, but it's a story I've had in my head for a very long time that I haven't properly gotten out because of changes regarding people and things that shaped its existence. I'll tell you all about it later. I think it's the sort of thing quite a few people would get excited about.)

As for this blog. I've decided I'm not going to talk about writing anymore. No. Talking about writing just made me upset (because I don't like talking about it, usually, and it just makes me upset to think about what's going to happen to it). It just fostered a sense of glum monomania and I didn't like it. So instead, I'm going to use this blog to show what kind of person I am when I'm not writing. I'm going talk about a lot of things here. They just won't involve writing. This means I'll rail on about non-writing related subjects, my own life, and things in-between. Also, as sort of a self-challenge, I will make an attempt not to bring writing or the creation of fiction into my blog posts. Let's see if I can possibly do that.

Well, now you know what became of my writing and what will become of this blog. It'll be fun, probably.

Not calling myself stupid, writing over the summer, and labels.

At first I thought my inability to finish pieces of writing that I start was just stupid. Now I realize that it's actually irresponsible. I do not need to apply another negative adjective to myself. I have been applying negative adjectives to myself.

I may actually be writing All the Madmen over the summer. Now that I've been at an emotional low for a while - by which I mean that my emotional capacities are low, not that I'm feeling down - I think I can effectively write it. Also, I really love some of the characters in that story, and I can describe why they are like me and why they are stupid. This is a good thing. I can't write about a character until I am capable of making fun of them. Or at least I shouldn't write about a character until I am capable of making fun of them.

I know that nobody ever comments on these blog posts, but if anyone is reading them, I have some questions. I have had some conversations with people in which I was using various "labels" (relatively rigid descriptions or terms that are correct when applied to some people and can be extremely helpful when discussing general patterns in human behavior and traits but also come with a series of further assumptions and exclude some possibilities of other traits co-existing). Some of the things I was describing were sexual/romantic orientation (specifically "asexual" and "aromantic"), mental disorders or situations, and personality types. All of these constitute as labels in some way, and some of them could be considered rigid, but they may also be necessary in understanding people.

So if anyone is actually reading this, what do you think? Does it help to describe people in these ways? (Especially with personality types; I'm honestly not sure if it's a case of removing people's individuality or a helpful tool for understanding individuals.) Does it just put people in rigid little boxes? Should people be given such a label if they don't want it? Is it ever necessary? Help me out, guys. Some of this comes up in All the Madmen, actually, and if I don't have a position on the matter while I'm writing this (which I probably won't), I'm just going to express a bunch of conflicting views in a way that makes sense (which is probably the best).

A link to Alters.

This is the webcomic I said I was going to make. Or, rather, this is the website that the webcomic is going to be on. There's hardly anything there. I would describe it, but I'd be overly negative towards it and myself at this point in my existence. So read it yourself if you want to know what's in it.


In other news, I am not doing so well creatively. I can do Alters because it's not entirely planned and there's fun degree of spontaneity. (And people are reading it and offering their feedback at the same time.) But I just don't have it in me to do actual projects. I'm creatively drained. I hate saying I'm creatively drained, but I am. And I'm going through a crisis. I hate saying I'm going through a crisis, but I am.


Cheers.

Pretentions, why I write, and webcomic links.

Question: Why do I think I'm an actual writer? Answer: Because I write stuff. It's as simple as that. Well, it's also because I have an inflated ego that makes me see practically everything I do as "official work", and the fact that I've had work published before just enhances that viewpoint, plus I want to imagine myself as being extremely productive and useful and my view of life allows writing to fit into that grand scheme of things, and I don't want to see myself as insignificant and silly. But yeah. Because I write stuff, we can go with that.


Another question, then: Why am I writing a webcomic? I mean, I'm a quote-unquote actual writer. Why am I spending my time with something that's only going to go on the internet?


I'll tell you why. Because people see webcomics. It's not just stuff for the sci-fi and speculative fans who just seek this stuff out as a hobby. I'm not making it obscure and unreachable for people (which is how it would be if I had actual pieces published). I'm making it so that I can tell people, "Hey, I have an interesting webcomicy thing now", and show them where it is online. I'm letting people find it. I'm possibly even entertaining some people and giving them something awesome to joke about with their friends. You know why I write, yes? So people can have inside jokes about my stuff. That's the highest form of compliment I can have. That and people drawing fanart of my stuff. Except I doubt many people will do that. But hey, it's worth a shot to see if I can get stuff like that. I'm trying.


So yeah. Webcomics. So people can read it and have inside jokes about it.


Also, if anyone's interested, the link to the site can be found here. Stay tuned, folks. Stay tuned.

Webcomics, pretending, and projects.

I'll be writing a webcomic. Whoever thought it would have come to this? I'm writing a webcomic.

I thought about doing comics in the past. The reason they didn't work out so well is because I don't like the format. I'm not good at drawing as small as you'd have to draw in comics, and I'm not good at visually depicting a series of events or scenes. However, this will be formatted as a series of drawings with associated text, much like a picture. The comics name will probably be Alters, but I'm calling it "the picture book for grown-ups" at home. Although it's not really for "grown-ups" so much as "older kids". The main characters are teenagers.

I have devised a beginning for it, though. It goes as such:


Every child plays pretend. There is something remarkably appealing about forgetting the reality of who you are and becoming someone else for a while.

Most kids stop when they're older, but some don't.

Some keep pretending to be other people into their teenage years. Sometimes even beyond.

The best way to play pretend, however, is with other people.

In childhood, it's easy to find such playmates. It gets harder in one's teenage years.

Some use computer or video roleplaying games. Some, however, are lucky enough to have friends who share their love for pretending.

Imagine, if you will, three kids - barely kids anymore, as they are now in their high school years - who never stopped pretending. Their names were -

Luce Lynnerre -

Jonathan Cruz -

and Danny Markham.

They'd all tried writing stories at some time or another, but the most fun was in pretending to be the people they wrote about.


That's all I've got so far. There's going to be pictures. Obviously. That will come later, though.

Also, I've not given up on The Smallest Weird Number, no matter how I want to. It's gradually coming along. I wanted to write 500 words a day. That's not happening. But I am writing a couple sentences a day.

Idyllwild, writers' retreats, and Towel Day.

I'm doing something very interesting this weekend. I'm holding a writers' retreat at the cabin in Idyllwild. Four of my friends - Avalon, Tobi, Sofya, and Luce (aka Moriarty) - are coming with me, and we're going to write together. Well, no, that's probably not all we're going to do. In fact, it's not. We're probably going to waste quite a bit of time in the way that similarly-minded friends waste time when they're all together in a big house in the mountains. I don't actually know how similarly-minded friends waste time when they're all together in a big house in the mountains, but I suppose I'll find out.

I feel like I'm some kind of writing guru leading my younger, less-experienced adherents and admirers into a spiritual lesson in the mountains. There is a small amount of truth to this; I'm actually the oldest of that group (which isn't saying much; I'm turning eighteen over that week. And now everyone knows how stupid and pretentious I've been all throughout writing this blog.) And they all collectively admire my writing skills. But I'm not a writing guru by any means. Unless they proclaim me one, in which case I shall accept the title. Though I do have things to teach them, mainly about the submissions process. I am very familiar with the submissions process. I just submitted some poems to Black Warrior Review today, and I'll likely submit more. Certainly more over the weekend. I'm going to have everyone submit something.

Also, because I am a nerd and I'm certain a lot of people who would read this blog are nerds as well, I am observing Towel Day today. It's a celebration in honor of Douglas Adams, who wrote The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. One celebrates by wearing a bathrobe, drinking tea, and/or knowing where your towel is. I have done all three of these things in addition to bring my copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to school with me. (And I brought the bathrobe, tea, and towel to school as well. It's that kind of school.)

Actual new project, major awards, and Sherlock.

After a small semi-depressive slump (not really) after finishing my April novella, I've figured out what I'm going to write. It's hopefully a novel, but I won't complain if it's actually a novella. I'm so far calling it The Smallest Weird Number (which is a reference to a band called Boards of Canada; I'm probably one of the few people who have heard of them, and I promise I'm not trying to be a hipster). I'm not going to give a lot of details about it, but it involves a "functional paranoiac" psychiatrist who makes up "conspiracies" to make life interesting, his loony, math-obsessed friend who has a completely crackpot theory of "weird numbers", and a scenario they envision for fun that turns out to be true.

In other news, I had a wonderful night last night, and while I try not to talk about my personal life on this blog (because that's not as interesting as what I actually write, or so I think), this is actually a good thing to write about because it's writing related. As some people may know, I'm graduating this year from OCHSA (which is an art school with a very fantastic writing department - no, they are not paying me to say this). There was an awards ceremony for the writers last night. I read a graduation speech that I wrote (everyone read things, so it's not as though I was special for reading it) It was filmed, so I may end up uploading it to YouTube and posting a link. It was about how, in kindergarten, I brought in a song my great-grandfather wrote about a man who grinds up dogs and cats to make sausages, and how the joyful solidarity of the classroom as we sang it is similar to how I felt at OCHSA.

However, that wasn't the best thing that happened. The best thing that happened was the award I got. Yes, I got a major award. (And if you know A Christmas Story, you'll get the reference.) It was the Director's Award, which is the highest award one could receive. Mr. Blaylock (the fantastic director of the creative writing conservatory) gave it to three students, one of whom was obviously me. I went up making that shrugging "huh?" gesture, because I honestly didn't understand what I did to merit such an award. Everyone found this very amusing.

I later asked Mr. Blaylock what the award was for. I'll paraphrase it by saying he loved my improvement, he thought I was amazingly talented, and I embody the heart and soul of what the creative writing conservatory is all about. That was definitely one of the crowning moments of heartwarming of my life so far. I will receive the actual award in the near future (because they hadn't made them; it will feature a drawing of an animal in the corner done by Mr. Powers, which is hooray-worthy). I will frame it and be proud of my major award. Which is neither a bowling alley nor a leg lamp.

Also, I experienced actual happiness at the ceremony, which was interesting. I don't feel very strongly anymore, but it was actual strong happiness. Mostly it was because of my friend Luce, who went to the ceremony with me. She read something excellent, and during the intermission, I "led her around by the shock" (she had a blanket over her shoulders, and we had previously turned it into a Sherlock reference - "Of course I'm in shock! I have a blanket, don't I?") and dragged her around to show her to everyone I know. My family was there, you see, and when my family is around and I have a friend to introduce them to, I always feel quite proud of that friend and decide to "introduce" them to everyone, despite the fact that everyone probably already knows them. We then decided that I am Sherlock, my little sister is Watson, Luce is Moriarty (self-proclaimed), and one of my aunts is Mrs. Hudson.

I feel vaguely bad for that last paragraph. I really didn't want to turn this blog into a tangent about my personal life, and I'm really hesitant to bring up fandom on this blog. I almost feel as though it will alienate people. On the other hand, it may endear people. I'm not certain.

However, I'm quite pleased that I have a real writing project, and since I am hosting a writing retreat in Idyllwild this weekend (I will post about that later), be sure I will actually get things done.

May 10 - The lack of writing, horror fiction, and chocolate milk.

It's so strange to have a writing blog when I have nothing to write. I'm working on some short stories right now. Most of them are for school. Such as a tale about a serial killer that I'm writing right now; it's for my Horror Fiction class, and I really don't want to write it. I used to be able to come up with and write stories with this with little difficulty, probably because I hadn't internalized the ideas so much or didn't need to internalize them so much. I mean that now, I tend to agree with most of the things I write. Until the end of the story (which I won't spoil if any of my imaginary readers reads it), nothing happens that I would agree with and no one expresses any idea that I would ever hold. It's rather brutal, too, because most of the murders take place in a kitchen with kitchen tools as the murdering implements. Which doesn't sound too terrible until you think about it. At least it's not actually graphic; the killer talks about what he did but doesn't go into details such as blood or intestines or broken bones or anything. I can't tell if this is more or less scary than it would be if he really described it.

I think I may have this obsession with families right now. The only reason I say this is because the friendship story I'm making up is largely about a family dispute, and whenever I try to write something along with the students in a class I'm teaching, I end up making up things about families. Yesterday, I started a story about two siblings, one of whom is drinking chocolate milk the way their grandma used to make it. Their grandma recently died, and the narrator is jealous of his sister drinking the chocolate milk because they used to drink it when they were children but he developed intolerance to lactose and he actually appreciated everything their grandma did for them, unlike the sister. This is actually a good idea for a story, and I will show it to Mr. Blaylock sometime. Mr. Blaylock is a teacher of mine; he likes things like that.

May 6 - Finishing, a friendship story, and the search for angst.

I suppose it's worth mentioning that I completed The Week of Dreams a couple nights ago. Actually, more than a couple. Maybe...four, I think. Or less. I honestly don't know. Chronology is not one of my strong points.

Anyway, I'm at this point that I call the "post-project crash". I'm finished with writing something, and I don't know what to do afterwards. I mean, yesterday. I was wasting time in myriad ways, and every so often, I thought, "Shouldn't I be writing?" And then I realized, "Oh, yeah, I don't have anything to write." (And then I stalked off to put a giant stuffed squirrel in front of a sleeping relative, who later accused me of throwing it at her. It makes sense in context.)

I have the "Good Doctor" idea that I mentioned in my last post. I also have one that's slowly forming in my mind. I'm called it a "friendship story" (analogous to a love story - inherently better, in my mind, although this is coming from someone who doesn't understand the concept of love as everyone else does and who thinks friendship is one of the coolest things ever). It involves two people who meet each other because they both decide to do something they hate on the same day (love meetings like that), and one of them becomes fascinated with the other, and they're drawn into each other's family conflicts (mostly with one of them being constantly at odds with his sociopath brother and then losing his relationship with his "something else" brother). Oh, and it involves architecture. As in, they both go and enjoy buildings together, because buildings are awesome. It probably makes more sense than that makes it sound.

I also remembered that there was something I semi-promised to say in the last post, so I'll say it now. I'm not entirely sure what motivates writers anymore - I know that in the 20th century and amongst a lot of young writers, you've got this intangible something called "angst". Today's young writers are much more likely to use that word than the 20th century writers (unless they're Nietzsche or something of that ilk), but the idea still remains. There's some kind of sad situation that happened and stays with them or maybe persists into their life currently (or, you know, whatever the tense may be - again, chronology's not my strong point). It's an anxious, uncertain, sad, fearful kind of thing, and whatever the reason, they feel it and are often compelled to turn their misery into something beautiful. Or not beautiful. At any rate, they do something with it, and in the particular cases I'm talking about, they turn it into writing.

Now, I have experienced this angst thing in the past. Most of the time, I connected it to something directly observable or nameable (such as social isolation), but usually I just blamed it on what was then believed to be depression. Which makes sense, but not necessarily to the extremes that I carried it. By the way, that sentence proves that I'm in a dangerous position, because now, I apparently believe that depressives can take their feelings too far. Usually, I'm sympathetic towards the depressive people I encounter, but I'm directing a negative judgment onto at least one such person - granted, only myself - but still. I almost think this is making me dangerous in some way.

What I mean to say is that I used to have severe "angst issues" in the past, but hopefully they won't happen again (this is why we see therapists, take medication, and find fiction that correlates all too directly to our own situations so we can obsess over and make references to it so people can understand us). Angst, while not fun to experience in real life, is a good source of material for writers, so long as you know how to use it correctly. F. Scott Fitzgerald knew how to use it correctly. Vincent van Gogh knew how to use it correctly (well, as far as his actual art was concerned). Perhaps even Jeff Kinney knows how to use it correctly. (For those who don't know, Jeff Kinney is the guy who writes Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I'm referring to childhood/adolescent angst that the guy obviously carries with him. I don't know why I put his name here, other than to be absurd.)

I really don't see myself as having much angst anymore. I really don't. I have aversions to separations with people (separations of the permanent kind) and this sort of budding fear of developing friendships, sort of in the way that you're afraid of interacting with people you hate - for some people, it's extremely terrible, but for all of us, it's incredibly inevitable. But apart from that metaphor, I really don't see too many upsetting things for me to base my writings on.

And that's when I have to really think about it. When I can't think of things that truly bother me about my life, I have to think about things I just don't like. Such as my memory. I really don't think my memory is my friend. Imagine someone you, for whatever reason, you frequently hand your wallet to. Maybe you need someone to look after it while you shower or something. You used to be able to trust this person, and they're still mostly trustworthy, but every so often, you find a few dollars missing from your wallet. You're sure it's them, but when you actually ask them about it, they say nothing. You wish you could give your wallet to a more reliable person, but there's literally no one else you can give your wallet to, and you literally always have to let this person hold it. It's not that bad - I mean, it's only a couple dollars here and there, and sometimes you don't even notice it until you go out to buy something - but it's still upsetting.

Now, that relationship with my memory is perfect fodder for writing. In fact, I do have some pieces involving memory. And remember what I said earlier, about how my losing sympathy for people with depression could be dangerous? There's so much story fodder there. Except I just don't know to what to do with it. Maybe I'm not a skilled enough writer (which makes total sense, by the way - I really don't think I'm amazingly skilled, I just like to brag and say I am). Maybe I just think it's weird. But I don't know.

This is the part where I stare at the screen, hoping I could think of some witty, intelligent ending to this but being unable to do so. Funny thing, about me. When it comes to things like this, it's impossible to find endings.

May 3 - Finishing, uncertainty as to what to write, and total lack of focus.

I am very nearly done with writing The Week of Dreams. As in, I have maybe three or four more pages to write. And maybe not even that. It's been a strange month writing it. It took me a year to write a novella in 2011. I'm making up for it by writing another in a month.

I don't really know what I'm going to write after this. I know I said I'd write All the Madmen, and I also know I have to write part of a novella that I'm giving the working title of The Good Doctors. (The "Good Doctors" are a type of magical person in the story. Basically magical healers who are written as a good counterpart to vampires. Though it doesn't read like vampires at all.) I'm doing that as part of a creative project for an assignment. (Basically do something creative based on Gothic literature. A good counterpart to vampires, most of the scenes take place in a creepy house at night with moonlight and Gothic-y sorts of things, a semi-reference to The Fall of the House of Usher...you get the picture.)

I'll try to write All the Madmen. I may have trouble because it's "too close to home", in a sense (everything that happens in it is based on something that has happened to me or that I predict could happen to me). Some of the bad things are happening (or re-happening) to me over the summer. Furthermore, I've grown in a very short period of time to associate it with someone I know (even though I've associated it with other people and I've had the story around much longer than I've known this person). I'm going to lose that person before the summer begins (probably won't see her again), and I don't know how it'll feel for me when I write it. (And, knowing me, I'll probably dedicate it to her. Why am I always dedicating things to people who I'll probably never see again?)

I don't know what I'm trying to say with this. I have other things that I intend to say (largely playing off of why I don't know what to write), but I'm going to save them for later. For now, I'm just going to say that I'll write something. I'm unfocused today. I won't say any more.

April 29 - Not writers' block, detectives' block, and magical dystopia realism.

I'm taking a relatively small break in writing The Week of Dreams, and I promise this isn't anything resembling a cop-out or an attack of writers' block, because I believe in neither cop-outs nor writers' block. Writers' block is a cop-out sort of way of saying, "I don't particularly want to work on this because I'm not stretching my mind far enough." I don't experience writers' block, I experience not knowing what exactly to do next. It's like building a house or something; you've run out of bricks and you can't find the right kind of bricks anymore, so you're just staring at the unfinished house and maybe your tools, and you're trying to figure out what else you can use instead of bricks. I'm sure things like that happens, but I have never once encountered the term "builder's block". Perhaps all professions could be said to have some kind of "block". Let's say there is "dentists' block", "lawyers' block", "detectives' block".

Actually, detectives' block makes complete sense and sounds much like what I'm experiencing (and I don't say this just because I've been watching Sherlock lately and thus entertaining such thoughts). I've got these ideas and information, and I'm trying to piece them together in such a way so that they make as much sense as they can, but I don't have all of it yet, or I can't figure out how to make some parts connect, so I leave it alone and go do something completely different, like make scarves or draw cheetahs or catch turtles (actually, no, I don't catch turtles). And I try to make it make sense in my mind. So yeah. Detectives' block. That's what I have. If anybody asks me why I'm not making 1,000 words anymore is about, I'll say, "Oh, I have detectives' block," and leave it at that. Because people know me, they will not think it's incredibly strange, or they do, they will know not to question it.

That said, I do know what I'm writing over the summer. It's a project I've had in mind for, what, three years that I have not yet done justice to. I'm calling it All the Madmen right now (like the David Bowie song, but this is really probably subject to change). Those of you who know me know all too well what it's about. Those of you who don't...well, I have no idea why you're following this blog, but it's about a semi-dystopian future and the story of one person who lives in it, although it's more just a "life story" kind of thing (not as dumb as that sounds) instead of a political dystopia kind of whatever. The magical realism version of dystopias - the dystopia is just there, it's not what the story's about. Magical dystopia realism. That must be it.

So apparently I've coined the terms "detectives' block" and "magical dystopia realism". Someday, I must use them both in the same sentence. "So, why haven't you been writing, Jude? Any good reason for that?" "Yes. I've had detectives' block with my magical dystopian realism." And I will leave, and the other person will have no further explanation of that. And I'll go stare at bricks or run around trees or catch turtles or something. Yes.

April 21 - Doing what I want, action scenes, and

Yesterday, at about 9 PM, I told myself that, in the next twenty-four hours, I was going to do What I Want To Do (capitalized as such in my mind). Which was my way of saying, "You know what? This Saturday, I'm not going to do anything I don't want to do."

This attempt has led to me sending several things out for publication (I want to do things like that), watching Doctor Who (old stuff, with Jon Pertwee), texting an old buddy of mine about video games that I don't play and Doctor Who (there may be too much Doctor Who in my life), and planning out the complicated plans of my villains from an upcoming project. (The Palmer Zimmerman stories, for anyone who's reading this, knows me, and knows what I'm talking about.)

Well, it took quite a lot of time for me to actually get around to working on The Week of Dreams. In fairness, I was out and about for a lot of today (accompanying my aunt to places such as Barnes and Noble, Costco, and Barnes and Noble again). Though I did have a notebook with me and did some writing in that. I wrote an action scene in which Chris and Avalon shoot moths with a water gun in the library in the House of Impossible Things.

Now, I mentioned that scene, and that's important. You know why? I was worrying a bit today about writing and what makes me write. There seems to be this trend (or at least there was a trend in the 20th century) of writers writing because they had all these things inside them, all this torment and ecstasty and pain that they needed to expel through means such as writing, all this brilliant social commentary and ideas that they needed to show the world. Hence we have things like The Great Gatsby and 1984 and Hamlet. Wait. Hang on. Hamlet wasn't a 20th century piece. But it's the same basic principle, and my point is that I don't write for those reasons. I don't really feel like I have anything to say beyond what I say in my everyday life (it's like my life is an ongoing performance piece or something). I don't have difficult emotions that other works don't express as well and that I can't just as easily enjoy therapeutically (Doctor Who comes immediately to mind). I'm not trying to create symbolic masterpieces anymore (I have a huge ego, but it doesn't make me think that I do great masterpieces).

I tried to make a list of reasons I write. Here's what it looked like:

1. It's a matter of habit.
2. I want to be Neil Gaiman.
3. It's fun to see if I can make money off of it.
4. I want to be remembered by people I don't know after I die.
5. It's a hobby.

Which is a number of reasons, but there are those who would not consider them especially worthy. So then I wondered if there were any deeper reasons that I wrote. Nope. No soul-baring purpose, no uplifting inspiration. It's a habit, I want to be Neil Gaiman, I want to see how much money I can make, I don't want to die in obscurity, and it's a hobby.

I remember that I came to some deep conclusion about why my writing is still valuable and brilliant beyond those five reasons, but I forgot it after we got to Costco and my aunt gave me money to get a Coke, which I drank as I planned out my villains' complicated schemes and wrote about Chris and Avalon killing moths with water guns.

Then I realized something. No matter how stupid it may be, no matter how selfish and petty a reason it is, I understood what made writing worth it. I get to tell people that I'm writing a part of my story where a guy and his dead girlfriend, brought back in his fantasies, run around in a library full of never-written books, shooting matter-eating moths with water guns. I'm reasonably certain that I'm the only person on Earth who can make those claims. (Unless someone else has written this and I wasn't aware of it, in which case I intensely want to meet this person and become their new best friend.) So I write to feel good about myself and be impressive? Well, I don't see anything wrong with that. Not right now, anyway. Does this benefit other human beings beyond myself? Maybe. But I'm deriving a whole lot of pleasure from it, and while I typically disapprove of my doing things that benefit only my pleasure, today is the day where I do What I Want To Do, and I honestly don't care. I think this is a good thing.

April 20 - Giving up, word counts, and not giving up.

I do not characterize myself as one who gives up, but I have given up. Not on The Week of Dreams, though. No. I'm not that much of a quitter. But I have given up on updating this blog every day (as though that were not completely obvious), and I have given up on writing a novel. The Week of Dreams can't possibly be a novel. Maybe if I'd written it so that it could take place over a longer period of time, it could be. But The Week of Dreams is, well, over the course of a week. It's hard to cram, what, 50,000 words into a week.

I'm at 15,000 words or so right now. I'm impressed with myself. I probably shouldn't be impressed. It's a sign of narcissism or something. (That said, I admittedly do have a big ego. I admit this fact. I say it's better than the crippingly low self-esteem that I see in artistic types to the point where it must be some kind of requirement.) But I am impressed at my word count. So what if it only makes my work a novella? Novellas are legitimate. So what if Mr. Powers wanted me to write a novel for this class, not a novella? He knows that I write novellas, not novellas, I told him so. So what if it - actually, no, I can't think of anymore valid "so whats". But yes, to the only actual "so whats" that I can think of - that's what!

So I won't give up. I'll give up on some things - like writing this blog daily (not important) or writing a novel (novellas are valid). But I will not give up on the writing. No. That's the important thing. Writing this piece is the thing that matters. And I will not give up. I'm not that much of a quitter. I do not characterize myself as one who gives up.

April 17 - Accomplishments before lunchtime, laziness, and upsetting things.

You know what's a nice feeling? Getting the 1,000 words in before lunchtime. I always consider an accomplishment to be even bigger if it happens before lunchtime (such as seeing the everyday worst of humanity before lunchtime, which happened to me recently - strange day, and I don't want to summarize it here, but I had doughnuts and diet Coke for lunch afterwards and then I went to a bookstore, where I overreacted with happy fits to everything there that I liked.)

Anyhow. Yes. I got my 1,000 words in, and I decided not to really write anymore. Why? Because...I don't know, I guess I'm a lazy writer. I get something done, I don't want to work at it anymore. I get the bare minimum accomplished and I don't want to keep making it better. I actually feel bad about myself right now. If it weren't so late (it's late for me, anyway), I would actually get to work on it. Well, maybe I should get to work anyway. Just get a couple hundred words in or so.

I keep wondering how much I should tell about what I'm writing as I write it. I wonder if that spoils anything. Well, I'll give a mild spoiler. All my characters (other than the dead girlfriend) have gathered at a restaurant in the mind of one of the people and they're about to see what food tastes like in dreams. While they do so, they're going to talk about all this business with the otherselves and innerworlds, and it will get a bit serious with some of them getting rather upset. Nothing really upsetting has happened yet. And I need some upsetting things now. (Why is that demand so funny?) Well, this feels like a midway point or something (I'm only at 13,000 words now, and I'm really quite sure this will be a novella.) It's the midway point where things need to get truly upsetting, I think. Bad things will happen from here. But if I were to reveal what they were, then I'd really be giving out spoilers, wouldn't I?

I shall refrain from spoilers. Even though the words are getting all wavery in front of my eyes (not too wavery, just somewhat), I will try to write. Yes.

April 14 - What I've learned from Doctor Who, action, and averted spoilers.

One thing that Doctor Who has taught me (and it's taught me a good many things) is how action in stories can exist. Most of what I read before getting into Doctor Who consisted of The Great Gatsby, A Wrinkle in Time, Catcher in the Rye, stuff like that. And there is some action in some of those books (except not Catcher in the Rye...nothing actually happens in Catcher in the Rye). For example, at the risk of giving spoilers, something happens with Gatsby's car (spoiler: Daisy runs over a drunk woman). And in A Wrinkle in Time...I guess there's a little action there. Not much, really. No, not really.

But Doctor Who...that's a different story. And most of it is in the form of running. If you watch Doctor Who, I'm sure you know this fact. There's an outrageous amount of running involved. (Or, as the band Chameleon Circuit puts it, "An awful lot of running...to dooooo-ooooh....") And furthermore, there is monster-fighting, but not in terms of "brute strength and ray guns saves the day". I mean, the Doctor is clever when he battles the monsters. Ever noticed that? For example, in "The Eleventh Hour", he doesn't actually physically fight Prisoner Zero. He takes pictures of it. But in a brilliant kind of way. Or you can go further, like in "School Reunion", where he uses sound, oil from the monsters themselves, and a tin dog to rise victorious. Or you can go back even further than that, to "The Sontaran Experiment", where good ol' Tom Baker gets Harry to disable the monster's energy supply while engaging it in a swordfight. Well, the monster has a sword; the Doctor has a large stick, which is a result of the Doctor being...well, the Doctor.

That large chunk of fan enthusiasm was to bring back my own point that, if action scenes need to happen, they ought to be clever and involve more than just blow-by-blow battle accounts or unnecessary shootouts. At least, that's my theory. Actually, there's nothing inherently wrong with blow-by-blow battle accounts or unnecessary shootouts, as long as they're interesting. It could be fun to watch on film. But that's my trouble; I don't have film. I'm a writer of the written word, so if it's not interesting to read, it's not good. I find it difficult to make my running scenes interesting (and there's quite a bit of running in this story - every time I plan out running in my outlines, I write, in parentheses, "Awful lot of running to do", to remind myself. I'm not sure what I'm reminding myself of, but I am reminding myself anyway.)

Wit is interesting to read. Cleverness is interesting to read. Problem-solving is interesting to read. And our protagonist Chris is a problem-solver. The type of action is always interesting because it takes place in psychological dream worlds, where everything they fight is created by the character's worries and fears. I've already written the first action scene, which involves moths that eat beautiful, impossible artifacts, and I can't tell you how it ends, but it involves a very large sunflower. And today, I am going to write another action scene, which involves humanoid creatures in a bleak wasteland, and I can't tell you how it ends, either, but it involves vinegar. Chris can do all this because he's a problem-solver. This is one of his good points and one of the reasons he's resiliant enough to go through life unscathed. His friend Keith is mentally unstable, and the smallest stress sets him off. He can't solve his own problems like Chris can solve his, which is why they're so different. So not only are my action scenes entertaining, they highlight the differences between two of the characters and explain why one of them can manage life as he does. Tim Powers told us that every scene we write should do more than one thing. Because of how the action is written, it's always doing quite a few things. That's what action should be like. It should always have a purpose. All of it should have a purpose.

April 13 - Over 9,000, characters, and plotless psychology.

So far, I am at over 9,000 words as far as the progress of The Week of Dreams goes. (And yes, I deliberately phrased that to reference the "over 9,000" meme.) Everyone I know is impressed. Actually, I'm impressed, too. I don't think I've ever made progress like this before. Hooray for progress.


I may have only gotten this far because I've been sick this whole week. I've stayed home from school every day this week (except on Wednesday). That gave me the time to write. (It also gave me the time to goof off on the internet, watch Doctor Who, make scarves, go to the doctor, excessively text message my friends, and buy They Might Be Giants and Legendary Pink Dots albums, but I obviously refused to let that stuff interfere with my writing.) I could say of this story that it was "conceived in health, born in sickness". Though that's a bit too flowery, even for me.


I'm so far at a point where all the major characters have been introduced - Chris (everyman narrator who hides his fantasies from everyone else), Keith (mentally ill painter who wants to explain everything), Tackett (cheerful and eccentric but also serious keeper of Chris's dreams), Frell (joking, regretful keeper of Keith's dreams), and Avalon (Chris's dead ex-girlfriend, reincarnated in his dreams, loving and sad). Actually, these would seem to be the only characters in the story. So yes. The main ones are the only ones. Except for Chris's mother. She shows up at the beginning and a few times towards the middle, and at the end, but there's really not many scenes with her. She just...exists.


My main concern with this story is whether or not it's going to have much of a plot. The trouble is, I'm calling it a "psychological fantasy" right now, and "psychological" things tend to be low on plot because they're too busy being "psychological". This is one of the reasons I got into fantasy - so I could actually learn how to construct a plot. It seems to be turning counterproductive on me. However, I will construct some kind of plot (for example, one of Chris's innerworlds suffers from an invasion of moths - inspired by my bedroom's current infestation of moths and my general dislike/fear of those insects - and they must find the source, which also has a real-life source manifesting itself as a metaphor). And furthermore, Chris will have real-life concerns that he must decide to choose over his fantasies.


I really am excited about writing this, though. I really am. And after finishing this blog post, I'm going to go to my moth-infested room and keep writing.

April 12 - Lost momentum, M.C. Escher, and self-analysis

This is the point at which the writing has actually gotten somewhat slightly hard. Which is absurd if you consider that it's only been, what, six days. Then again, if you think that it's been 8,000 words (which isn't a whole lot, but...you know, it's still words), then that makes some more sense.
I told myself I didn't need to know where the story was going, entirely. I thought that the concept was intriguing enough to carry itself. I should never fall into that trap again. I know I will. It's inevitable, like death, taxes, having your heart broken (unless, like me, you don't go in for love), and bad cake. (Seriously, cake can be really good, but it can be really bad.)

Yesterday, I did not want to write my 1,000 words. But I did. And I'm at 8,000 words now instead of 7,000. It's been interesting; I've been sick all this week and I haven't gone to school at all except for yesterday. Which I went to solely on account of my novel-writing class told by the magnificent Mr. Powers (yes, Tim Powers of On Stranger Tides fame). Except he wasn't there. There was a substitute - Ms. Freshwater of...not-really-anything fame, I don't think. She's a nice teacher and all, but she's not Mr. Powers. But I did get my 1,000 words written in that class. Or after it. Well, I did some writing during that time, which is what matters. I think.

I wasn't incredibly happy with what I wrote. Mostly it was just sending Chris (my narrator, if I haven't already established that - I can't remember) and Tackett (Chris's otherself) into an M.C. Escher meets Alice in Wonderland-style house. It didn't really serve any purpose (I think a lot of scenes of this book aren't going to serve any purpose beyond being cool and dream-like and psychological). But it did establish what my characters are dealing with.

There seems to be this running theme of M.C. Escher-like stuff. One of the characters (Keith, the insane painter) lives in an apartment that "make[s] one think it was the result of M.C. Escher experimenting with three-dimensional architecture". I was about to write "(Conlee [page number])" after that, like how you do for quotes when you're writing MLA-format essays. I've been working on my Dracula essay too long. But hey, I'm proud of it.

I digress. The Escher thing. Keith also paints in an Escher-like style (or he's experimenting with it; he gets more into it as the story goes on). I think it's because Escher's stuff looks like either reality trying to manifest itself in an impossible world or impossibility trying to manifest itself in a realistic world. (This is where I point you to TVTropes and their article on "Alien Geometries".) Also, there seems to be this thing with Alice in Wonderland, too. What with the first dream world being described as like falling through a rabbit hole, and Frell's Cheshire Cat smile (he's Keith's otherself), or even this thing for checkerboard (Tackett's got a checkerboard tie and the Escher house has a checkered floor). Someone entering a world of their own invention that reflects itself in their dreams. That makes perfect sense, actually. I love analyzing my work like I didn't write it.

And this is the part where I legitimately get onto my work. Yes, it is.