It has come to my attention that it is crunch time for this college prep student. Only seven classes left before the re-assessment and Criminal Justice starts on the fourth of November.
Of course this is awesome, and slightly intimidating.
If only this was the only thing to worry about. I have fee’s coming out of my behind for seat holdings with the college, and I have to look at moving for the day after my final exam!
What a time I have ahead of me! At least my muses picked a good time (for once) to abandon my writings. Maybe they where wise enough to know this was coming!
What ever the reason, I hope I’ll be able to keep you all informed on my writing endeavors and how I will (possibly) balance this blog (And Psychotic November: To be opened November first this year), and school life as a full time college student. I have a lot on my plate, but what is a psychotic journey with out at least a little chaos?
I found this quote while surfing the internet– trying to see where it will take me this evening.
So now I want to know, from you dear readers:
Have you ever felt like you didn’t understand yourself, and how did you work through this? What did you do to finally understand yourself again, and maybe what advice would you give to others in this predicament?
Let us make this a conversation!
Always thinking, hopefully writing:
It isn’t the destination, it’s how you get there…
P.S. Did you see the new signature i have (I cheated, it’s a panoramic my roommate took on his smart phone during an impromptu journey to the Rocky Mountains. Maybe I’ll do A photo blog post to show you some of the sights I saw! (And animals too!)
Now I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet… far from it, it would seem. Life as the title of the post states–just keeps on rolling. Since the last time you checked in with me, life decided to throw a fit.
I started my prep course for Criminal Justice, and it was going perfectly– so perfectly in fact i just knew deep down something was going to go wrong. Sure enough it did, and it came with a phone call from my mother who lives three-thousand-kilometers away from me. (that’s about 1864 Miles for you american readers…)
I was diligently doing my homework (a phrase I hadn’t thought i’d use again since i walked out of highschool) when the phone rang. My mom dropped a bomb on me that I didn’t think was possible.
My grandfather was in the hospital.
Of course I knew it could happen, it happens to everyone (unless you’re very lucky) at least once. Heck I’ve been there for life threatening condition… twice. However when you idolize someone, especially when they have never seemed to get sick, or have any real flaws ever, you think they are indestructible. As I am sure you have surmised so far, that was how I looked at my grandfather… needless to say I was devastated, and we still didn’t know what the diagnosis was.
Later that evening I called my mother back to check in, and my Aunt told me the news that utterly shattered me like I have never been shattered before.
My grandfather had stage four Colon cancer.
The next morning at 6:30, I was boarding a plane headed back to Ontario. I spent the next three weeks in a perpetual state of unknowing. Would he survive today, would he not? Was he getting better? Did anyone get better from cancer that far progressed?
Grief is a strange emotion, but even stranger when you’re not even aware you’re grieving.
He got better, at least his pain was under manageable control, and he was allowed to go home. I spent another week at his side, and then I had to fly home. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, saying goodbye and actually meaning I’ll never see you again.
Twenty Four hours later he was back in the hospital, and less than seventy two hours later he was gone.
Since I’ve been back home I’ve been living in a state of numbness. As if the grief was all grieved out, and I couldn’t cry anymore. My writing has gone nowhere and I have restarted my Prep Course. Live is rolling onward, but I feel as if I have been barely moving anywhere.
It’s a disorienting feeling, and rather odd for me. I am a person who stows the metaphorical crap, yet even still this numbness isn’t something I am used to. So while working through my own emotional Stability(?) I have been trying to keep my eye on the prize of my criminal justice prep course– however I have had to restart and that is defeating in and of itself.
Yet, as the nights grow colder, and the September summer in Calgary is coming to a close, I feel the refreshing air on my face, and pulled all of my winter clothes out of the storage (early is best I learned last year). I slowly feel as if I am waking up.
Maybe with this course and moving forward with my plans, the season will pick me up and deliver me into the hands of the ever fickle muses– and maybe just maybe you’ll get a Nanowrimo post update every week. (That is the Nanowrimo Novel!Whatever that may be… )
Anyway, Thank you for understanding my lack of posting for the last while, and thank you even further for listening (or rather reading) my little venting blurb.
I am sure there will be more venting occurring as I shift my focus to Nano, and then again to first year Criminal Justice. Oh and lets not forget to mention the psychotic nature of my own writing endeavours.
That feeling of your head hitting the pillow after a long day of playing and fixing your writing…. “
So, while talking with a fellow author friend of mine I have come to the mildly irritating conclusion that sleep and authors don’t tend to get along.
This explains A LOT (Seriously).
I have always had trouble sleeping, because I had some thought pop into my mind at the very last minute demanding attention– which then demands expansion… which by the end of all the demands turns into a list of To-Do’s for the ever fickle and slave-masterly Muses. This is particularly annoying/obnoxious/frustrating when you as an author have just spent the better part of the day working on something; feeling the stubborn mule of inspiration digging its heels into the ground saying. Well F*@&# that.
As an author of any genre/style it’s exhausting trying and failing in pulling that wanted chapter [revision/article/cover art/comic panel] out of your mind: all we generally want is a good night’s sleep that lasts for 36 hours instead of the measly 7 we’re Lucky to get.
Of course what we want as our day has shown us quite bluntly isn’t a factor in what is going to happen… it’s a general rule somewhere.
We shut down our computers; put our pens and paperwork away. Stand up, shuffle zombie like to the coffee maker set it for morning then crawl our way into our bedrooms, flopping heavily on the bed. It’s a painstaking process to gather up our worn down energy reserves (in my case it’s usually running on fumes by then) to climb under those heavy blankets; tug them up to our chins and roll onto our sides to try our hands at this mysterious sleep– thing.
As I am sure you have been following by my implications, as sledge-hammer blunt as they have been. “Try” is the operative word here. Sleep may touch the mind for a split of a second but by then it’s already a long time far too late. Our eyes suddenly snap open, a glare being aimed to the heavens.
……only to find inspiration smacking you in the face as you look up at the ceiling. Next thing you know it’s after 4 am and sleep was only a fleeting whim…….
Authors by nature are lazy creatures. We don’t want to have to go fetch our bags, binders, pencils especially once we have gotten it into our heads that it’s BED TIME. It’s now our turns to dig in our heels and say ‘No, I’ll remember it in the morning.’
Have you ever tried digging your heels in when a mule or donkey decides it’s time to run? Good luck with that.
The muses are no different, once they decide to bestow their blessing of inspiration, an author’s mind has no choice but to follow it. Much like a fisherman who runs across the deadly sirens song; All ideas of sleep crash and burn. So we get up, jot down some chicken scratch hoping to appease the muses long enough to go back to bed. That chicken scratch becomes a novel of thought that thread between one another.
If there is no paper readily available, or exhaustion is too close (as tends to be the case more often than not) we plot and plan till our heavy eyes close, That sand papery feel of them scratching our peepers reminds us that we need to blink more often while writing. That mild distraction that catches the muses off guard, much like the magpie the muses chase that shiny into oblivion of sleep.
When we wake once more: Drag ourselves to the coffee maker knowing we had something to remember, something jotted down somewhere. The winds of sleep and shiny distractions erase every word, every thought leaving only a vague impression of what once was. It reminds me of looking backwards on a beach as the tides come in. You have a vague impression as to the distance travelled by the evaporating footsteps but don’t really remember walking so far.
……Of course only frustration remains the next morning as the cycle begins again.
Welcome to the Authors life.
So, if anyone ever tells you the life of an author is simple. Kindly remind them that as my friend so eloquently put it…. “Writers = society’s acceptable insane” and we don’t generally begin our journey that way… it’s a trait that comes from dealing with the muses, and you are so not alone on this journey!
P.S. My many and vast apologies to you all out there in reader paradise, I have had a family emergency and haven’t really been active on the computer, never mind writing world. So far things look to be looking up and hopefully when I jump back into classes and play catch-up, I’ll have some time left over to get some serious writing done–[and that dastardly signature i said I'd so a while ago....]
Originally posted on [Link] My previous and lacking blog, What is posted here today is an edited version of the same post– that still stands today. Date posted [Saturday, December 10, 2011]
Have you ever felt like you were standing at a crossroads in a town you have never been in before?
I ask this because I find myself lately wondering about The Hourglass. I am standing in the middle of this uncharted forest, trying to look at things from every angle to write the best story possible. However, because my story is vastly complex [I am not just saying that-- it is very very complex], I find it increasingly difficult to pick a point of view and stick with it.
As I am sure you’ve noticed by now, my excerpts have jumped a bit, between the Preface and the Chapter One excerpt. [links provided for a reminder of what it is I am blogging about]
So this post while short, is mostly to ask for opinions.
When you pick up a book for the enjoyment of it, which point of view do you prefer to read in?
I’ve put a poll at the end of this blog post to make it quick and easy to post answers with– because at this point I am left scratching my head wondering which way to really truly go.
So before I pull out a twelve-sided-dice that I have stolen from some magic the gathering players, I am looking to you my readers, Help me pick which road to take?!
Oh, before I go anywhere.
As I am sure many of you have felt before, tonight I had a brain fart as a friend of mine used to say, and couldn’t remember the types of POV’s [point of views] So, I used good old google to find out what they were called again. In my blind stumbling, I found this wonderful blog on Blogger, called the beginning writer. I honestly believe it is well worth checking out! Wonderful information in there, not only for the novice but for the experienced as well.
So Here’s the link for you all; if you’re interested– I’ll be following along with her works and maybe I’ll invite her to do a guest post on here sometime!
Good Evening, or is it technically morning? Either way Hello and Welcome back to the Psychotic Journey.
I know I have been away for a while, and there is a few reasons for that. The first main one is life had cut my internet connection, then couple that with the wide spread flooding in Alberta (My province) then it’s not a hard leap to figure why my ‘away time’ lasted far longer than I would have liked.
Lately mind you, I have not been able to really come up with anything substantial to post, and rather than keep you all wondering if I decided to pull a houdini again, I have been wracking my brain for topics to give you all.
Presently there isn’t any. Which is incredibly sad since I have just started school for college prep, and I am starting criminal justice in November… but really I can’t seem to wrap my mind around any of these topics to make them interesting for you– my reader.
So once again I have clicked on the ‘Inspire me’ button. So this is what I have gotten!
Write about your strongest memory of heart-pounding belly-twisting nervousness: what caused the adrenaline? Was it justified? How did you respond?
There are so many to choose from, and too many words (honestly the length alone would put most readers off). I could tell you about the numerous times I’ve nearly died, (being hit by car– check, almost hung myself [accidently] — check, Pneumonia and collapsing lung– check.) All of which I believe are worthy of this ‘heart pounding belly twisting nervousness’ yet to me it doesn’t seem quite right. Given that this is a blog about the journey of my authorship– death, or very nearly death doesn’t seem like it would be appropriate don’t you agree?
So… now I am left wracking my brain to come up with something that fits this ‘strongest memory’.
To be honest, my strongest memory when it comes to my writing is when i first picked up a pen and started on my first fan-fiction. I was about fourteen years old, and sitting in my friends trailer up (or is it down technically?) in Lake Erie.
I wasn’t nervous about actually putting to page my thoughts, dreams and fancies– for I perpetually lived in a fantasy realm between the ages of 7 and 17, so that was never the problem. What made me nervous was actually reading this fanfiction with no structure, the spelling was horrendous– grammar HA! There was no grammar in that written work– heck it barely made sense when I was reading it aloud.
However, I didn’t care about any of that, what I was nervous about (and it was completely unfounded by the way) was if my friend (we’ll call her E from here in) would find the idea or the plot in the story interesting… would she be entertained by it?
I wouldn’t have been able to bare it at the time if she found the story to be dull or boring, something completely unoriginal. It would have stopped this passion of mine before it really took root.
As I mentioned, this nervousness was completely unfounded. E, the girl she was (and woman she is now) is not a person to out right squash someone’s dreams and ruin what should be a happy moment simply because it was easy. She involved herself with my story, we wrote it and moulded it — never finished it and nor should it have been– but it was fun and set me on the path to writing. It gave me the courage to pitch to her the idea I had years earlier dealing with the then unnamed novel.
The novel is now named and still a work in progress, but you’ve seen some of the excerpts on this very blog. E helped me gain the courage to start working on the hourglass, and with her help– allowed my imagination to grow and expand to the possibilities and endless wonders of the world I am trying to create for you all.
It was also because of E that I was inspired to pick up a book and actually start reading something, just for the sheer fun of it. (The first book was called Wizards first rule– by terry goodkind, and the second was Green Rider by Kristen Britain– Great books, and I suggest you read both series when you have the time!)
Long story short, the strongest memory I have when it comes to writing is that first fanfiction and the nervous anticipation of criticism that wasn’t coming my way.
And I guess the moral of that little story is, you are your own worst critic. You, the author will always find the faults and the failures in yourself. Often you will reflect it in your own idea of what you’re writing, often internally but sometimes pitching a fit and ripping the metaphorical idea to shreds.
My friend hadn’t even had the thought cross her mind that the story was dull (Even though it was infact incredibly dull but we were fourteen what did we really know?).
so if you find your self nervously anticipating the worst case scenario every time someone views your blog, or manuscript, remember you’ve thought the worst already, and even if they don’t like it someone out there will. (Heck Twilight became a multi million best seller so anything is possible!)
My best advice is to grit your teeth and plunge in the deep end all the way, because you only live once and what is the worst that can happen? You find that you don’t enjoy whatever it is you have taken on? At least you tried and what more can anyone do in this life we live?
Always (attempting to) write,
P.S. Keep a lookout for a new footer image~ I’ve grown bored with my leopards and will be coming up with something new in the near future! If you have any suggestions as to an animal or object that you think would suit don’t be frightened to drop it in the comments box below! Heck, I love reading new comments! (I’ve come a long way from that fourteen year old who was frightened of criticism.)
So I decided I was going to attempt my hand at the ‘inspire me’ button that we can find in our quick post menu’s. I am sure you have found it already, if not, you can find it beside your notification star at the top of your page, when you click new post. There is a small link beside it literally posted as ‘inspire me’.
So this is what i was given, save for the italics which is what I have written for this little image. Don’t fret, it won’t be 1000 words. (I hope)
A picture is worth 1000 words. This safe has been through a lot. Tell its story.
The Old Safe
To the residents of the old neighbourhood, this old safe is an eyesore that they wouldn’t like anything more then to be rid of. It’s ugly, smelly, and attracts all manner of pests to hid within. Everyone who walks by it can’t seem to figure out why it is still standing in that old vacant lot, just rusting away.
If only they knew what this ‘chunk of rust’ had done for a family a couple decades ago.
This old safe, was like any other safe, polished and painted black. Brand new in a shop window, the prize of the small towns lot. Expensive beyond what anyone would have even thought about paying for it. After all who needed a safe that big to hold their valuables Most people couldn’t afford the safe, never mind the valuables to put in it.
Then one day, a young man walked into the store and bought the safe at a discount. The safe was delivered the next day, and suddenly it was stored in an office ready and waiting to be filled with objects of value.
The first object to be placed inside the safe was a tiny shoe, baby blue with this darling teddy bear stitched on the side. The next was a yellow blanket, stained and worn. An old book with a broken spine. Scribbles done on newspaper in bright neon crayon, and even what looked to be a worn down hat.
Every day it seemed that the safe was being filled with everyday items, most looking like little more then garbage to the outside observer. And then one day the young man closed the door on the safe and spun the lock ensuring his collection of objects where secured.
The man went away, but everyday that safe found itself being touched, and poked at. Summer turned to winter, turned to spring back to summer again. For full turns of the seasons the man was gone, and when he came back he opened his safe, placing a wooden box inside the safe. A long cylinder of some kind of brass. A newer hat with mud caked on the side of it. Pins and badges. Pictures held together with simple elastic band.
The young man didn’t look very young anymore but he had a family to provide for, so he went to work. As he worked his family grew, and grew and grew. Soon inside the safe went a steel lunch box, papers of many different shapes and sizes.
The house was filled with laughter, and questions about what could possibly be inside the safe. One day the family who owned the safe went away, to the beach if memory serves and someone thought they should find out what was inside the safe.
But the safe did it’s job, earned a few dents and scratches in it’s fine black paint. It was kicked and cursed at, yet it kept all the things inside secure from the person who didn’t know his code of entry. Eventually the person left, making away with dishes, silver, even a gold necklace the young man had bought for his then blushing bride-to-be.
Nobody thought about the safe when they came home, as the police wandered through the house looking for clues to who tried to break into him. Soon enough the family forgot about the break-in, and started adding new things to the safe. Necklaces, bracelets, silver, gold, Things that people believed should be kept in the safe.
Years passed, and the safe was filled, the laugher and family slowly went away. Leaving the no longer young man to his thoughts and his loneliness. He stopped putting things in the safe, went to the back and bought a safety deposit box, inside he only kept a single sheet of paper.
The old man died, and the house was cleaned out, the safe was forgotten– because no one had the code to get in. The safe kept everything secured inside– doing it’s job despite the years and time that had passed since it had been shiney and new.
The house was abandoned, and every now and again people would wander through the house try to open the safe. But they couldn’t do it, they just couldn’t get in without the right code. Eventually the house caught fire, kids playing with matches they said. A new young man came to the wreckage of the house, clutching a single sheet of paper. He twisted the dial, opening the door to the safe, finding a whole life hidden inside. Taking the items out of the safe the young man left the safe standing in the field.
And there it sat, day after day, week after week… Year after year.
This safe once did it’s job, keeping the treasures of a single family safe– and I would be willing to bet with a little care and paint, it would be able to do the same again, All it needs is a single chance– But this poor safe will be pitched to the scrapyard and melted down for metal.
Maybe in it’s next forum it won’t be left to rust.
Maybe if it wasn’t a safe it could be seen as worthwhile … something worth taking along, instead of an empty vessel used to keep things safe, and discarded when it doesn’t look so pretty anymore.
What if the safe isn’t a safe, but a mind, filled with memories– only to suddenly go vacant, and rust away?
It’s something worth thinking about eh?
P.S. I know this little inspire me test didn’t turn out so upbeat and happy as i had originally planned, but maybe if i do another one– We’ll find something nicer to muse about?