NaNoWriMo Begins to Infect Me

It's a week into National Novel Writing Month and.... I have written very little. It's a bit of a disappointment. But. BUT BUT BUT. I have a title. Which may not sound impressive. At all. But I have this habit of avoiding naming my stories as if they are the name of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (is that secretly saying that everything I write is evil?).

                                         

The story has nothing to do with him though. Or, as far as I can tell it doesn't. Who knows? Little psychotic Belle/Macy/Lily might have a secret obsession with him. Believe you me, that would not be surprising. Her one joy in life is freaking people out with how dark and creepy and morbid and awkward she is. When she was four she would threaten to tie her parents to their bed and light the bed on fire - and laugh as they burned to death. So taking a fancy with a certain Creep would be right up her alley.

She's actually the one who whispered the title to me. I think it's lame and cannot see the relevance of it for my life, but she is insisting it will fit perfectly in the end.

Comatose. The name of the first Skillet album I bought. So it feels all unoriginal and slightly stupid, but hey, I have a name.

Of course, the three people hanging telling the story won't tell me their names. Maybe I can threaten to send them off to fight a war or into a collapsing building or something life-threatening to get them to spill. Having to put ________ where all names should be is sad and frustrating as I begin to think I am a complete failure at being a writer.

Which I am, I'm sure, but do I really need to be told so through a lack of names fifteen pages in? No, not really. I much prefer having The Boy laugh at whatever obvious mistake I made.

Well, of to sew some pants, throw some pillows, and dance in the snow.

On the Risk of Being Mushy

I have decided that the best part about any romance is the tacky quotations I can procure and pretend I want to happen in real life. You know, the part where the guy declares his undying love and the girl goes all mushy and then they kiss and happily ever after? Then the guys watching it roll their eyes and the girls go "Awwww!" Yeah, that part.

I actually really hate that part. Hated it. I would roll my eyes, maybe even laugh, 'cause seriously, what guys says those thing? No guy who isn't a fictional character. (Thus the lack of amazing romantic quips from any of my male characters.)

And then I met The Boy. I should have run away screaming and throwing things as soon as my lovely friend said anything about how perfect we would be for each other. I should have kicked him when he stared at me and shook his head when I was muttering about how I am a useless stupid human being. I should never have said anything about liking being the one in darkness because then no one had to see my face and then he never would have said "But I like seeing your face, it's beautiful."

And I would have never found myself thinking OhmyGoodness. An actual real-life breathing boy that I know said that! 





Love Comments


But then, I wouldn't have been being a grouch today and stomping around grumbling about anything I could when a certain Person wrapped his arms around me in a hug. And that made me smile. 

And if that hadn't happened this wouldn't have happened:

The Boy: Do you know what is one of the best things in the world?

Me: Erm... Bagels?

The Boy: No, silly. When I see you smiling like that.

And suddenly, I was in a book. Or a movie. And the Perfect Guy was looking at me and saying that me smiling is the best thing in the world. And I went all mushy and there was a kiss. But instead of rolling my eyes this time, I closed them and thanked God for giving me a guy straight out of a book. 

Two Years Later...

I am too lazy to start a new one. And wanted to have one now that I finally have access to a computer every day. Something I abuse on a regular basis. (Thank you Pinterest for sucking up hours upon hours of my time). So I am simply taking this one back up. (Although, maybe I am no longer that Mindless Innocent...)

First thing first - my writing. Ha. Fail. Joke.

Well, the past year was anyway. I have written only fragments of anything. Unless an essay, research paper, legal briefing, and hundreds of letters to one (very real) person count. The year before though was a beautiful one. I steadily worked on a story every day for two months. Didn't get very far, but it taught me a few lessons here and there. I figured out a bunch of things concerning Galsha, especially "religion" wise. That was a fantastic journey. Then - this was my shining moment - I finished a story. Oh yes, wrote every single little bit of it from start to finish and strung it all together and named it and every character within its words. In only two months.

Most of it was crap.

 My friend loved it (probably because she was practically the father of the thing, staying up late most nights to help me "feed" the "baby" and giving me encouragement whenever I needed it). Her mother thought she had officially lost it when she began squealing in excitement and jumping up as if she had won the lottery when I read her the last sentence. 

Which meant I had to look it over myself. Shadow People was a TOTAL wreck. But, hey, I completed something which was more than I could I could say for any other tale I was working on.

I began revising the thing in the beginning of the summer and am still daunted by the prospect.

Yet, I still plan on completing my other projects and scaring myself even more. At some point or another.

In other news... I have turned into a mushy mess of a hopeless romantic.

It's awful.

The last few books I read had me in tears. I now want to watch romantic flicks. Luna no longer annoys me. Not that she is around much any more to annoy me, but if she were we would get along splendidly. Well, as long as I wasn't mad at a certain boy person.

And... and... I am going to be setting out to write a full-blown romance. The way I think they should be done. With plenty of verbal and non-verbal smack-downs, plot twists, friendship, a ridiculous best friend, and no sex. Unless it's ridiculous best friend Number Two making some obnoxious comment.

Well, I am off to eat some pasta, paint some wood, and read a book.

You are on the verge of death. Now stare at the wall.

Having an idiot for a doctor is worse than having an idiot for a teacher.

The teacher will not say "Yes, it does usually kill people" and be serious about it.

AND THEN LOCK YOU IN A ROOM!

The the doctor’s office - just more comforting than the one I was in


Okay. Maybe I should explain.

I was feeling like Death - or how he feels in something I wrote for school - and if my temperature went any higher my brain would explode and then die. As in it would be even lamer than it already is. So, after much yelling at my father (he was telling me brains don't fry) I got my way and went to the doctor.

After waiting for an hour and falling asleep in the waiting room, the person finally called my name. Like a good little Death I shuffled and moaned my way into the room and sat on the table thing.

And sat.

And sat.

Until a thermometer was shoved in my face. 104.2. That means the brain I like was about to EXPLODE!!!

So, the good doctor left me in there for half an hour. Thank you so much. I just love being Death and feeling my brain die.

Then I began crying. My mother began laughing. Yes, I am a drama queen and was faking it. The crying. not the being Death.

Finally, the doctor showed up. She began digging her bony, cold fingers into my disgruntled abdomen. AND ASKED IF IT HURT. Then yelled at me because I kept saying "Of course it hurts!"

Turning to my mother she says, "The only thing I can think of is meningitis."

I sat up as fast as I possibly could and screamed "That kills people!"

"Yes. It does."

Then she walked out and left me in that stupid white room for another thirty minutes. I couldn't even pee!

So I began thinking about my death. And flipping out because I was working on Elaine's story now and I felt guilty enough about leaving Cleodentri and Dave in the dust. What would happen to my stories? What about all the one's I had yet to sketch out.

Dude! I need to get home to write!

So I was crying and frantic when the doctor sent me to the hospital. Not because I was dying.

Because I have characters that would haunt me as I haunt people myself.

Yes. I am a nutcase. But I am a writer. I write about people no one else had ever met before.

The good thing about my being told I would die is I now know who gets which book to finish.

Letter to a Non-existent Being

This is to a character who I have been having... issues with, for, I don't know, a good six months. She has been in a closet (my mind is set up like an old abandoned house with surprisingly stable locks) for the past two months. And so... here it goes.

Luna,
My apologies (yes, I know I got that from Dave). I now understand why you are so hung up over a certain someone and I should not be mad at you for being your girly self. Even if you tend to be the complete opposite of me, and so having you make comments is rather annoying.
But I can not release you from your confinement in the closet. I am going to change the lightbulb though! Won't that be great?
I can not deal with you being in love with Obadiah right now. Thanks to spending some time with him (for your story! I promise. Don't get mad.) I am now... I get your point. So, I have to get back to merely putting up with his weird behavior before releasing you.
Please feel free to pass me notes through the crack under the door. Or even have Zipporah visit you. Then maybe I won't want to puke with the lovely romance you let ebb through your words.
Well, before I am tempted to let you go on and on about "your" Obadiah (and how you secretly wish Scotch would fall in a well) , I must flee this section of the "house" for the part with weapons and warring wizards.
Good-bye.
I hope to free you soon, patient prisoner.
Me

Yup. I just wrote a letter to someone who lives in my head and notebooks. At least she can't kill me...

Mental Health now means Writing

I can not help it. I am secretly trying my best to squirm my way out of school.

By squirm I mean coming down in the morning with a pitiful look on my face complaining that my stummy hurts. Okay, not really. I only did that once and I did feel sick. But, still. I managed to avoid school for two days.

And I got to write.

Yeah, I know, this is all boring. Why would anyone care? Actually, that applies to everything I write. Especially my stories.

But I don't care.

I would go insane without them.

I am unsure how exactly this is insane, but, okay. I'll listen to Google.

Not that I am not insane with them, just it would be a whole lot worse.

If I am not writing, those little creeps will begin to nudge my mind. By nudging I mean I might randomly begin flirting with the guy ringing up my crackers or trying my best to act "normal" and smart whilst descending some stairs with my friend. In other words, my characters let me know they need to be written about.

And yes, I realize I am already psychotic and should go see a psychiatrist. I don't think so.

Why? Because I am perfectly fine if I write.

So, I have squirmed my way out of a week of school for Mental Health issues. I am going to write. and Write. and Write. But, I will be making myself more mentally stable.

Which, by the way, is really hard to explain to teachers.

"Are you distressed?"

Uh... how exactly do you tell your teacher that it is the characters in your head that are distressed and you really don't want to be crying over your cup being dirty because it reminds Luna of Obadiah?

"No. I just, um, yeah. I'm also going on vacation!" *runs away*

Yup.

PSAT. Write an essay about how a book that truthfully sucks rocks. Then... lalala la! Writing!!!

And mentally stabilizing myself. Ah...

Notebooks, Grapes, and Faces

The man who adopted my mother and the woman he has been married to since before my birth, made their way down from Buffalo to visit their lowly "granddaughter" (I use those marks due to the status of adopted and step.) and then took her out for dinner. Whilst there, happily enjoying my fancy Chinese - Ahem. Sorry. Asian - food, the one I call Grandma bent down and came up holding a little bag.
"This is for you." she said.
Well, obviously. I figured it was not for the waiter who was standing there, a twinkle in his eye. (I'd just like to say that surprising people with the staff singing you a song as you make yourself a fat little piggy and gorge yourself will not make them like you very much. In fact, it just might have the opposite effect. Anypoodle, back to the "story") So, being a normal teenager, I took the little bag and opened it.
I got a notebook! It's really pretty and it's blue and green and purple and I LOVE that combination.

that set up, just prettier. and not... that.

There was also this amazing pen that writes on all the paper I tried it on and looks really pretty and I had so much fun with it.

Oh. And I got fifty dollars and a little purse thing that cost a ton of money. But, who cares? I got a notebook!!!!!!!
This is why we don't keep the reason for our insanity wholly a secret.

Until your mother begins making fun of you because you excited about a bunch of paper gathered together. Whatever. She just doesn't understand.

Which is why instead of saying I wanted little bottles of cinnamon and calamuse at the party I was forced into, I went with grapes. Aren't they delicious, though? I could eat them all day.

yummmmm....

And, they are perfect for throwing at people. If they are nearby and someone bothers you (as in his nose looks really obnoxious now that all the hair is chopped off from the head attached to the nose), all one must do is take a grape, grin maliciously (maybe this is just me though) and chuck it at their face.