Hi, all.
As some may have noticed, I've not been as active here as I used to be. There are a few reasons for that, but a big one is I've been writing--a lot.
My life is in a state of great flux. I'm not working; I am transferring to a big university in the spring. I'm broke, desperate, and scared. I have wonderful parents who help me, but I like making my own money. I don't like asking for help.
On June 7, I tried killing myself. I just broke down a week or so before, and finally tried it in earnest. I was obviously unsuccessful despite careful planning. I am getting help, though it is not something I want(ed). It's for my family. Antidepressants wig me out, and I still haven't gotten the prescription filled. I know it's medicine... but still. Still. It's just a time of great stress. These feelings have been building up for years and years, and on June 7 they came to a head. I'd been internalizing so much, and it's all out in the open now. I feel like I'm living in a different world. So, I was absent for a while.
So... back to the writing. I've been writing for years. A lot of the time, it's the only thing that has gotten me over. I wrote poetry in middle school/early high school, and then my attention shifted to short stories. I wrote short stories (and some poetry, still) constantly, aware I was sharpening my tools. I wanted to prepare myself for this eventuality: writing a novel.
I started one back in early '15, but I wasn't ready yet. Over the last two years, I've dealt with various illnesses--severe and not so severe--and I'm still here, living and breathing and standing. And the last two years haven't been all bad, quite the opposite. I started working out in March and have lost forty-five pounds. I am healthier physically, just not mentally. And it's time to write the novel that has been festering for a long while.
I wasn't planning to do this; it sort of erupted out of me. I thought I was starting another short story, but it grew... and grew... and grew. It's terrifying, and exciting. Formerly titled Dejecterotica (now I'm referring to it as 'The Novel Formerly Known as Dejecterotica'
), I think it's going to be a bit of a doorstop; it deals with mental illness and the pharmaceutical industry, and it's being written by someone who has needed medications over the years and hasn't always been able to have it. Right now, I'm writing it for me--only me. I have so much I have to say. In a way, every time I sit down to work on this is like visiting a counselor or therapist. It's filled with the twitchy, nervous energy of me--me, me, me, the person who can't always connect his brain and body. My characters are surprising me, too. They're surprising me in the best (and worst) ways. Despite outlining, I am more surprised by the revelations with every chapter.
I am about 70k words in, and I started a little under two weeks ago. In the meantime, I've written seven short stories. As you can tell, I'm clinging to fiction
Anyway... that's where I'm at, what I'm doing. I want to finish this novel, and I think I can. It's just too bad I don't have an Annie Wilkes to keep me in line, for I sometimes get distracted by social media.
As some may have noticed, I've not been as active here as I used to be. There are a few reasons for that, but a big one is I've been writing--a lot.
My life is in a state of great flux. I'm not working; I am transferring to a big university in the spring. I'm broke, desperate, and scared. I have wonderful parents who help me, but I like making my own money. I don't like asking for help.
On June 7, I tried killing myself. I just broke down a week or so before, and finally tried it in earnest. I was obviously unsuccessful despite careful planning. I am getting help, though it is not something I want(ed). It's for my family. Antidepressants wig me out, and I still haven't gotten the prescription filled. I know it's medicine... but still. Still. It's just a time of great stress. These feelings have been building up for years and years, and on June 7 they came to a head. I'd been internalizing so much, and it's all out in the open now. I feel like I'm living in a different world. So, I was absent for a while.
So... back to the writing. I've been writing for years. A lot of the time, it's the only thing that has gotten me over. I wrote poetry in middle school/early high school, and then my attention shifted to short stories. I wrote short stories (and some poetry, still) constantly, aware I was sharpening my tools. I wanted to prepare myself for this eventuality: writing a novel.
I started one back in early '15, but I wasn't ready yet. Over the last two years, I've dealt with various illnesses--severe and not so severe--and I'm still here, living and breathing and standing. And the last two years haven't been all bad, quite the opposite. I started working out in March and have lost forty-five pounds. I am healthier physically, just not mentally. And it's time to write the novel that has been festering for a long while.
I wasn't planning to do this; it sort of erupted out of me. I thought I was starting another short story, but it grew... and grew... and grew. It's terrifying, and exciting. Formerly titled Dejecterotica (now I'm referring to it as 'The Novel Formerly Known as Dejecterotica'
), I think it's going to be a bit of a doorstop; it deals with mental illness and the pharmaceutical industry, and it's being written by someone who has needed medications over the years and hasn't always been able to have it. Right now, I'm writing it for me--only me. I have so much I have to say. In a way, every time I sit down to work on this is like visiting a counselor or therapist. It's filled with the twitchy, nervous energy of me--me, me, me, the person who can't always connect his brain and body. My characters are surprising me, too. They're surprising me in the best (and worst) ways. Despite outlining, I am more surprised by the revelations with every chapter.I am about 70k words in, and I started a little under two weeks ago. In the meantime, I've written seven short stories. As you can tell, I'm clinging to fiction
Anyway... that's where I'm at, what I'm doing. I want to finish this novel, and I think I can. It's just too bad I don't have an Annie Wilkes to keep me in line, for I sometimes get distracted by social media.
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