While I am eyeballs deep in editing a project and juggling a number of other things, I am putting this blog on hold for a few weeks.
I may post updates on how the editing process is going or some of the things I'm juggling here are falling out of my hands. Right now, I'm working on major spring cleaning, trying to get my household affairs organized again after the disorganization that came from a recent depressive episode, and there's the business of just day to day stuff going on that is getting in the way of blogging here.
In other news, I think I like KDP's platform more than Lulu's right now. I've been having some difficulty getting Lulu's cover creator to function properly on my computer. It claims I have the wrong version of Flash on here, but I know that Chrome updates it all the time. If I still had the other computer running, I'd use it to handle stuff like that because Lulu didn't give me grief. Alas, the desktop computer is stone dead and awaiting being shuffled off to get recycled into gods only know what next.
I'm now on Instagram. I'm still figuring out how to use it. I hope to be posting material up there and providing literal snapshots of my work space. Little insight into the madness of how I make things work. The problem is Instagram is mirroring all of my pics right now. It's a bit annoying. I'm going to try to tinker with it to fix the issue. Hopefully I won't break something in the process.
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
The Iron Lily: Part 24 – Road of Bones
The shambling skeletal remains of the two armies that had clashed generations before on the field lurched towards Halthor and Freystein. "STAY BEHIND ME," the mountain troll commanded. Deciding that it was better to stay behind a mountain troll swinging a branchless tree trunk as big around as he was, Halthor moved to rear gaurd position. Freystein walked forward. With a mighty swing, skeletons were shattered and sent flying. Those struck by Freystein's blow did not reform. Those struck by the flying debris and were damaged, did.
"NECROMANCERS ARE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE, YOUNG HALTHOR," the mountain troll said matter of factly, "ALL OF THIS BECAUSE OF A NECROMANCER'S DEATH CURSE." They had advanced a good ways into the field when the undead began to surround them. Halthor crouched and moved backwards with his back to Freystein. "WE MUST FIND THE LICH AND DESTROY THEM."
"The what?" Halthor said, unnerved by the fact that despite how Freystein was knocking down vast swaths of skeletons, their number seemed undiminished. A skeletal hand grasped at Halthor. Halthor struck with his hammer and the sound of thunder filled the air as lightning split the sky. Smoking ashes remained where the skeleton was and a good number about it had been thrown back by the blast. They were not getting up off the ground, unlike the ones they ran into and knocked down.
"THE WIZARD SKELETON KING," Freystein answered, looking over their shoulder to watch as Halthor struck down another grasping skeleton. "OH, THAT WILL DRAW HIS ATTENTION. GOOD THINKING."
"Draw his attention?!" shouted Halthor in dismay, "I thought we were trying to just get out of here."
"WE CAN NOT LEAVE A SKELETON ARMY TO RAMPAGE THE WOODS. THAT WOULD SIMPLY BE RUDE OF US TO LEAVE SUCH A MESS," Freystein said, "THE BLUE LADY WOULD BE MOST DISPLEASED WITH US." Halthor shoved a couple of skeletons into each other with the shield and watched as a shockwave moved through the press, many falling. "I LIKE THAT. YOU SHOULD DO IT AGAIN BUT THE OTHER WAY." Halthor dodged another grasping hand and smote the skull attached. Lighting flashed, thunder crashed, and bones were dashed to pieces.
"What other way? They're coming from everywhere, Freystein!" Halthor shouted. A skeletal creature, which Halthor could only assume was once a horse, attempted to bite him. Halthor swung his left arm up and staggered back with the force of the blow against his shield. Halthor felt something pushing and attempting to pull on the shield. Fixing his shoulder against the shield, Halthor pushed back as hard as he could. He nearly stumbled as the resistance fell away. He looked over the top of the shield for a moment. The builder could see the forces marshalled against them attempting to swarm over them again.
Halthor accidentally struck the shield with his hammer. A noise like the toll of a great bell sounded. From where Halthor stood, a wave washed over the foes he was facing. The skeletons disassembled themselves and fell lifeless again to the ground. Realizing that striking the shield was what did this, Halthor turned to the left and did it again. Again a vast number of skeletons dropped. He turned to the right and repeated the process. "Freystein, let me in front," Halthor said.
"NO," the mountain troll answered, "TOO DANGEROUS."
Halthor tried to look around Freystein and saw what appeared to be a gaunt spectre towering over the moutain troll. "Suddenly, I have the greatest desire for fowl," Halthor said. The mountain troll paused in mid swing.
"WHY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT FOOD AT A TIME LIKE THIS? I TOLD YOU THAT YOU DID NOT EAT ENOUGH EARLIER."
"Duck, Freystein," Halthor said. The mountain troll turned, looking at Halthor in confusion. As they shielded their charge with their body, Freystein stooped to try to hear him better. Realizing that he had the space to throw the hammer at the specter, Halthor did so. The hammer spun through the air before it slammed into the filmy gauze that remained of the necromancer turned lich's clothes. As it struck the skeletal remains of the specter, lighting cleaved through the air and the clothes turned into a ball of fire.
An inhuman scream of agony filled the air. And then everything stopped. All of the skeletons collapsed to the ground. Halthor held up his hand and Freystein turned, only to duck quickly as the hammer whistled over their head and back to Halthor's hand. The mountain troll reached up a hand to pass it over their head where the hammer just missed them. "BE CAREFUL WITH THAT LITTLE HAMMER, HALTHOR," Freystein warned, "IT CAN SPLIT MOUNTAINS IF NECESSARY."
"NECROMANCERS ARE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE, YOUNG HALTHOR," the mountain troll said matter of factly, "ALL OF THIS BECAUSE OF A NECROMANCER'S DEATH CURSE." They had advanced a good ways into the field when the undead began to surround them. Halthor crouched and moved backwards with his back to Freystein. "WE MUST FIND THE LICH AND DESTROY THEM."
"The what?" Halthor said, unnerved by the fact that despite how Freystein was knocking down vast swaths of skeletons, their number seemed undiminished. A skeletal hand grasped at Halthor. Halthor struck with his hammer and the sound of thunder filled the air as lightning split the sky. Smoking ashes remained where the skeleton was and a good number about it had been thrown back by the blast. They were not getting up off the ground, unlike the ones they ran into and knocked down.
"THE WIZARD SKELETON KING," Freystein answered, looking over their shoulder to watch as Halthor struck down another grasping skeleton. "OH, THAT WILL DRAW HIS ATTENTION. GOOD THINKING."
"Draw his attention?!" shouted Halthor in dismay, "I thought we were trying to just get out of here."
"WE CAN NOT LEAVE A SKELETON ARMY TO RAMPAGE THE WOODS. THAT WOULD SIMPLY BE RUDE OF US TO LEAVE SUCH A MESS," Freystein said, "THE BLUE LADY WOULD BE MOST DISPLEASED WITH US." Halthor shoved a couple of skeletons into each other with the shield and watched as a shockwave moved through the press, many falling. "I LIKE THAT. YOU SHOULD DO IT AGAIN BUT THE OTHER WAY." Halthor dodged another grasping hand and smote the skull attached. Lighting flashed, thunder crashed, and bones were dashed to pieces.
"What other way? They're coming from everywhere, Freystein!" Halthor shouted. A skeletal creature, which Halthor could only assume was once a horse, attempted to bite him. Halthor swung his left arm up and staggered back with the force of the blow against his shield. Halthor felt something pushing and attempting to pull on the shield. Fixing his shoulder against the shield, Halthor pushed back as hard as he could. He nearly stumbled as the resistance fell away. He looked over the top of the shield for a moment. The builder could see the forces marshalled against them attempting to swarm over them again.
Halthor accidentally struck the shield with his hammer. A noise like the toll of a great bell sounded. From where Halthor stood, a wave washed over the foes he was facing. The skeletons disassembled themselves and fell lifeless again to the ground. Realizing that striking the shield was what did this, Halthor turned to the left and did it again. Again a vast number of skeletons dropped. He turned to the right and repeated the process. "Freystein, let me in front," Halthor said.
"NO," the mountain troll answered, "TOO DANGEROUS."
Halthor tried to look around Freystein and saw what appeared to be a gaunt spectre towering over the moutain troll. "Suddenly, I have the greatest desire for fowl," Halthor said. The mountain troll paused in mid swing.
"WHY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT FOOD AT A TIME LIKE THIS? I TOLD YOU THAT YOU DID NOT EAT ENOUGH EARLIER."
"Duck, Freystein," Halthor said. The mountain troll turned, looking at Halthor in confusion. As they shielded their charge with their body, Freystein stooped to try to hear him better. Realizing that he had the space to throw the hammer at the specter, Halthor did so. The hammer spun through the air before it slammed into the filmy gauze that remained of the necromancer turned lich's clothes. As it struck the skeletal remains of the specter, lighting cleaved through the air and the clothes turned into a ball of fire.
An inhuman scream of agony filled the air. And then everything stopped. All of the skeletons collapsed to the ground. Halthor held up his hand and Freystein turned, only to duck quickly as the hammer whistled over their head and back to Halthor's hand. The mountain troll reached up a hand to pass it over their head where the hammer just missed them. "BE CAREFUL WITH THAT LITTLE HAMMER, HALTHOR," Freystein warned, "IT CAN SPLIT MOUNTAINS IF NECESSARY."
Monday, February 11, 2019
Writing through tears.
Dear Reader,
I'm clawing my way up out of a depressive episode. It's been brutal for the last month. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until I hit the bottom of this low. I was laying in bed last Thursday night, wanting to cry but just not having the energy to do it. As I was there, Beloved was reminding me how I wasn't a failure, a disappointment, or a bad human being. I lay there thinking, "Wow, I am really depressed." I didn't feel much shock through the numbness of the depression.
But, I laid there in bed thinking about how much I wanted to write. And how hard it had been to write because the imposter syndrome had me around the throat. Because when I get into delusional thinking due to depression, I have delusions of being not good enough for anything. It's pretty rough. And finding the dividing line between imposter syndrome and mental illness is really tricky.
Now that I am coming up out of that morass of misery, I can recognize imposter syndrome a mile off. It's that annoying thing that nips at my ankles daily telling me I'm not qualified to do any of this stuff. It's a daily irritation that wears me down just as much as a couple of kids who're having a bad day does. Can I work through it? Yeah. It's not fun, but I can force it aside and work.
Depression, that's a whole other ball of wax. That sucks the creative energy out of my head and spins it up into nightmares, waking existential horror, and endless worry. It is really hard to reclaim your creative energy when you've spent it all on other things decidedly more unpleasant due to malfunctioning brain chemistry.
Depression is one of my limits. It is a brick wall that I can't force my way through. I just have to wait and do the mental yoga of journal writing until it decides to go away.
On the flip side, there's hypomania. I can write about a book in a week when I'm hypomanic and I don't have distractions. The problem is, I have the attention span of a squirrel on a metric ton of coffee and that squirrel outside the window will be a distraction. Except for organizing things. Hypomania makes me super organized. I get so organized that I clean and stuff. I put EVERYTHING away.
The problem is, when I come down out of hypomania, I don't remember where it is. It's nice to have a spotless kitchen. It's tough when you can't find the measuring spoons or the ingredient you need to measure to make dinner. I'm currently moving towards hypomania. That means you'll see more posts soon. Some of it may be a bit weird. Life with bipolar it weird with bouts of normalcy.
I'm clawing my way up out of a depressive episode. It's been brutal for the last month. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until I hit the bottom of this low. I was laying in bed last Thursday night, wanting to cry but just not having the energy to do it. As I was there, Beloved was reminding me how I wasn't a failure, a disappointment, or a bad human being. I lay there thinking, "Wow, I am really depressed." I didn't feel much shock through the numbness of the depression.
But, I laid there in bed thinking about how much I wanted to write. And how hard it had been to write because the imposter syndrome had me around the throat. Because when I get into delusional thinking due to depression, I have delusions of being not good enough for anything. It's pretty rough. And finding the dividing line between imposter syndrome and mental illness is really tricky.
Now that I am coming up out of that morass of misery, I can recognize imposter syndrome a mile off. It's that annoying thing that nips at my ankles daily telling me I'm not qualified to do any of this stuff. It's a daily irritation that wears me down just as much as a couple of kids who're having a bad day does. Can I work through it? Yeah. It's not fun, but I can force it aside and work.
Depression, that's a whole other ball of wax. That sucks the creative energy out of my head and spins it up into nightmares, waking existential horror, and endless worry. It is really hard to reclaim your creative energy when you've spent it all on other things decidedly more unpleasant due to malfunctioning brain chemistry.
Depression is one of my limits. It is a brick wall that I can't force my way through. I just have to wait and do the mental yoga of journal writing until it decides to go away.
On the flip side, there's hypomania. I can write about a book in a week when I'm hypomanic and I don't have distractions. The problem is, I have the attention span of a squirrel on a metric ton of coffee and that squirrel outside the window will be a distraction. Except for organizing things. Hypomania makes me super organized. I get so organized that I clean and stuff. I put EVERYTHING away.
The problem is, when I come down out of hypomania, I don't remember where it is. It's nice to have a spotless kitchen. It's tough when you can't find the measuring spoons or the ingredient you need to measure to make dinner. I'm currently moving towards hypomania. That means you'll see more posts soon. Some of it may be a bit weird. Life with bipolar it weird with bouts of normalcy.
Friday, February 8, 2019
Something, something Science Fiction
Angel walked into the cargo hold with her attention focused on reaching the maintenance hatch. She moved against the wall on the starboard side of the hold doors that she had opened via the manual fail safe. When she reached the location where Aeolus had told her the supplies were located she found herself looking at a bare wall of sheet metal. She looked up and saw the supply hatch she was looking for about fifteen feet above her head. “You're kidding me,” she sighed. Aeolus's voice came over the radio in a smooth baritone that sounded almost musical. Angel knew that he could have modulated his voice to sound like any gender and any vocal range, even something in human.
The sentient ship said to its captain, “You are at the hatch, what is wrong?” Angel rolled her eyes.
“Some dumbass engineer designed it for zero gravity access,” she answered. Aeolus was silent. Through the neural-link Angel could tell he was engaged in calculations. “Can you kill the gravity system for the hold with out cargo floating free?”
“It is possible, but it depends on the cargo being secured properly. The experimental cargo is in a sector that my internal sensors can not access due to the damage.” Angel shook her head. It was just like Xenogen to pack in extra material with out any real information except for high clearance officials. The fact that Aeolus was sentient didn't change the fact that he was viewed as just a machine. He wasn't required to have clearance or access. “Captain, target acquired thirty five degrees on the x-axis on your plane, moving towards you at a rate of one meter per minute. Distance undetermined, target is not accelerating at this time,” Aeolus sounded in her head through the neural-link, “Retreat is advisable.”
“Oh hell,” Angel muttered, reaching through the emergency med-access point to draw her pistol free from her suit. She turned and leveled the plasma pistol at where she'd expect a human head to be, “Can you get the damn light on? The suit doesn't give me range here.”
“System failure thirty two on line alpha eight. Illumination is not possible in that hold, captain. Target is showing up as four meters from your position,” Aeolus said through the neural-link, a tone of urgency in his voice, “Repeat, retreat is advisable.”
“Something you should learn about me, Aeolus,” Angel said, “I don't run from the unknown. Kill the gravity switch.”
“System eighty seven on line beta eight off-line. Good luck, Angel.” The moment the gravity simulator system turned off, Angel sighted the access point and jumped. The force of acceleration from her motion was unevenly applied so she rose with a slow drift to the left of where she intended to go. While a part of her said she should try to 'swim' towards her target, Angel pressed the button for the booster system to correct her course. It was contrary to what her body told her to do, but she knew that in zero gravity she'd functionally be flailing in a circle with out anything to provide enough resistance for her to push forward against.
As she reached the maintenance hatch and started the procedure of opening it one handed, a light caught her eye. She looked over to see another emergency suit drifting towards her, occupied with a familiar looking face. One hand holding the maintenance hatch door and the other pointing the plasma pistol at the figure drifting towards her, Angel said, “System eighty seven on line beta eight, engage. Now.” The figure drifiting dropped immediately at thirty two feet per second, per second. As they hit the deck below, Angel watched them lay there stunned. She looked up at the hatch handle she was holding on to. “Why the hell aren't the mag boots standard issue?” Angel muttered.
“Captain, your system indicates that strain is increasing on your left arm. The hatch handle is not designed to be load bearing. I advise disengaging system eighty seven on line beta eight before the handle is damaged.” Angel wrenched her self around with a sharp twist of her whole body. For a brief moment, she pulled herself up against the hull. In those few seconds, she opened the hatch door and watched as the equipment began to fall out. Angel let go of the door as it gave way beneath her weight. “Kick it off,” Angel barked. The gravity abruptly shut off and she pushed herself off of the hull as it did so. As such, she was moving at the rate of gravity towards the deck. She tucked herself into a roll. “On,” she commanded and the figure that was sailing towards the cyborg dropped to the ground moments after Angel landed and came to her feet.
She put a boot into their chest and kicked them to the ground. Behind her, the sealed repair kit clattered to the deck along with the ripped off hatch door. Her plasma pistol was square in between the eyes of what looked to be her long dead lover, Dregan. “Talk or I'll just take your head off,” she said flatly, “You should be dead. I have no problems fixing that.” The Dregan in the plasma suit held their hands up in a universally recognized gesture of surrender.
“I'm unit alpha nine nine seven. My mission is to support the captain of this ship in the event of a plasma breech. I was activated when the emergency systems came on line.” Angel looked down at the cyborg before her. The nine nine seven line were non-combat units. Dregan was a combat unit that had gone rogue long before her. Combat units that went rogue were collected and reconditioned before being placed in another combat unit. They were too expensive to really eliminate. This unit, however, was a cheap clone with half the programming, if it really was a nine nine seven unit.
“Captain,” Aeolus said via the neural-link, “Additional targets incoming.”
“I know you,” the cyborg on the deck said, “You are A.. A.. A..” It stuttered. Angel was half of a mind to drag the cyborg beneath her foot into the main quarters of the ship. Then she saw the other lights of the emergency suits coming.
“It's a trap,” she said, “Good night, sweet prince.” She looked away from the blast of the plasma pistol. It lit up the space in a dramatic flare of light. She could see the others coming towards her from the damaged part of the hold. She reached back and grabbed the gear that had fallen to the ground behind her and ran for the hatchway back to the main quarters of the ship. As she got to them, Angel threw the gear into the corridor and dove through the doors. “Shut it!” she shouted. It didn't matter that Aeolus could hear the thought as it materialized in her mind and was in the midst of executing the command. On the door, she heard the sound of something hitting the metal. Then the blast doors came down and there was total silence except for her breathing.
“What the hell?” Angel demanded.
“I do not understand the question, captain. Please rephrase it.”
“Don't give me that bullshit, Aeolus. What in hell just happened? There were combat units in there. Prior gen combat units.”
“The experimental cargo must have breeched containment,” Aeolus said, “It was delivered by automated systems shortly before your arrival.”
“That was the experimental cargo?” she replied tersely, “A container full of clones of prior gen combat units?”
“The manifest did not list what it was, only that emergency suits had to be supplied in the area where the container was located and that all systems to it had to remain online constantly.”
The sentient ship said to its captain, “You are at the hatch, what is wrong?” Angel rolled her eyes.
“Some dumbass engineer designed it for zero gravity access,” she answered. Aeolus was silent. Through the neural-link Angel could tell he was engaged in calculations. “Can you kill the gravity system for the hold with out cargo floating free?”
“It is possible, but it depends on the cargo being secured properly. The experimental cargo is in a sector that my internal sensors can not access due to the damage.” Angel shook her head. It was just like Xenogen to pack in extra material with out any real information except for high clearance officials. The fact that Aeolus was sentient didn't change the fact that he was viewed as just a machine. He wasn't required to have clearance or access. “Captain, target acquired thirty five degrees on the x-axis on your plane, moving towards you at a rate of one meter per minute. Distance undetermined, target is not accelerating at this time,” Aeolus sounded in her head through the neural-link, “Retreat is advisable.”
“Oh hell,” Angel muttered, reaching through the emergency med-access point to draw her pistol free from her suit. She turned and leveled the plasma pistol at where she'd expect a human head to be, “Can you get the damn light on? The suit doesn't give me range here.”
“System failure thirty two on line alpha eight. Illumination is not possible in that hold, captain. Target is showing up as four meters from your position,” Aeolus said through the neural-link, a tone of urgency in his voice, “Repeat, retreat is advisable.”
“Something you should learn about me, Aeolus,” Angel said, “I don't run from the unknown. Kill the gravity switch.”
“System eighty seven on line beta eight off-line. Good luck, Angel.” The moment the gravity simulator system turned off, Angel sighted the access point and jumped. The force of acceleration from her motion was unevenly applied so she rose with a slow drift to the left of where she intended to go. While a part of her said she should try to 'swim' towards her target, Angel pressed the button for the booster system to correct her course. It was contrary to what her body told her to do, but she knew that in zero gravity she'd functionally be flailing in a circle with out anything to provide enough resistance for her to push forward against.
As she reached the maintenance hatch and started the procedure of opening it one handed, a light caught her eye. She looked over to see another emergency suit drifting towards her, occupied with a familiar looking face. One hand holding the maintenance hatch door and the other pointing the plasma pistol at the figure drifting towards her, Angel said, “System eighty seven on line beta eight, engage. Now.” The figure drifiting dropped immediately at thirty two feet per second, per second. As they hit the deck below, Angel watched them lay there stunned. She looked up at the hatch handle she was holding on to. “Why the hell aren't the mag boots standard issue?” Angel muttered.
“Captain, your system indicates that strain is increasing on your left arm. The hatch handle is not designed to be load bearing. I advise disengaging system eighty seven on line beta eight before the handle is damaged.” Angel wrenched her self around with a sharp twist of her whole body. For a brief moment, she pulled herself up against the hull. In those few seconds, she opened the hatch door and watched as the equipment began to fall out. Angel let go of the door as it gave way beneath her weight. “Kick it off,” Angel barked. The gravity abruptly shut off and she pushed herself off of the hull as it did so. As such, she was moving at the rate of gravity towards the deck. She tucked herself into a roll. “On,” she commanded and the figure that was sailing towards the cyborg dropped to the ground moments after Angel landed and came to her feet.
She put a boot into their chest and kicked them to the ground. Behind her, the sealed repair kit clattered to the deck along with the ripped off hatch door. Her plasma pistol was square in between the eyes of what looked to be her long dead lover, Dregan. “Talk or I'll just take your head off,” she said flatly, “You should be dead. I have no problems fixing that.” The Dregan in the plasma suit held their hands up in a universally recognized gesture of surrender.
“I'm unit alpha nine nine seven. My mission is to support the captain of this ship in the event of a plasma breech. I was activated when the emergency systems came on line.” Angel looked down at the cyborg before her. The nine nine seven line were non-combat units. Dregan was a combat unit that had gone rogue long before her. Combat units that went rogue were collected and reconditioned before being placed in another combat unit. They were too expensive to really eliminate. This unit, however, was a cheap clone with half the programming, if it really was a nine nine seven unit.
“Captain,” Aeolus said via the neural-link, “Additional targets incoming.”
“I know you,” the cyborg on the deck said, “You are A.. A.. A..” It stuttered. Angel was half of a mind to drag the cyborg beneath her foot into the main quarters of the ship. Then she saw the other lights of the emergency suits coming.
“It's a trap,” she said, “Good night, sweet prince.” She looked away from the blast of the plasma pistol. It lit up the space in a dramatic flare of light. She could see the others coming towards her from the damaged part of the hold. She reached back and grabbed the gear that had fallen to the ground behind her and ran for the hatchway back to the main quarters of the ship. As she got to them, Angel threw the gear into the corridor and dove through the doors. “Shut it!” she shouted. It didn't matter that Aeolus could hear the thought as it materialized in her mind and was in the midst of executing the command. On the door, she heard the sound of something hitting the metal. Then the blast doors came down and there was total silence except for her breathing.
“What the hell?” Angel demanded.
“I do not understand the question, captain. Please rephrase it.”
“Don't give me that bullshit, Aeolus. What in hell just happened? There were combat units in there. Prior gen combat units.”
“The experimental cargo must have breeched containment,” Aeolus said, “It was delivered by automated systems shortly before your arrival.”
“That was the experimental cargo?” she replied tersely, “A container full of clones of prior gen combat units?”
“The manifest did not list what it was, only that emergency suits had to be supplied in the area where the container was located and that all systems to it had to remain online constantly.”
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
As seen on Twitter!
If you're struggling with imposter syndrome, it's ok. It happens to a whole lot of people. You are not a fraud even if you feel like you are out of your depth. You may have some inexperience or tons of experience but that feeling is still there. And that's ok.
Because imposter syndrome is often a sign that you're moving forward in ways that you are challenged. It comes a lot with growth experiences. Growth experiences can be scary and imposter syndrome can be a manifestation of that fear. It's ok to be afraid sometimes. Life is hard.♥I've been struggling with a depressive episode and heaps of imposter syndrome lately. I sit down and attempt to make art. A wave of feelings of inadequacy rolls over me and, next thing I know, I am putting all my art supplies away and fighting off the urge to start crying. It happens to me when I'm trying to write too. It's been pretty awful. I keep trying to take each day at a time.
In an effort to attempt an end run around the imposter syndrome, I've started an art journal. I have only a few pages partially done. I start with an idea and then I give up because I worry it is not going to be good enough. It's been rough for the last month. I keep doing my morning pages. And I am attempting to edit some of my work but I'm in a bad head space for anything other than line edits for grammar and punctuation.
I worry that people are going to find out that I am a fraud. That I'm just a housewife. Then I stop and say to myself, how many other mere housewives are out there making things happen? If they can be activists and entrepreneurs, I can be a professional author, right? I worry that people are going to find out that I'm a fraud because I am a solid twenty five years out of college and I haven't done a thing with my degree. Then I stop and I say to myself, how many people go to college and get a degree in one thing only to wind up working in an entirely different field? I worry that I am a fraud because I don't have anything in a publishing contract and I haven't entered anything into any literary magazines.
Then I stop and ask myself, "Are these what makes someone a writer?" Then I look at the debacle of the one author who has been exposed as a fraud. He had publishing contracts and made a good deal of money. And he attempted to pass off complete fiction as truth. I'm an honest person. I don't need a publishing contract or publication in literary magazines to make me a 'real' writer. If you write, then you are a writer. If you make art, then you are an artist.
Publishing contracts and having your work win some prizes are good goals to have, but they're not benchmarks of success. Imposter syndrome sometimes makes me forget that. My success is in the fact that I am writing and making art. I want to do it more frequently. I'd like to make some money doing it. But the fact that I am doing it (and knitting stuff for charity counts as art as much as baking pies or sculpting things; it is all art.) means I am valid and legitimate. The fact that I am honest in what I am doing means I am not a fraud. I just have low self confidence moments and issues with depression getting in my way.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Serial Stories Update!
Dear Reader,
I'm a little behind on my serial stories. I've been struggling with my plot and convinced that everything I wrote was garbage. Imposter syndrome has me by the scruff of the neck and depression is worrying at my ankles. It's a decidedly unpleasant situation. I will be updating The Iron Lily and Dacia's War next week. Right now, I have to clean up the mess that has been my attempt to write the next installments. Usually these posts are off the cuff and rough. But, this week it's just too ugly to share.
I am going to take Dacia's War and clean it up. Then it will be available as a couple of ebooks. The first one speaking of the battle at the Black Sands and the second recounting the misadventures of Al-Uzza. I'll let you all know when they're ready. The Iron Lily will be wrapping up over the next few months and then I will be cleaning it up and getting it out as an ebook.
The ebook version will have more content than the original material. So, you may want to get a copy when it comes out if you enjoyed the original story. Because I am going to be fleshing out some more details in the ebooks.
I'm a little behind on my serial stories. I've been struggling with my plot and convinced that everything I wrote was garbage. Imposter syndrome has me by the scruff of the neck and depression is worrying at my ankles. It's a decidedly unpleasant situation. I will be updating The Iron Lily and Dacia's War next week. Right now, I have to clean up the mess that has been my attempt to write the next installments. Usually these posts are off the cuff and rough. But, this week it's just too ugly to share.
I am going to take Dacia's War and clean it up. Then it will be available as a couple of ebooks. The first one speaking of the battle at the Black Sands and the second recounting the misadventures of Al-Uzza. I'll let you all know when they're ready. The Iron Lily will be wrapping up over the next few months and then I will be cleaning it up and getting it out as an ebook.
The ebook version will have more content than the original material. So, you may want to get a copy when it comes out if you enjoyed the original story. Because I am going to be fleshing out some more details in the ebooks.
AW:M2:Ex3
List twenty things you enjoy doing [...]. When was the last time you let yourself do these things? Next to each entry, place a date. Don't be surprised if it's been years for some of your favorites. That will change. This list is an excellent resource for artist dates. The Artist's Way pg. 56
- Painting (2014)
- Baking (Last month)
- Hiking (2015)
- Sex [redacted]
- Kinky sex [redacted]
- Reading erotica ???
- Reading fantasy ???
- Reading science fiction ???
- Sewing (2014, that wasn't mending)
- LARP (2018)
- Costuming (2018)
- Singing (1996/2003)
- Making collages (2011)
- Gardening (2018)
- Arranging flowers ???
- Making jewelry (2018)
- Dressing up for a special occasion ???
- Making nerdy gifts (Last month)
- Calligraphy ???
- Sketching (Last month)
Well, that's a pretty big list of things I enjoy doing and haven't been doing. No wonder I've been struggling with depression. About half of that list, I haven't done in at least five years or it's been so long I don't even remember the last time I did it. So, I guess it is a good thing that I've started an art journal to try to start getting back into making paintings, sketches, and collages. Now I just have to give myself permission not to be perfect.
Aside from that, I believe I need to get reading again. I've been stalled on Terry Pratchett's A Slip of the Keyboard because I've been depressed and finding it hard to focus on reading. I'll try to finish that and get a review of it up by the end of the week. Oh, and the list above is not in any particular order. It was also harder to complete than I expected because I just feel awful right now and my brain was going 'What's the point to all of this anyways?'
Sunday, February 3, 2019
Craft of Writing: Brutal Honesty.
Dear Reader,
I've struggled all day to summon the will power to type this post. I am going to be honest with you, I'm having a hard time finding joy in my work. The old adage about 'Get a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life.' is trite garbage. I try to seek out the joy in my writing and the joy in life at large. Being someone with a truckload of baggage from a hard lived life as I endured brutality when I was younger, tragedy as I've grown older, and the general misery that comes from life's numerous insults, joy is a fleeting thing.
The thing that powers me forward when I can't find joy in my writing is grim determination. I have a whole world inside my head. Writing it down and telling my stories is the only way to get it out and make room for other stuff. I have days where I am terrified that I am going to never finish writing out the story I'm working on. I have days where I am convinced I am going to die before I finish writing the first series set in this world. On those days, I force myself to sit at the keyboard and hammer out words.
I had a therapist tell me that this wasn't healthy for me. They said that if I wasn't enjoying myself, I shouldn't be doing it. I couldn't get them to understand that if I didn't write then things didn't work right inside my head. I'd be more depressed and anxious. I'd be unable to focus on other tasks until I worked on my current project. It was just something I couldn't get them to understand because the idea that this created incredible pressure inside me that had to be eased through expression was alien to them.
On my bad days, like today, I am tempted to delete everything and just give up. The words of the therapist haunt me on these days. This is not something I do for fun and joy. There is fun and joy in it on the good days. But this is something I do because it is a crucial part of who I am. I am a novelist. I am a blogger. I am a journal keeper. I am a (frustrated) poet. I am a writer. I can't stop writing any more than I can stop breathing. The really bad days, when I don't get any writing anywhere done, I feel awful and like there is chaos inside me.
If writing is your hobby and it doesn't give you joy, it is ok to set it aside. If writing is your profession and it doesn't give you joy, I empathize with your plight. If writing is a single minded goal that you have had since a young age and has become an integral part of your persona and it doesn't give you joy, I am right there with you in the trenches today. Don't give up on yourself. Pick up the pen. Write one line, even if it is a two word sentence of "Fuck this." because some days that may be all you can accomplish. It doesn't matter how much you do. What matters is that you do it and you don't give up.
The only way out of writer's block is to push through it. Some times you can penetrate gently like a thin trickle of of water and wear it away bit by bit. Other times, you just have to hammer at it with a chisel until you've carved a path through it. If you're lucky, inspiration provides a truck load of dynamite and clears away a good chunk of it.
I've struggled all day to summon the will power to type this post. I am going to be honest with you, I'm having a hard time finding joy in my work. The old adage about 'Get a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life.' is trite garbage. I try to seek out the joy in my writing and the joy in life at large. Being someone with a truckload of baggage from a hard lived life as I endured brutality when I was younger, tragedy as I've grown older, and the general misery that comes from life's numerous insults, joy is a fleeting thing.
The thing that powers me forward when I can't find joy in my writing is grim determination. I have a whole world inside my head. Writing it down and telling my stories is the only way to get it out and make room for other stuff. I have days where I am terrified that I am going to never finish writing out the story I'm working on. I have days where I am convinced I am going to die before I finish writing the first series set in this world. On those days, I force myself to sit at the keyboard and hammer out words.
I had a therapist tell me that this wasn't healthy for me. They said that if I wasn't enjoying myself, I shouldn't be doing it. I couldn't get them to understand that if I didn't write then things didn't work right inside my head. I'd be more depressed and anxious. I'd be unable to focus on other tasks until I worked on my current project. It was just something I couldn't get them to understand because the idea that this created incredible pressure inside me that had to be eased through expression was alien to them.
On my bad days, like today, I am tempted to delete everything and just give up. The words of the therapist haunt me on these days. This is not something I do for fun and joy. There is fun and joy in it on the good days. But this is something I do because it is a crucial part of who I am. I am a novelist. I am a blogger. I am a journal keeper. I am a (frustrated) poet. I am a writer. I can't stop writing any more than I can stop breathing. The really bad days, when I don't get any writing anywhere done, I feel awful and like there is chaos inside me.
If writing is your hobby and it doesn't give you joy, it is ok to set it aside. If writing is your profession and it doesn't give you joy, I empathize with your plight. If writing is a single minded goal that you have had since a young age and has become an integral part of your persona and it doesn't give you joy, I am right there with you in the trenches today. Don't give up on yourself. Pick up the pen. Write one line, even if it is a two word sentence of "Fuck this." because some days that may be all you can accomplish. It doesn't matter how much you do. What matters is that you do it and you don't give up.
The only way out of writer's block is to push through it. Some times you can penetrate gently like a thin trickle of of water and wear it away bit by bit. Other times, you just have to hammer at it with a chisel until you've carved a path through it. If you're lucky, inspiration provides a truck load of dynamite and clears away a good chunk of it.
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