WriteOnCon and Stuff I Learn About Myself

So I've been running around WriteOnCon when I have time - because they are doing a PitchFest and it's super exciting. I'm working on my pitch for WhiteWashed.

And I realized how much I miss being part of the writerly world and posting in here and all I could think of was, "Dude, why did I stop?" and I realized:

Something happened. Something mysterious and I don't know what. BUT.

I didn't think I had anything important to say. It's like someone took a vacuum hose and stuck it down my throat and sucked out all of my confidence and worth as an individual self.

I don't even know. It's so not like me. I've always been fairly confident in who I am and that I have something important to say and share.

But. Something happened and all of that disappeared and I would pull up this blog - you have NO IDEA how many times I pulled up this blog - and I would stare at the empty screen waiting for me to burp words up onto and I would just think: there is nothing I can say. Everything has already been said. People have BETTER things to say than I do.

What is my life?

What if I'm just an object interacting with other objects that have the power to produce within me the feelings of a personality and really this "I" does not refer to anything at all?

But I have an amazing friend and she e-mailed me the other day and reminded me that: I can say things that are worth saying.

So. Will I blog more? I have no idea. My laptop died and won't turn back on. I don't have a job. I have no idea what I'm doing this summer. I'm taking 22 credits part of which is writing a thesis part of which is a heavy book reading independent study... And you know what. I'll tell you more about that later. Because. I can do that.

I can write in here when I want to about THINGS and about BORING THINGS and about EXCITING THINGS and I can have a sense of humor and I can not be depressed all of the time and I can not hold myself up to some weird kind of I don't know what that keeps me from doing anything and this has become one very long sentence of longness.

Now.

I'm going to go make pasta. I might tell you about it later. Because pasta is awesome.

And life is awesome.

And here is a picture of Norway:

Let's go, guys.

Almost There

It is very strange. There is a certain story I am working on called WhiteWashed. I have not told you about it yet because this is the story behind it:

One day on the way to watch fireworks at a Secret Undisclosed Place I wrote a page or two that i considered to be about Cinderella's side-kick. I thought, la de da de da. It would be fun to finish this one day.

The aforementioned one day happened when I was going through all my notebooks and typing bits and pieces into Glom (my laptop) when I came across Cinerella's Side-Kick.

20,000 words later I stopped typing and realized that it was much darker outside. It was very weird. So I saved the document after hemming and hawing over what to wall it. You see, I almost never get past 8 pages without knowing what to call it. I had gotten to like, 20, and still had No Idea. It was very disturbing. Finally I settled on WhiteWashed and had no idea how the name of the book would tie in with the actual book. That was Not Good.

A month or so later brought around the month of October. I was determined to finish one more book this year besides my NaNo one (more on that in a later Blog) because of a Decision that I made at the beginning of this year to write a novel every month. I failed after the Thanet's Curse fiasco (still haven't finished that). So last week or so I started typing away and wrote about 4,000 more words. Then I knew I was going to get a job soon and started write All Day. I hit 9,000 in one day and went to sleep with my eyes feeling Dead.

Now I'm at 58,000 words and I don't know what to do. I haven't even gotten used to the idea of Writing this story and it's already finishing up. I mean, I love that. Somehow the title of the book ties in wonderfully and there are more psychos in one book then I ever thought I'd have (well, other than the story about the Psycho Place, but that doesn't count). Oh. And she's not really Cinderella's side-kick. Cinderella ended up with a slightly different name and is not important, I am so glad. I did end up with a bunch of mythological creatures and the most popular 'The Ooze.' Who does not look like this:

I almost want to buy one of these...

The good news is that editing will be Fun because the story is still like new to me.

Does anyone else have Surprise stories that snuck up on you when you weren't looking?

Maybe I Shouldn't Write When in School...

The other day when I was waiting between classes I wrote this little bit. (I was worrying about mid-terms at the time, and stressing about Greek and wondering what a subjunctive infinity was in Akkadian, which actually doesn't exist as far as I know, but I thought it did, and it was only adding to me worrisome state.)

It is not the best in the world, for which I apologize, but I felt like sharing it.

The pressure sat on her like a camel, but instead of chewing cud it was chewing her stomach. "Nom, nom, nom," went the pressure. Jacqueline her down against her desk. "Whack, whack, whack," went her head.
"Stop," hissed her teacher, "you'll break something."
"Already broke," mumbled Jacqueline. "Broke by the camel pressure, broke by the mid-term shoving words down my throat. Words taste bad, Miss Teacher, like rotten tuna-fish sitting under your tongue."
"You're not alright," Miss Teacher said. "There's something wrong, there in your head." Miss Teacher went and grabbed Jacqueline's chair, wheeling her out of the room, through the door.
"Mid-Term sundaes dripped in chocolate, still taste bad as gravel." Jacqueline dragged her feet as the wheel-chair rolled, rolled, down the hall. She drew a giant 'x' atop her paper, circled random words in pen.
"I'm done," said Jcqueline, wavcing a limp hand in the tepid air, paper dripping sideways, flopping like a dead fish. Miss Teacher came and took her work away, while Jacqueline fingered circles on her plastic desk.
"Words like gravel," Jacqueline said, flicking dark grey rocks from her outstretched tongue. "Words like sand," she rolled her head and flapped her hands. "Words that travel, 'cross the land." A hiss, a pop, a shred of paper falling from her shirt pocket as her body rocked sideways, her dead hands trailing to the cool tile floor.