A Dark Horizon…

I am writing this in what feels a stolen piece of time, a writing ‘on the sly’, like I am hiding from someone.

The truth is, I am hiding from my mental illness. I woke up today, and could not function. I had hit near-rock bottom. I could not shower, wash the dishes, or perform my usual tasks. Knitting plain stitch felt difficult. After dragging myself around the house for a few hours, I went back to bed. I napped.

Mercifully, I felt better. I cooked, showered, prepared the dishes to be washed tomorrow morning, and wrote (because that’s another part of my essential tasks, haha). Now, I feel like I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want this burst of feel-good to end. I’m afraid that my illness is creeping back, seizing my life in its grip, and taking over again. I’m afraid of having to go into the hospital, if I keep backwards sliding. I’m worried about the pressure of keeping it all up is placing on my already sick wife.

I know I’ve been through a lot lately. I’m grieving, my social worker says. It’s hard, and understandable. But the anxiety, the brain fog is returning. The strange non-pain in my head that means I can’t think has come back. The strange compulsions (eat the candy bar or you’ll DIE!) are making a comeback as well.

I never wanted this to happen. I’m worried I’m already at too high of a dosage of abilify to amp it up to combat my symptoms. I don’t know what my psychiatrist will say when I see her this coming week. I’m worried there’s nothing to do but rest.

I don’t like feeling like this. I don’t want to be here again.

But you know what? In all this, maybe as a compulsion, maybe as a window of hope, I actually have an idea on how to begin writing a non-fiction book I’ve been wanting to do for years now. Maybe, just maybe, something good will come from this.

Anyways, thoughts and prayers are appreciated. It’s rough right now.

Killing Characters and Grieving (spoilers?)

Maybe this is dumb. But I’ve had a rough day, struggling to keep my head above water, and then – BAM! a character up and dies. Whoosh!

What was a dramatic and happy scene took a morbid turn, and (I don’t want to spoil it for anyone) let’s just say I am now minus some very loved characters that I did not expect to go without.

As a lgbt+ person, I think I feel more when a character of lgbt+ stripes dies. I… just wish everyone could live happily forever after. And though I know death is a part of life, it hits me harder in stories than in real life.

I don’t know why. I don’t really understand it. I was told of the suicide of someone I knew, and it felt very – ah? Oh well. I knew it was sad, but I didn’t feel sad. I felt a sense of respect towards them, for their choice, and felt that they had crossed through the veil. That was all.

But when a character dies? Oh my. I mourn. As I have told y’all, the last time one of my characters died, I took three days to recover. Now, I’m seriously hoping it won’t be that long this time. I already feel like a train wreck, was already anxious, and now? I feel upset in an unwordable way. I feel distressed, disturbed, like something is wrong with my world. All this because a fictional character died – in a world of my own creation.

I really don’t understand why my character deaths bother me so much. Is it because something is over? Is it the end of some part of me? Or what? I truly don’t understand, and would appreciate some insight, if anyone has any. I know other authors get upset over their characters, but this feels like … a notch or three higher. Like, it’s worse than when someone I know dies. It’s so strange, and I can’t explain it and don’t understand it.

Anyways, everything is alright in my life. I’m almost done this novel, and am (as usual) debating what to do with it. I’ve been scolded recently by loved ones because I’m apparently ‘sitting on a gold mine’ by not getting myself traditionally published. They seem to think I really should, but – the fact is that I really struggle to get paperwork and stuff done. I’m in the throes of some right now and it’s not pretty. I’m barely getting it done. I really don’t feel like I could manage to stay on top of a publisher’s demands. The thing is, I know that self publishing can work, and make more money than traditional publishing. But… am I doing it right? Agh. I – just wish I could settle my mind and know that I’m doing the right thing.

As you can see, I’m a bit upset today. A bit off kilter. I just want to do what’s right for me and be successful so I can care for my loved ones but I feel like such a failure. At least I’ll be making a little bit of money – if I can get students to take my course, which I’m doubting anyone will sign up for.

Anyways, I’m going to go and rest. Maybe paint or draw. I wish you all well, and hope you all have a lovely day/evening. Much love ❤

Woolston, Writing Farfadel, and Life

So life has been peaceful as of late, but I’ve still been tired. Sleep has been difficult, and I’m not sure what to do about that. Yet good things have been happening!

I am FINALLY enrolled (just waiting on an email to go through -It’s all paid for!) in my first year at Woolston!

Woolston is (as far as I know) the only Wiccan seminary that’s official and government recognized (except for maybe Cherry hill?). I’m so far 100% impressed by their kindness, professional demeanor, and quality of their activities and events.

So, having finally gotten in and managed to set up my payments, I’m so excited! It’s happening! I am (hopefully) on my way to become a certified Wiccan priest!

I am so pleased. So happy. Now I have to order the books then ah! It’s going to start! I’m so excited for in-depth material and discussions!

I am somewhat more relaxed about my teaching gig. I’m coming to terms with it, and really hoping it won’t fray my nerves too much. The thing is, I know that I technically have all the abilities and knowledge to do it properly, but will I? It’s stressful. I think I can manage it, however. It’s just a question of diving in, as I was told (via the song) in a recent meditation – Into the Unknown!

So, I just have to let go and do. Just stop stressing and do it.

Which I am trying to do. I’m trying not to worry about the logistics of my spirituality and just practice. Just do what feels right for me. Just write what I want to in the way I want to.

Hence, I haven’t been working on Lage’s Game. The story was stressing me out. Too dark for now. I’ve switched back to Farfadel, and I find it much easier to write in this state.

Which brings me to the part about dinosaurs. Yes, dinosaurs in Farfadel. That’s the entire premise for this story, and I think it’s, oh, maybe a year or so old? It’s incredibly fun to write, but everyone I tell the story to is… shocked? Dismayed? It’s like I’ve broken some unwritten rule in writer’s land by mixing fantasy and dinosaurs.

Well, fuck that, because I think my story has come out fabulously. It’s 48,000 words done, which means I have roughly 12 ish thousand more to go. I can’t wait to see how it’s going to end, honestly, and I’ve started trying to paint a cover picture for it. Hopefully it won’t be too dark of a cover, but we’ll see! I think I’m breaking another rule by putting my villain on the cover, haha.

But oh well! I’m very excited to be finishing this story. I’m doubly excited to hear what you all will think of it (I think I’m going to post excerpts here to celebrate).

Anyways, that’s the end of my long update. I wish you all the best, and truly hope you’re all doing well. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten around to reading as many blogs as I would have liked to, but as usual, tag me if you really want me to read something.

Have a lovely evening/day ❤

Life Update – Teaching!

Yes, that’s right! I have a job! Teaching!

I have been lucky enough to land a job teaching at a local pagan school – ‘Runes et Magie’. I’ll be teaching about Discernment! Yayyyy!

I am so excited for this (sorry if I’ve already told y’all, I can’t remember if I have yet or not)! I have been working SO much on the course, putting it all together and making a PowerPoint presentation to go with it and making an exam and all that good stuff. It’s exactly what I want to be doing – so it should be a good thing, right?

Well, yesterday, I spoke with the head of the school about my class. She was super nice. It went super well. After hanging up with her, I almost called a hotline, I was so wound up. So anxious. So, so, upset at myself for my minor fixes that I’d noticed needed to be done in the course. It was awful. I received another call from a relative, again a positive thing, and I could barely hold it together. I was a wreck. I sat down to watch TV for several hours, and the room began to spin. I had to lay down almost two hours early from my usual bedtime.

Today, I was no better. I woke up to care for the dogs, fed them and took my medication, then went back to bed until 4 pm. I literally spent the day in bed because I felt so fragile. Now, after taking a walk with the wifey, I feel alright. I can still sense the fragility there, but I’ve got a lid on it now.

All that to say that – I can barely do this teaching thing. I think I can, but only because the lady in charge is SUPER NICE, and that it’s something I LOVE doing. My anxiety about it is just ready to slip out of control and to sink me all over again. But, I think I can do this. I think if I’m careful, keep myself calm and rational, I can do this.

I may not be having as much time to write, though. I’m not sure I still want to post my writings here, even. I – I am not sure how I want to balance my author and teaching sides, actually. I am giving up on writing as my main source of income, and deciding to relocate it as a passionate hobby. I just don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be a full-time author, no matter how much I like it. I’m just not ‘breaking through’ to a yuge audience to make a zillion dollars. That being said, I still want to write. I still want to draw. I love getting feedback and talking about my story with people. But … How will I do that? How will I balance the writing and teaching? Blah. I’ll figure it out.

Anyways, I wanted to give y’all a little update. I’m anxious, but life is going very good! Hopefully you will still keep getting writing posts from me, or at the very least life rants. I hope you all are doing well ❤

Author’s Rant (SPOILERS)

So how have I been doing lately? How is life, how is everything?

Life has been treating me very well. I have even had the opportunity to get into natural ink making. The results of which I’ll attach to this post. I feel so privileged to be able to live in a little patch of nature and have access to ink making materials! I really love sketching with ink too, it takes so much more thinking and precision.

But this post is called an author’s rant. So, what do I have to rant about, in an authorly way?

Well, I hate to sound like a broken record, but I only have half an idea where the story is going. As usual, the story is winding up, growing more and more complex, and I’m just sitting back baffled, like, wondering if this beast is going to bite me or not?

To my surprise, I am enjoying writing this story. It is dark, I can’t write it every day, but I feel like it is still fun, still something worth doing. The violence of it still surprises me though!

Now, if you’ve been reading along you’ve hopefully started to notice something happening in our (still unnamed!) main character’s mind. Namely, she is in the process of having a part of herself take over.

This will come out a LOT more in the next part (which I have just written today, but will publish the next time I write). Remember the whole ‘who is she? Maybe she’s an ancient?’. Well. The ancient is there, and the ancient is on a mission!

Now, and here is the Big Spoiler, the ancient in particular is Anat. Who? Sumerian goddess of war, anyone? Read up on her, she’s pretty bloody, passionate, but striving to establish peace. I just realized this today, while writing out the scene where she really ‘comes through’. And now I’m all… hmmm… where is this going? How will I make this a nice and cohesive story?

I don’t want this story to wind on as long as Kuryo and Chaos’ story did. That’s just a bit too long and winded for me. i want this one to maybe be, just, a trilogy maybe? Something nice and neat like that.

Anyways, I’m also trying to work on a new birdie book (on death!) as well. I’ve been told that I am breaching topics that are maybe too philosophical for kids, but I have others that say that those topics are necessary, even for very young kids. So… I feel conflicted. I’m far from an expert on children, but I love illustrating with the birdies!

So that’s my update of the day, lovelies. I wish you all a great day, and much love your way. Take care ❤

Aggressive Self Care

Apparently it’s a term my psychiatrist had never heard before. Aggressive self care. But it’s what I’m trying to do, haha.

Lately, I’ve been trying so hard to take care of myself. If it was a technique, or a strategy, it would definitely be called aggressive. Proactive at the very least.

I’m trying to make myself actual food. No cake for lunch kind of deal. I’m trying to drink water. I’m trying to do the five daily prayers as a way to consciously take 5 minute breaks of zen. I’ve even been trying to limit my desserts and only take them when I self care.

So far, it’s been helping. I’m getting back on my feet. Im trying not to push myself too hard to write though, hence my not cranking out so many words lately. Im very sorry for anyone who’s looking for some of the Circlet story. I just cant seem to write it, and Lage’s story is just coming to me easier these days.

I have been working on my children’s activity book too, and am about halfway through it. It’s going to be huge (to me, haha)! Its going to be over 70 pages of activities and colorings to do! All pagan themed! I cant wait to see what you all think of it!

What else has been happening in my life? I’ve been coming to terms with some difficult things, family wise, as well as trying to spend time with my loved ones. Rough things are happening, but we will get through this. I’m really just trying to heal right now.

Also, I’m working on a special birdie project that means so much to me, but it’s a secret so far. At least I dont remember posting about it before, and dont plan to until its finished and I can finalize it. Knowing me itll take quite some time to get it done, but it’s in the works. Good things are coming, yall.

Finally, I want to say thank you to everyone and anyone who has bought my books. I am very touched by all the sales I’ve made, and am considering celebrating them by offering signed books for a price. Would anyone be interested? Or some bookmarks?

I’ve been thinking of holding a contest for my birthday, where I could send out a book to one winner, bookmarks to the second, and something else to the last one. Would anyone be interested in it if it was a writing contest? Or just a “share the page and like” sort of contest? Give me your thoughts! I miss hearing from you all!

I hope you are all very well, and wish you all the best in these hard times ❤

Lage’s Game ~Chapter Three, Part One

Mom was shot. She was in surgery now, locked away behind doors I was not allowed past. I sat in a plastic chair, my unicorn on my lap. I was splattered with blood, mom’s blood.

The police said this was unusual. They claimed I could not be right. There could be no correlation between the three break-ins.

“There was no board game listed as stolen in either of the previous break-ins,” the officer, a white redhead, had told me. “It’s not on record. Maybe it wasn’t valuable enough to be mentioned.”

But he seemed doubtful. More than likely, I knew he was thinking, was that I had imagined the whole thing. I had been a child, then.

But I was an adult now. And I knew that what they had been after was that card. Card which, if all things stayed true, had probably been thrown away with my room’s possessions a year ago.

“Hey,” said my uncle, appearing beside me in the starched white hallway. He was wearing a blue button up shirt and pants, his suit jacket missing. His head was shaved, his beard neatly trimmed. “How are you?”

I stared resolutely ahead.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Listen, we’re going to go home to my place, okay?”

I shook my head. Mom was here. I had to keep an eye on her.

Uncle looked around, as if searching for direction. He looked back at me, direction obviously not found. “She’s going to be okay.”

I glared at him.

“Come on,” he said. “Come to my place. We’ll sleep by the phone. The minute she’s out and okay, they’ll let us know. Then we can come back and visit. Okay?”

I shook my head. But he took me by the arm and hauled me to my feet. “Come on,” he said sternly.

I wanted to scream. Tears began running down my face and I braced myself, not wanting to go. I had to stay with mom!

But he dragged me, and after a hallway, I gave in. He was stronger than me. But I would sleep by the phone. I scrubbed my tears from my face and marched with my head held high. I would make sure mom was okay.

///

Mom was in a coma. The news came in at one in the morning that she wasn’t waking up, and might never. Uncle did his best to explain it to me gently, but it was what it was. She, too, was gone, off in an unreachable place. She might never come back, and now, I didn’t expect her to. Father had gone, why wouldn’t she?

Anger burned in me. It was like hot coals in my stomach, under my skin. My blood felt hot. I wanted a gun. I wanted to shoot them in the heads. But no one in my family owned a hunting gun, and there was no way to find ‘them’. According to the police, they were an antiques and collectible theft ring, and usually did not commit murder.

“It’s exceptional, really,” the cop had said as if in awe. Awe at what, I wanted to ask him. Did he think it amazing and commendable to murder people, like some statistic in a video game? Or were these deaths already like Stalin had said, just a statistic?

“You can stay with us for a while,” Uncle had said as he sat on the bed beside me in his dishevelled clothes. “We’ll take you home to get some things.”

I did not want to. I wanted to go home and be with mom. It felt like if only I went home and waited like usual, mom would come home, claiming she had been late from the grocery or something like that.

But I knew that was foolish, so I just sat still and held my stuffie.

“Come on, let’s have some breakfast,” uncle’s wife said from my other side. “How about pancakes?” She was trying to sound cheerful. I hated cheer.

The pancakes were like sandpaper in my mouth. I sat at one side of the table, squished beside my two cousins. They kept looking at me like I was some bomb set to explode. Their mother kept trying to talk to me. I ignored them all. Mother was gone.

After the farce of a breakfast, uncle drove me home. “I can go in and get you your things if you’d rather,” he said as we parked.

I yanked open the door and marched out as an answer. There was a caution tape all around the doorway, and an officer posted there. The scene was too familiar. I knew too well what to do, showing my ID to be let in as uncle explained that we were here to take some things from my room.

A cop escorted us through the crime scene, our living room, and to my room. There, I stopped in the middle of my room and froze. All thoughts flew from my mind.

For an instant, I heard mom screaming. I heard the footsteps. I spun- and was faced with my uncle. “Here,” he was saying. “Let’s take some clothes, okay? How about that?”

I looked around my room. My very still and quiet room.

Okay, I told myself. I scrubbed the tears from my cheeks with a trembling hand. Set my unicorn on the bed to supervise. Then I took out my duffel bag from beneath my bed and shook it out.

A card fluttered out of the bag and landed down before me, between my feet and my uncle’s. He had his back to me, was digging through my dresser drawer, and saw nothing. I looked down at the black card with a diamond at its center.

No shit.

I stooped down, snatched it up, and put it in my pocket. Then, I held out my duffel bag for my uncle to fill with clothes.

When they came for me, I was going to burn it before them. There.

Lage’s Game ~Chapter Two Part Two

TRIGGER WARNING: Violence. Guns. Shooting. I don’t know what else, but please don’t read if you’re feeling fragile.

It was a whole year before I saw that card again. During that year, we took a vacation to my aunt’s place out in BC. There, I saw the whitest people I’d ever seen. When time came to return home for school, it was to find myself presented with a new house, in a new neighborhood. There, my room had been transplanted into another room. It was like a time capsule, preserved in almost its entirety. Everything was reorganized, everything was clean. I remember the smell like it was yesterday. The smell of cleaner and detergent everywhere, mixed with fresh paint.

Upon seeing it, I turned to mom and said I didn’t want any of it anymore.

I pointed into my room and said “Get rid of it. All.”

Mom grinned. I didn’t realize it then, but it was the first time I’d spoken since our second burglary. “Okay,” mom said with tears in her eyes, happy tears. “We’ll get rid of it all.”

Pointedly, I walked away from the room, clutching my stuffie to my chest.

I spent that first night back in our house in mom’s room, sleeping with her. The next day, mom had some friends over who helped her sort through my room. My cousins were there, but I barely remember them talking to me, or me to them. They went through my old stuff, and I pretended to watch the Lion King. Then, it was all gone.

I walked into a fresh, empty room. Mom stood beside me, arms crossed. They’d even put a base coat over the walls so it was no longer the color of my previous room. “How’d you like it?” she asked with an unsure smile, as if afraid I would break down.

But I grinned at her. I nodded. Then, I forced myself to speak. “It’s perfect.”

Mom burst into tears and bent over to hug me.

We went shopping after that. I redecorated my once children’s room into crisp blues and whites, but with no cartoon characters anything. I was an adult now.

“I’m thirteen,” I announced when she offered me a ‘Frozen’ themed bedspread.

Mom beamed. All this talking was making her smile, I was finding out. She let me pick out everything. New clothes that were mature and severe looking. New posters of nature and wildlife. No cartoons. I even asked her for a guitar, because I knew that one of my teachers had said music would help me. And I wanted to ‘get better’, whatever that meant. I was an adult now. I had to take care of mom. Dad was fully gone now. All that had been left of his pieces and collectibles had been sold during the move, I was told. We needed the money, I was told.

But what I thought was that we didn’t need any more burglaries. We now had nothing they could want. Even our TV was small and cheap. But most importantly, anything Dad had owned was gone. There was nothing left for ‘them’ to come back for.

We never spoke of the second burglary. Of how ‘they’ had come back for the game. Mom never asked what I had been doing with the game in my room. I never asked her why the game had been hidden in a wall, or how ‘they’ had known to come back for it.

I just figured that whole chapter of life was over with. Father was gone, and with him were all his things. That was it.

I threw myself into my schoolwork, into talking, into performing as a person. I had to take care of mom. I had to be ‘good enough’ to fulfill Father’s place in the world. I saw myself collecting precious things like he had, all while destroying crime. I wanted to become a lawyer some days, a cop on other days, and when I was tired, a vigilante.

Over the last year, my marks had improved dramatically. So much so that I was moved from the special education section into the ‘normal kids’ section. I made no friends. But I studied so hard that I won a letter of congratulations from the principal and a spot on the honor roll. That year, at the end of the year, mom took me to visit some people at another school.

“Cross your fingers sweetie,” she’d said before we went in.

In there, all the other students were wearing uniforms. They looked serious. The adults were serious too, dressed primly. I was set in a room and given an exam. Like all my other exams, I set my unicorn on my desk to watch over my back, and I picked up the pen.

Once the exam was done, I sat in a room with a white woman who was blonder than mother and who had a strict bob. She smiled at me. “Your mother says you enjoy school,” she said tartly.

“I’m going to be a lawyer,” I said fiercely, daring her to contradict me.

She smiled sweetly. I hated her.

“You do know,” she said to me “that we do not accept special needs children.”

I glared at her.

“If we were to accept you, you would have to function as well as the other students, and will receive no extra help or special treatment.”

I glared at her angrily. Mom wanted me to come here. So the lady should give way. Mom must have what she wants. I would do it to keep my mom happy.

She looked pointedly down at my lap, where the stuffie sat in my hands. “You wouldn’t be able to bring your unicorn.”

My world shook. How could I? To enter the world alone- I stared at my only friend, my only solace in the whole wide world. I heard the woman saying something about rules and regulations as if through a tunnel.

Then, quietly, I pushed the unicorn off my lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud. Mom gasped. The woman stared. I glared at her.

“Try me,” I said.

When we left that building, mom had stacks of papers to bring home and sign. She was carrying the unicorn now, not me. The world felt huge and overwhelming, the very air pounding and pressing in on me. But I would not need my unicorn any more. I was an adult, and I was going to a very expensive school.

“This is really going to help you get into law,” mom said as we sat around the kitchen table with the paperwork and lasagna.

I nodded, eating diligently.

“You will have to keep studying very hard, though,” she said between mouthfuls.

I nodded some more.

“But I hope you can find some time to make friends. You know, get to know people?” And she cocked a smile at me.

I smiled back and added that to my checklist of things to do: Make friends. I must make mom happy and proud. She’d been asking me to make friends for some time now. My therapist kept mentioning it. But friends just didn’t interest me. You couldn’t focus with them. You couldn’t just be.

So maybe that would have to wait a little. Maybe once I was a big lawyer and I brought all kinds of criminals to justice mom wouldn’t mind that I didn’t have friends.

I was so busy thinking of that, I almost didn’t hear what she said. It jolted my head up, eyes wide. She smiled tearily at me and repeated. “Your dad would be proud, sweetie.”

It was like a small ray of sunshine piercing through the sky upon me. I found myself smiling, but felt a sharp pain at the same time. Father was something of the past, something I refused to think about anymore.

“Here,” mom handed me a tissue. I wiped my cheeks and sniffled. “You’re going to do great, sweetie.”

I nodded, balling up the tissue and rising to put it into the garbage. When I came back, mom was truly happy. Well, if this school made her that happy, I was going to make sure I succeeded. I would be the best. I would have to do it all without my stuffie, but I would. I was an adult, I was going to be a lawyer, and I was going to take care of my mom.

The next day, I went to school as usual. Mom picked me up from school, and we drove home. When we walked in, the door swung out of my hand and shut with a slam. Mom turned, I turned, and ‘they’ were there.

There was a large man behind the door. Another in the kitchen. Another sitting behind our kitchen table. All had handguns.

Briefly, I wished for my own gun. I wanted to be big and powerful and to defend mom.

“Come, sit down,” said the big man from behind the table. He was not wearing a black ski mask. Instead, he was wearing a hat. With a gesture, he added “Put the kid in her room.”

I was seized by the arm and dragged to my room. In there, the door shut, I just stood there for a minute. My mind had crashed. I was staring into the void, not seeing anything.

I came to when I caught sight of my unicorn on my desk. Snatching it up, I clutched at it and ran to the door. Pressing my ear against it, I could hear what was happening in the kitchen.

“We don’t have anything!” mom was saying.

“Oh I believe you, but I think you cheated me. I think you sold it.”

“What?” Mom sounded desperate in a way I never wanted to hear again.

“Just give us the list of whomever you sold things to. I want your bank account statements from the last year. That’s all. We’ll leave you be after that.”

“You promise?” Mom’s voice was trembling. “Because we really don’t have anything. We really don’t!”

“Oh I know. Living off your husband’s insurance. How else would you get your precious daughter to that school? No, just give us the list. We’ll find it for ourselves.”

“What are you even talking about?” mom asked, voice trembling.

There was a smack. I saw red and black at the same time. Mom started sobbing.

“There we go,” the evil man said. “Thank you for that.”

There was a moment of sniffles and sobs. “Here,” mom was saying. “Here they are.”

The man murmured. There was the sound of phone snaps, the sound some phones make when they take pictures. Then there was a sound of a chair being scraped back. “This is your warning. If we don’t find it- watch your kid.”

“What?” mom shrieked. “But we don’t have anything! We don’t!”

Another thud. Mom started sobbing again. But she was screaming now. “Don’t you dare touch my daughter! Don’t you dare!”

Something smashed.

There was the sound of footsteps running away from my door. I yanked the door open just as I heard the gunshot.

I ran out into the hallway, screaming. Mom was laying on the floor, a puddle of blood already around her head. The man with the hat was on the floor as well, a broken chair over him. I crashed to the floor next to mom, screaming but not hearing myself. They picked the man up, limp as they lugged him to the door.

Author’s Rant and Update (SPOILERS)

Hi everyone! I hope you have all been well. I’m sorry I haven’t been posting personal updates much recently. Things have been quite busy lately!

Writing wise, I’m very pleased with how the stories are coming along. ‘Welcome to Circlet School’ is turning into a fun story. Hopefully it will be pretty straightforward and won’t become too complex (but that’s what I said about Chaoss story too, so hmm).

I’m so happy to be able to write Chaos again and even more happy that Kuryos spirit is still alive. Will he be able to find a body? What will happen with the Academy? I’m pretty excited for it, but too tired to write more today.

That’s a thing as well. I’ve been so tired lately from having to function like a normal adult. I’m actually writing this in bed on my phone, because I cant cope with my computer right now, I’m that tired.

Anyways, I hope y’all are doing well and that you are enjoying the stories! Take care 🥰😍🥰🤗

Depression and Writing

Depression is hitting me hard. I think it’s my symptom/condition that I have the hardest time accepting. It’s not glamorous, it’s never fun and never makes you feel special. It always makes me feel like I’m worthless and useless. As an author, this preys on my natural beliefs.

You see, I tend to see myself as a vessel for my stories. But combined with my depression, I feel like nothing BUT a vessel. I feel like I’m nothing without them.

The sad truth is that writing is my whole life. It’s me. It’s been my refuge since childhood, where it suddenly filled a void within me that hurt so badly until then. Ever since I started writing, my days rotate around it. As a kid, I would squeeze it in whenever, would draw my characters everywhere, and obsessed over them.

Now, I wake up thinking of my novels. I spend my mornings wondering what I’ll do until I get the chance to write. My whole day is just spent waiting until the right time to write. I know I dont have the mental energy to write all day, but I wish I could. Already I love writing 5 hours a day, and feel bad if I “waste” even one of those hours not hammering out words.

I know this isn’t healthy, but it is what it is. My writing is my life. The only other thing more important is my wife and my relatives. Literally, unless it’s a basic need, everything else feels secondary. I dont want to travel, I dont want a career, I just want to be good at writing and do my stories justice. I want to accomplish what this drive in me is calling for.

But when depression hits, as it does now, I cant write. Every word hurts, I cant think, and then everything that makes me ‘me’ seems to crumble away. What use am I if I cant write? Not being able to write for even one day is a terrible blow. What if my stories are terribly written? What good am I if i can’t get my stories out there properly, to those who need to read them? I know it sounds dramatic, but not being able to write feels like a poisonous sin that will destroy me.

I know, in some way, that my belief of me being just a vessel for writing is bad for me. I need to see myself as more. But how do I do that? It’s like seeing yourself beyond an addiction, in some way.

And then, what’s wrong with this view, if it gives me purpose and value, even in some small way? I know I should see myself as more, but what if I dont feel like more? I feel like so much in my life just points towards writing, and like it’s the cornerstone of my life. Where would I be without it?

I know, in some factual way, that I am a person without my writing. I’ve experienced that, by having my spiritual projects. But… I just feel like more with my writing. I feel this compulsion and a sense of destiny and being attuned with the universe when it comes to writing. Is that a symptom of a delusion? I dont know what to think some days.

I guess I cant hope to find other people who feel this way. I’ve hoped, and as of yet haven’t found other writers who seem to have this weird perspective and obsession and maybe even delusion with their writing. And yet I hope. I feel lonely, a lot, so isolated with my writing. It’s not the only way I connect with people, but unless someone dips into this part of me, do they know me at all? Will I ever find that I am not alone in this weird feeling?