If You're Looking For Cheerful, Go Somewhere Else. You've Been Warned.

Gloom. Black and purple clouds of depression. The heavy weight of doom pressing in the not-so-hot air (lower nineties! yay!). Doubt and self-recrimination lurk like little green goblins under my bed, waiting to grab my ankles and pull me under the the surface of the sea I'm drowning in.

It's the second week of school, and I haven't done anything yet except for Spanish and Art. I am becoming a queen of getting away with doing nothing. I thought I was never bored, but apparently I was wrong. I'm like a car, stalled on a cold morning, grinding my engine down to a brittle nub of blackened metal. I hate grinding and doing nothing, but I can't get jumpstarted.

I haven't done math since June. It's going to be He(ck) when I try to start, so I'm putting it off... and off... and then I'm going to be old and wrinkled and not know how to find x or y. (Actually, I could live with that, but I'm scheduled to take college algebra in the spring semester and I can't let myself be rusty when I start that or He(ck) will take on new and interesting meaning.)

I'm also going to take physics next semester (at home) which means that I need to finish my chemistry book. Which I haven't touched since June. (This sound familiar?) So I need to start over. And I wasn't loving chemistry that much to start with.

Most college application deadlines are in December/January. I don't have a clue which college I want to go to. I need to quickly research a bajillion colleges, most of which I'll never be able to visit, choose some, and start applying.

College is expensive. I'm poor. I plan to get scholarships. But that involves making a resume, finding scholarships I'm eligible for, writing essays for them, sending off more applications, and so on and so forth....

I love to write. I want to write. My characters are weeping in my head, begging me in cracking and hoarse voices to write them before they die. Forever. And every time I sit down at a keyboard, the words that come out- if any words come out at all- stink in a way that make privies seem perfumed. They're lame, they're cliched- they have no life. And my poor characters are slowly withering away inside me and I can't seem to get to them to save them.

And since I'm griping anyway- seminary. Getting up early every day. Going to seminary. Insert the whole teenage 'no one understands me, they don't get me, I don't have any friends'. Which is utter rubbish, of course, but it's that kind of day. Lately, it feels like that kind of life.

And I did warn you.

Not That We Didn't Already Know, But-

I'm taking Spanish I and Drawing I.

I love Spanish. The teacher is cute (she reminds me of my friend's mom) and kind. The textbook is easy to understand. I feel like I've learned a lot in two classes. There is a very professional air in the room- everyone is serious about learning, is paying attention, is engaged. Everyone is clean and courteous and all the boring but civilized things people who aren't like to make fun of. I like it.

Art has a very different atmosphere. If there's anything professional about it, it's a profession I haven't heard of. I heard one person invite another to go out for a smoke during the break. People keep using the ****ing word about art supplies and I wasn't aware that inanimate objects were capable of that particular function. The three letter word for butt keeps coming up, and also the things that come out of the butt. They laugh hysterically about things that would barely make me smile- if I thought they were funny at all.

Case in point: one of my classmates was going to a university. Someone heard him say the name, and said "Oh, that's a nice place. Why are you here, then?"

"I had too much fun. I was drinking every day, and so they kicked me out."

Rest of class, out loud: HAhahahaha!

Me, in my head: What's funny about that? You deliberately destroyed your future and shot your quality of living in the foot. It's not impossible to make a living without a nice degree, but you'll have to work that much harder the rest of your life. And if you were stupid enough to drink your way out of college, I doubt you're smart enough to make that choice. You haven't ruined your future, but you've certainly made it harder and darker and most probably poorer than it needed to be. What's funny about that?

And speaking as someone trying to get into college, it is offensive to me that you find getting kicked out funny.

So yeah, we already knew this, but I'm a sheltered goody-two-shoes. Easily shocked and appalled and unwilling to have fun, that's me.

But if I weren't too goody-goody to waste money gambling I'd lay you odds that in twenty years I'm happier with my life than he his with his.

P.S.- The drawing part of Drawing I is actually fun. It's the class atmosphere I'm complaining about.

First Day of College

Ever since January, I have exercised regularly. 45 minutes a day, 30 when I feel really awful and it's a triumph that I'm doing anything at all. Nothing strenuous, certainly nothing a competing athlete would respect, but it's enough to keep me in shape. (Or rather, get me into shape, since I wasn't actually ever in shape. Unless pear is a shape.)

And now, eight months later, I realize I was wrong. I've been training myself to move. I should have been training myself to sit. Two classes, back to back, from 12:20 to 4:30- and that was being let out early. My. Butt. Really. Hurt.

Such is college life. You sit and listen and wait and wonder how the chairs can possibly keep getting more uncomfortable.

First Day of Seminary

My partner asked me why Jesus is Jewish instead of Hispanic (which is what he is).

I answered. At length. Much more at length then the rest of the class, who actually got to answer the question that was supposed to be asked. So as I wrapped up the Jewish question, he asked me why the true church wasn't on the earth when Joseph Smith found the scriptures, and from tone and expression I'm guessing that this was a real question that he actually cared about. I started to answer and got cut off because everybody else was done and it was time to move the lesson on.

I spent the rest of the lesson and the ride home stewing about how unfair it was for me to get cut off- and I mean cut in every sense of the word- and how stressed I am about school. (Very stressed.) Then I got home and took Rescue Remedy and ate breakfast and I'm suddenly feeling much happier about life.

But the thing is that this partner is going to be my partner for the next two weeks. And if he's willing to be a turkey on the first day of seminary, you know he's not going to stop.

And so I, Peaches, hereby resolve: I refuse to be out-turkeyed by anyone. And especially by him. If he had asked anyone else that question, they would have been flustered, not known what to say, and would have given him lots and lots of material to be a turkey with. I answered it. He had to shut up to hear the answer. And when it was answered he stopped being a turkey, because it's hard to be a turkey when people meet you straight on.

That is the sound of armor being girded and chargers being mounted. Into battle I do go: I will not be out-turkeyed. I'm in the saddle now, and won't be thrown off again. So there.

Again About Boys

I do not believe in white knights.

Or, more accurately, I do not believe that every knight I meet will be white- in fact, most of them are going to be dingy or even coal black. And while there are white knights are out there (they better be, if they know what's good for them), I think they have better things to do then come fight whatever dragon I've managed to acquire (let's say student loans, since those are the dragons I can see coming up on the horizon- and they sure look hungry- but that's a different post) and rescue my screaming self from my enchanted tower. (Or abduct. It's amazing how many heroic deeds are actually wrong. Go figure.)

And so, since I have no interest in a dingy knight, because I've noticed that dinginess is catching, I have considered what I should do to acquire a white one. (Since I'm not always very white myself, I'll settle for creamy off-white, but only if he has aspirations to true whiteness.) I haven't really gotten far on that, but I have gone to considerable lengths to define my own brand of cream.

My cream-with-aspirations-to-white knight must know how to fix a toilet, because I don't. And he should know how to take care of his charger (car) because while I plan to learn basic car maintenance myself, it would be embarrassing for both of us if I had to change his oil.

He must have a sense of humor, and moreover, it must be a sense of humor that I can appreciate and that appreciates mine, because I refuse to spend eternity with someone who still thinks "knock, knock" is in any way funny. I'm picky that way.

He must be chivalrous. I don't mind taking care of myself, but watching the Principal taking care of the Teacher has led me to set a high standard. Anyway, he can't be a knight and be unchivalrous. Not a cream-with-aspirations-to-white knight.

He must be practical. It would be really annoying if I married someone who refused to see the benefits of a coffin in the living room. Also, I'm a planner. My plans often fall through, but the Teacher will agree that the best way to make me mad is to forget to tell me that I have a commitment until the last minute. I like plans. I like to know what's next. And I want to marry someone willing to plan for the future with me, instead of someone who's going to be an unwilling dead weight every step of the way.

He needs to be easily pleased, but I suspect that this one will take care of itself. Only an easily pleased person would be in any way attracted to me (who can whirl around in purple fairy wings in front of three hundred people and not mind because I'm blowing bubbles).

He can NOT be a picky eater. I refuse to put up with that. Period. I don't mind if there's something he can't stand- the way I can't stand pickles- but I refuse to keep a list of foods that he won't eat just because they look funny.

And he needs to be smart. Because we would both be miserable if I was smarter than him.

He needs to be encouraging of my dream to be an author. He can't be one of those people who tell me that writing is a nice hobby, but I shouldn't get too serious about it, because the publishing industry is impossible to get into, because it doesn't pay much/anything/enough to live, because it's a worthless use of a lifetime, because it doesn't serve anybody, and because I should focus on having lots of kids or whatever else they consider more important.

I plan to dedicate my first book: "To everyone who promised me I couldn't do this: watch me." Because yes, I'm snotty. And come to think of it, the people who tell me all this are almost always relatives. My reluctance to go to huge family reunions begins to make more sense.

And yes, Young Women's was about looking for your eternal companion. How did you guess?

Vampires

I had blood drawn today. It looked kinda gross and kinda cool, watching it fly through a plastic tube into bottles, but I remain unconvinced that they're actually going to test it. If I were a vampire, I would get a job as a nurse or something, and slip in an extra vial for my coffee break snack.

Having a good imagination is not always a wonderful thing. Sometimes it's pretty un-wonderful.

The Horror!!

I was sitting on the couch crocheting. (It's a scarf. All I am willing to say is that it has character. It will have even more character when I add blue and bright pink fringe, but it has quite a bit already.) Suddenly and all at once (Hank the Cowdog reference!) I heard a scream of blood-curdling horror from the bathroom. I sprinted to the bathroom. (Okay, drifted lazily. I have some experience with horrified screams in this house.)

"What's wrong?" I inquired.

"Augh! My hair! Arggggh! Silver! Ahhh! A silver hair!" (And while I do occasionally paraphrase my mother's remarks, in this instance I did not.)

Apparently silver hair is invisible, because I stood in front of her and couldn't see it. Stood next to her and couldn't see it. Stood behind her and finally saw something that looked vaguely shiny. I'm wondering if your eyesight gets sharper as you get older. However, it's fun to hear the Teacher howl, so I mumbled that indeed there was a hair that might possibly be silver, and let her do the rest.

My Mom Is Spoiled

This is why I don't have a boyfriend (at seventeen years and two months of age):

A boy asks me to dance. (I will never, ever, over my dead body ever, ask a boy to dance. Because I'm sexist that way.) I smile and say yes. We wander over to the portion of the floor where the music is too loud to hear properly and start shuffling around in a circle. (Either none of the boys can dance or they all think that girls can't dance because it's always the shuffle-in-a-circle routine.) We exchange names and vital statistics, which can burn at least two minutes since we have to repeat ourselves more than once. (Loud music, like I said.) Then we stare past each other's shoulders. Then he asks me what I do in my free time. (After making my schedule yesterday, my new plan is to say "Free time? What's that again?") I say that I like to read, or that I write, one of those. He says, oh, that's interesting, in the tone of voice you would use to say "Why on earth would you do that? Are you even human?" Then I ask him what he does in his free time. He explains that he plays soccer, or football, or hockey, or baseball, or basketball. I say, "Oh, that's cool," in the tone of voice that means "I have no clue what the rules are for that but I don't think I care so I'm not going to ask and anyway, thank heaven, the song is ending." And then he thanks me for the dance and I thank him and we hurry away from each other.

In three years of going to dances, I have only once met someone who thought that writing was interesting enough to have a conversation about it. And he was five, six years older than me. This is why I have no interest in dating. And the Teacher doesn't mind because she not so secretly hopes that I'll be out of her house before I start dating so that it won't be her problem.

Favorites

There are two kinds of favorites: the harmless and the insidious.

The harmless are easy enough to recognize. My favorite flavor ice cream is chocolate, because I'm a bland and boring person and can never get enough chocolate anyway. I don't have a favorite color because I love them all and it feels like discrimination. These favorites are harmless, even cute when they aren't carried into the realm of obsession. These favorites don't hurt anyone.

There is the other kind of favorite.

I call these favorites insidious, because to have this kind of favorite does not make you a bad person. I know many (okay, one, but there are more out there, I'm sure) people who manage to be basically good and still keep a favorite like this around.

I'm talking about step-daughter favorites here. Like- exactly like- Cinderella: The step-daughters were the favorites, and she was... not. I'm talking about a boss favoring one worker over another for no reason at all. I'm talking about a mother loving her oldest, or youngest, or middlingest child more than the others. I'm talking about 'best friends', where you love one or two of your friends to the outright exclusion of others.

Playing favorites does not create a loving or kind atmosphere. It is unhealthy for all involved. The person playing favorites is taking the stance of having the right to judge who is better than the rest. The favorite is encouraged to believe that they are somehow the best, just born that way, and have a god-given right to get away with more than the rest of us. And the people who are not the favorite(s)...

Well. It makes it very hard to love them anyway. And you can't, usually, just explain how you feel: "So-and-so, I think that you love him/her more than you love me, and it's putting a strain on our relationship, blah blah blah". Because the knee-jerk response of the favoritist is "You're wrong. You're a horrible/misled/stupid/(insert other unfavorable label here) person. I would never play favorites. I love you all just the same," as the favorite gets away with bloody murder on the other side of the room.

Like I said, there are two kinds of favorites. The first kind is harmless. The second kind is insidious, because it takes a very honest, even brutally honest person to see and acknowledge to themselves what they're doing. And those kind of people seem to never have favorites.

The next time someone asks me who I like more, them or so-and-so, I'm going to smack them. Well, probably not, but I'll want to. I always have.

More Trivia

I must be a sadist. It's the only answer that makes sense.

Our driveway is paved, in the looser sense of the word. There's a sheet of concrete/gravel, and then lots of gravel on top of that. So if you have a kitten rolling around on the driveway, and you pet them, there would also, hypothetically speaking, be lots of small gravel close to hand. Theoretically, you could pick up the gravel and drop it, one piece at a time, on or next to aforesaid kitten and watch him jump and turn and pounce and turn himself inside out to catch the invisible piece of noise. Even better-ahem, still theoretically- all the gravel looks like all the other gravel so the kitten doesn't know what he's pouncing towards.

Not that I would ever do this while I wait for the Teacher to come out of the house and drive me somewhere.

Pig Person

Today in Sunday School the teacher gave us all paper and pens and told us to draw a pig. Well, a pig is pretty simple- two ovals, four legs, and a curly tail. So I finished drawing my pig before anyone else did. So I gave my pig spectacles. No one else was done. I added a Brigham Young beard. No one else was done. I gave him a waistcoat. And then I gave the waistcoat stripes. And then I gave it a watch chain. And buttons. And a bow on the tail, even though the bow didn't really match the rest of the outfit, because I was running out of ideas.

And then the teacher told us that it was a personality test. And the kind of pig I drew says that I'm a pessimistic, analytic, devil's advocate, distrustful, won't-avoid-debate-but-doesn't-seek-it-out-either kind of person. Well, I had fun laughing about this with my classmates. Too bad the teacher didn't have a way to tie it into the lesson.

And then I shared this with my parents on the way home. And the Teacher laughed, and then she said: "The funny part is that you have all of those character traits."

So much for the kind, nurturing, supportive atmosphere of home.

P.S.: Seminary starts on the 24th. There are two twins coming to seminary (move-ins). It used to be that one of them had the beginning of a beard and the other one didn't. Now the beard has disappeared and they are identical. And the Teacher has been wailing and gnashing her teeth and saying stuff like "I can't believe he shaved it! Now what am I going to do?!"

Feel free to laugh at her discomfort at any time. I am.

... you have all those character traits. Hmmph.

Why do People Smile For The Camera

I mean, really? Not just because you're told to, because that just leads to the question of why we are told to smile for the camera, or even why we are expected to smile for the camera.

Even I- and I'm not a fake smile kind of person- find myself pasting the fakest smile I can on my face for a photo that takes f...o...r...e...v...e...r... Because for some reason you're supposed to pose and smile before they figure out which button is the 'just push this' one. And then it takes three minutes for them to decide they've got everyone in the frame. And another two minutes for everyone to stop blinking or yawning or sneezing or deciding to go eat some more watermelon and they never liked family reunions anyway. And one more minute for luck.

I'm not a happy picture-taker's subject. I'm more like a wildlife shoot. If you want a picture of me, don't say a word, just keep pointing and shooting and a good picture will happen eventually. No, I won't be looking directly at you. No, I won't be trying to melt the film through focused glaring either. Yes, you should just get over it.

But really, why do we smile? When cameras were just beginning, people didn't smile. They scowled. They looked uncomfortable. They looked grouchy. They even blinked. So why do we need to smile all the time, even if we don't feel like it?

Possibly the answer lies in our materialistic, I-don't-care-if-I'm-not-rich-so-long-as-people-think-I-am culture. We don't care if we aren't happy (actually we do care, how couldn't we?), so long as everyone believes that our life is perfect. Smile for the camera.

And possibly not. Maybe we just find fake smiles really attractive and revealing of our inner selves.

What do you think?

Let me compare you....

My blog is a butterfly, flitting from topic to topic, audaciously showing her multi-hued colors to the world.

My blog is a hyperactive dog with no noticeable attention span and an endless capacity for drool.

My blog is a big fat cat with ears that look like chewed lace and a tail that looks like a carpenter's square, purring like a jack-hammer because the only person who ever posts is back in town.

Welcome back.

A Homeschooler This Way Comes

The Teacher and I just sat down and made my high school transcript. Since we've kept next to no records, and the past four years have been insane, it was interesting.

The good news is that when I graduate I will have as many credits a high school graduate is supposed to have.

The other good news is that we didn't put everything I've ever done down on this transcript. Which is good, because looking at the 'official' subjects we put down, I would have been bored to death. No wonder none of my peers like going to school.

The probably good news is that I'm signing up for dual credit courses at the closest community college (about forty or fifty minutes away). I want to take Drawing I and Spanish I. We'll see what happens.

And I don't feel too good. I'm going to try and get the Teacher to buy a chocolate malt for me on the way home. (Yes, sugar and chocolate will magically heal me. And since I think I'm mostly suffering from stress, they just might.) Occasionally I can ask nicely enough that she'll do that. (For instance, right after I took the SAT, she took me to Wendy's. I love Wendy's. I know, I have such sophisticated tastes.)

And if you're a home schooler: Keep records! Save yourself from some of this trauma! Pay attention! Make things easier on yourself! Don't start planning for college when your kid starts their Senior year!

Prickly People

I just now found out through the grapevine that I'm a prickly person. The discovery makes me smile, because under certain circumstances, I am.

When you don't see or talk or try to make any kind of personal connection with me for years on end, and then expect me to pour out all my innermost personal fears and desires and wishes... it ain't gonna happen, honey. When you've sent me, without fail, the message that I am not important to you, you will not be important to me. When you've never had time for me, do not expect me to make time for you. When the beginning of our relationship is that we're related, or we met at some function, or we worked on something together, or we were friends once, and you've never put any more time or effort into our relationship than that- it's also the end of our relationship. When I reach out to you, either through letter or phone call or face-to-face visit, and you stop me dead with the absolute coldness of your response, I will not continue to reach out to you and may not ever reach out to you again. I'm not fond of frostbite. When you pretend to know me- and believe me, you can't pretend, I don't care who you are- I will make sure you will never know me. When you always assume that I'm just like everybody else, and never make the slightest push to get to know me, you never will know me. When you spend all your time avoiding me- right up until you decide to make yourself feel warm and fuzzy by being my wonderful best buddy- I will pull a disappearing act that makes Houdini look like a fool. When, my entire life, you have never once shown any interest in me as a person, I promise that I will have no interest in you. When, after all this, I am forced to come in close contact with you for an extended period of time, I might or might not be friendly, but you don't have a prayer of suddenly becoming my friend.

For me, friendship is something built on time, effort, consistency, listening, interest, time, and effort. It never 'just happens'. If you're waiting for me to become your friend without ever lifting a finger, I promise it's not going to happen. If you're bored and think it would be wonderful to be my confidant, understand that I give out personal information on a Need to Know basis only: you don't need to know and I don't need to tell you and I'm not going to.

If you really want to be my friend, it's not that hard. Show me that you care. That I won't be out in the cold if someone more interesting turns up. That you have time for me. That I and my petty, insignificant problems are important to you. Take the time to talk to me about stupid things like the weather and what I want to take in college. Be brave enough to listen to me when I say something you don't agree with or that doesn't make sense at first.

I promise that if you do that, I will be the best friend you have ever had. I will listen to you. I will take time for you. I will worry about you. I will pray for you. I will compliment you and try to make you smile when you're sad. I will wade rapids and dive in front of flying bullets for you.

But if you don't want to go to that much trouble? I have a life outside of you. I have other friends. I have other things to do and other things to think about and other people to talk to.

And that makes me a prickly person. And you know what?

I'm totally fine with that.

A Different Relationship With Death

(Status Update: I have 50,000 words. In five days, that's more than I've ever written. I'm stopping the marathon while I'm ahead. I intend to keep writing on that story. And there's still lots of fish left. I had fun but I'm ready to stop now.)

I have weird conversations with my mom sometimes. (I know, you never would have guessed.)

Today it was about my ambition to build my own coffin. The Teacher pointed out that there's a slight problem with storing a coffin. I had a great deal of fun proving her wrong.

The point is that it's a box. A big box, but only a box. Put a lid on it and put it in front of a window and call it a window seat. Store blankets and other linens in it (and this would solve the explosion problem we have with the top shelf of our coat closet. Hmm). Put a lid on it and put it in the kids' room and it'll be a play chest, pirate ship, and space ship rolled into one. (If your kids are anything like I was, build this thing sturdy.) Take the lid off, stand it on end, and turn it into deep-shelf storage. Put wheels on it so you can wheel it around whenever you rearrange the furniture. Put rope handles on the ends or sides if wheels will mess up your carpet. Turn it into a pantry, for crying out loud! This box is going to wait for you to be ready for anything from twenty to sixty years. Make it work while it waits.

And decorate it. If it's sitting around for that long, you want it to look nice. Get a wood carving kit from Hobby Lobby and play with cut out roses and sailboats and landscape scenes. Stencil pictures on it and stain the wood around the stencil so you get pale silhouettes. Glue cheap picture frames to the side and put your family on your furniture. The possibilities are literally endless!

So, like I said, we have weird conversations sometimes. I look forward to building my coffin. It seems like it would be fun. It seems like home coffin-making would be like quilting. You put the pieces together so that it will be as sturdy as possible. You make it pretty so that people will be happy when they see it. And you make it thinking about the person you're making it for. For me, I'm not making the coffin for myself (although I will undoubtedly enjoy the process and the idea of having a coffin in my living room- hey, you could use it as a coffee table!).

I'm making it for the people who will bury me. I don't want them to spend $5,000 dollars on a box. The idea offends, especially since I've never seen $5,000. That belonged to me, anyway. I want the whole burying me process to be as smooth and painless as I can make it for them. And part of that is having the coffin ready to go. Part of that is that they will KNOW that I liked this coffin. I made it myself and then I didn't murder it for firewood the first chance I got. The whole deal of looking at tacky mahogany-and-chrome coffins that all look alike and trying to find something that the dead person would like- they won't have to do that!

(Don't get me started on my plan to live in the country and cut a piece of the land off as a designated private cemetary so that they don't have to choose a place to bury me or buy a plot. Plus, I get to design the landscaping myself. And there aren't any cemetary restrictions on what you can and can't do with the grave.)

So anyway, we were talking about coffins and stuff, and the Teacher mentioned in passing that I wouldn't want to tell people that the really cool linen chest/window seat was my coffin. I didn't understand why, so she spent the next twenty minutes trying to explain to me why knowing and acknowledging that you will die and planning for it isn't something that most people like to do or even like to know that you're doing. (Still don't totally get that one. The closest I can come is that they think they can cheat death if they don't think about it as hard and as long as they can.) She said that I would only want to tell my coffin-plan to people I knew really well- and also know me really well. (Don't you feel special?)

But she said one thing that impacted me. (Boom! Like a meteorite wiping out the dinosaurs!) "You have a different relationship with death than most people. It's been part of your life for as long as you can remember."

Which is true. I can't remember a time when there wasn't a cemetary to visit and a grave to decorate. Agonizing at the dollar store over whether or not to get a pinwheel or a windchime (you only think I'm joking- I got so tired of this conversation) is normal to me. Planning my own funeral is normal to me. Knowing that I'm going to die and that someone else will have to bury me- that's part of my life. Something that I've always understood and known and thought about.

So I just hope that my husband and future in-laws don't mind that I have a different relationship with death. Death isn't the enemy. Death is the next part of life, and something that I'm planning for so that it can be as enjoyable as possible for everyone involved. It won't go away if you ignore it. But it might be easier for your children and grandchildren and maybe even great-grandchildren if you have a checklist of what you want and what they need to do already arranged- and a coffin ready to go in the living room.

WM Post #3

It's day four, and I'm experiencing the bane of all writing marathons: burnout.

My story is going great (it actually has a plot! Wow!). My characters are interesting, complex, and have totally different life stories. I'm really in the swing of things, as far as story is concerned.

But I'm tired. It just gets hard, after three hours of staring at the screen, and checking the word count every other paragraph, and getting up to use the bathroom, and staring at the screen some more.... Sure, writing happens. I'm getting more done then I usually ever get done on a single project. But writing happens s...l...o...w...l...y...

Sigh.

On the bright side, the chocolate fish is holding out.

I'm a 45,000 words.

WM Post #2

I think I hate myself.

Wait, let me back up and tell a funny story before I explain what I did this time. On Saturday night, as I was typing wildly away, I noticed a little black spider running around on my desk. I said "Aww, hi there little guy" and went on typing. (Which raises more doubts about my relation to my mother than any other part of my personality. My mom hates spiders. She makes the Nazis and the Jews look mildly unfriendly. Thanks to a few peace negotiations though, she now lets me carry them out of the house on an index card instead of killing them outright. Unless they get in her tub. If you're a spider: don't go in our bathtub. You will never return alive. You will join the smeared spiders in the sky.)

Anyway, there was a spider on my desk. And it decided that it wanted more attention, so it jumped down onto my keyboard. When I swatted at it, it hid inside the keys. It didn't seem like such a cute spider anymore.

So I got out two pens and kept typing, chopstick style. Because I had a great idea about what my character should say next. (Don't ask me if the spider is still there. I'm pretending that it's not.)

So anyway, why I hate myself. I brought in a new character today. I thought I was resurrecting her from an old story, but as I introduced her, I added a twist to her previous abilities. And I kid you not, I only discovered the ramifications of this as I typed. I had no idea I was doing that to her. Now she's got a super power (sort of) that she can't control, so she kills people by accident, when she gets mad or sad or otherwise overly emotional, or even just when she has nightmares. So she hates herself; and it's not the cute and cuddly version of self-loathing most characters have. And since I love her, and I did this to her, I hate myself. And she's such a great character! She's funny, kind of sarcastic, a pessimist (with reason), and distrusts prophecies on principle. Which, since she's being dragged along on a quest centered around a prophecy of a dead King rising again (there seem to be a lot of zombies and ghosts in this story), is kind of problematic.

I don't know if I can pull a happy ending out of this.

And I'm up to 35,000 words. Missing half a day with church shot my words-a-day schedule in the foot.

Writing Mania Post #1

I have 14,446 words.
Right now Light (girl) and her apprentice Coin (boy) are discussing the qualities and distinctive features of the undead and how to kill them. This is good, because an unnamed someone is going around raising lots of dead to be killed. Meanwhile Sul (girl) is traveling with them on a quest to find the King and remake the world after it ends at some unspecified point in the future.
And I've had chocolate. Chocolate always makes things flow better.
And 14,000 words comes out to about 17 pages. In one day. On a project I've never written before.