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ashtrayfloors · 2 years

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this is only the beginning

So. I’m 40, as of the last day of 2021. And it feels okay. I was having all kinds of sad feelings leading up to it, but then it happened, and it was fine. I had a great birthday (we stayed at my parents’ place in Door County just like we did in 2020). And things were pretty good for the first week and a half of 2022.

Opportunities and ideas poured in, over the first week and a half of the year, including:

—I get to write a review of a novel I just read, and interview the author of said novel (who, by the way, is one of my all-time favorite writers) for the website of another of my favorite writers; and, alongside the interview/review, one of my short memoir/fiction hybrid pieces is going to be published (because it was inspired by said novel). —The novel I’ve been working on on-and-off for, uh, eight years has finally clicked into place. It’s sorta On The Road, except if it was written by Kathy Acker, but there’s a lot more to it than that. (That blackout poetry I’ve been posting on my main blog is also part of the novel.) —I found out that this thing I submitted a few poems to nearly two years ago is finally moving forward, and that they chose one of my poems to be part of it—it being, one of my poems (along with work from a few other poets) is being set to music, by a legit composer, and the works will then be performed at UW-Parkside by the Racine Concert Band. Holy shit, right?! —I got asked to record another spoken word album for Hello America this year; that will probably be coming out in the fall. —A micro-press I dig said they’d like to publish a short chapbook by me, sometime in the summer or fall. —A poetry project I’ve been working on for a few years (my Rimbaud translations/responses) coalesced with some other, newer stuff I’ve been writing, and excerpts from that will probably end up being my chapbook for said micro-press. —I’m working on Bone & Ink Press stuff. I’m finally moving forward with the new wave anthology, and that’s exciting. —I’m doing a revised and expanded edition of WWTAWWTAP, with new artwork, too, and this one will actually be available in print form as well as digital. —I’ve decided to restart my Patreon. I need the income, but more than that, I think I now know how to do it in a way that’s sustainable for me but still worth it for my patrons. —Since TLSOE is no longer in print, and we’re coming up on the two-year anniversary of its publication date, I’ve been thinking of other stuff to do with the material. Over the past few years, I’ve gotten into making short films based on my poetry, so I’ve decided I’m going to make a short film (though a bit longer than my previous shorts; this one may be 30 minutes-ish) based on excerpts from TLSOE.

I’m kinda broke right now, but not too bad. I recently got some royalties from my album and the last chunk of the payment from my tenure as writer-in-residence, which was enough to pay off some debt I had and still have a little bit left over. Plus, being broke now means something different than it did in my younger days. Broke now is like: I can’t afford any luxuries at the moment, but I can still pay my bills. Back in the day, broke meant “I’m living on ramen noodles and malt liquor and constantly on the verge of eviction.”

I’ve canceled all my/my family’s streaming subscriptions. I started with Spotify, but I’ve also since canceled Netflix, et. al. I��m trying to finish watching the newest season of Queer Eye before my Netflix subscription actually expires, but other than that I won’t miss it too much. It actually feels kinda freeing to untie myself from all those things. For one, half the time those services didn’t have what we wanted to watch (or listen to) anyway. For two, I’d rather save some of the money that would have gone to those things and actually buy albums and films. And in the meantime, I’ll just check more CDs and DVDs out from the library.

I’ve basically quit smoking. I’m not going to say I’m 100% quit, because every time I say that, I end up relapsing, but I’m doing really really really well. I’ve got nicotine gum and CBD oil for when the physical cravings hit, tea tree oil and cinnamon toothpicks for when I need something in my mouth/to do with my hands, and when it’s about just needing that moment to myself (which it often is), I’m taking those moments to meditate, do a few yogic stretches, listen to a song, read or write a poem, something like that.

In bummer news: I’m currently waiting on CoViD test results. I started getting a sniffle on Tuesday evening; thought it was just my chronic allergy-sinus stuff. Wednesday, it was still there, and more constant. Thursday, when I woke up and it was still there plus I felt a bit fatigued/headachey, I decided to go get tested. Odds are I don’t have it—I’m triple vaxxed. I rarely go anywhere (and when I do I double-mask). The only people in my bubble are my partner, our kiddos, and my parents; five out of the six of us are now fully vaxxed and/or vaxxed + boosted (the only one not is C. because he’s too young to be eligible yet). My parents also rarely go anywhere (and when they do, they’re double-masked). The kiddos are homeschooling, P. no longer works as a bartender. Also, the symptoms of whatever I do have are extremely mild, and are pretty much gone as of today, and no one else in my house/bubble has any symptoms—and they all would have been exposed 5-6 days ago, now. What I think happened is that I was worn down from lack of sleep and stress and overdoing it, so my allergy-sinus stuff turned into a sinus infection (that’s happened before). But I still figured it was best to get tested, and my family and I are quarantined until I get my results.

If I do, god forbid, have it, I’m gonna be pissed. I have spent the past two years being so so so careful, to the point of giving up a lot of what is most important to me. Hell, I stopped seeing my friends before the country at large even went into the initial shutdown! Also, if I do have it, based on timeline/places I’ve gone, it means I caught it at either the library or the post office. Which would be both funny and stupid. Funny because, well, the library and post office are probably where I’ve spent the most hours of my life (outside of where I lived and/or worked) from the age of 12 on. Annoying because, man, if I knew I’d potentially get CoViD anyway, I’d have gone to a punk show or something fun!

Anyway. Fingers crossed I don’t have it. They said I should get my results in 1-3 days, so hopefully I find out tomorrow.

I’m on a semi-hiatus from Facebook. I check in a few times a week, but I’ve deleted the app from both my phone and tablet so I don’t start doom scrolling. See, some of my friends are getting way too doom-and-gloom. They’re all “collapse of society” this, “global climate collapse” that, sharing every horrific news article that comes along. And I just can’t immerse myself in that energy at this juncture. I’m not burying my head in the sand, or remaining neutral in situations of injustice, I’m not becoming some kind of CoViD denier or climate change denier or anything like that. But, as I’ve said before, I’m naturally prone to anxiety, depression, and existential dread. It is a daily fight for me to not completely succumb to them. I’ve started to learn, over the past few years, some ways to deal with those tendencies. There’s art and music, of course, and physical activity. There’s also the question I ask myself before I read any news article: “Can I do something, even something small, to deal with this problem in a constructive way right now?” If the answer is ‘no,’ I simply don’t read it until I’m in a headspace in which I can handle it, which is sometimes never. And there’s temporarily distancing myself from friends and acquaintances when they get too gloom-and-doom, or too bitter. I don’t expect people to be relentlessly positive all the time, but I also can’t subject myself to excessive negativity all the time. And I don’t know. A lot of my friends who are falling into that constant negativity and doom don’t have kids. And I feel like…having kids, I don’t have the luxury to let myself fall into total despair. No matter what’s happening, I’ve still gotta keep my kids safe and healthy, and it’s a lot harder to do that if I’m too depressed to get out of bed.

So I do what I can: I participate in letter-writing campaigns and phone banks for various causes, I help plan and cook community meals, I modify and mend my old clothes, I repurpose other old things for art projects, I plan what I will grow in my garden this year (and I teach myself more about sustainable gardening). I remind myself of that Tumblr post that was floating around a while back, about not thinking too much about the end of the world because there are dishes to wash and people to love. I remind myself of Brother Curtis Almquist saying: If you are anxious just now, you are almost already hopeful. And of Rebecca Solnit saying: To hope is to gamble. It’s to bet on the future, on your desires, on the possibility that an open heart and uncertainty is better than gloom and safety. And I remind myself of Richard Brautigan’s poem “Calendula:”

My friends worry and they tell me about it. They talk of the world ending of darkness and disaster. I always listen gently and then say: No, it’s not going to end. This is only the beginning, as this book is only a beginning.

#pls no reblobs //#dear livejournal #life #good things #bad things #aging #birthdays #new year #plans #said i got new dreams #smoking #covid mention #anxiety #hope #quotations #richard brautigan #this is only the beginning #to resist despair in this world is what it is to be free

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duckprintspress · 3 years

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A Brief(ish) History of Duck Prints Press

For this week’s blog feature, I thought I’d talk a little about how Duck Prints Press came about. (hi, it’s @unforth!)

In 2012, an old friend of mine - @fireun, now Burdock, they/them - got in touch to suggest that I submit a story to an anthology for which they would be the anthologist. That project became Fight Like a Girl, a successfully Kickstarted anthology with over 20 contributors. Having gotten a taste for anthologizing (is that a word? it is now...) fireun proposed a second anthology - What Follows - to which I also contributed, and they made an attempt at a third which never got off the ground. fireun’s dream was to work with new, young authors - many of whom we had met while attending World Fantasy Convention over the years - to help them get their first writing credentials, pay them a market rate, and springboard them into further writing careers. However, by the third anthology it became clear there was a challenge to: new authors didn’t have the clout to successfully launch Kickstarters. fireun couldn’t raise the funds to pay authors what they deserved.

Around when the second anthology came out in 2014, I also finished the first draft of a novel that eventually became A Glimmer of Hope, and I began to post fanfiction (having been a lurking reader for several years). As I joined fanfiction author communities, I realized there was a vast untapped pool of writing talent - individuals who, for a multitude of reasons, weren’t interested in pursuing traditional publishing but might still want to get their original work out into the world. Furthermore, unlike the new authors that fireun invited to their anthologies, the fic authors had a following which could potentially help raise the funds necessary to pay for a project.

(read more...)

These two ideas combined over the summer of 2015. We got to talking - could we work with both these audiences? Could we make this into a company? What would that company to look like and how would it be structured? What kinds of works would we want to publish? I especially sank my teeth into the project, doing a lot of research - on competitors (ask me about Big Bang Press sometime...), on similar models, on pay scales and legalities and many other aspects of starting a business. We planned to meet in June, then it got pushed back to July...and then I found out I was pregnant, and fireun was trying to leave a bad relationship, and the whole project derailed - shelved, but not forgotten.

Several times, I tried to revive fireun’s interest, but they increasingly were moving in a different direction with their life (nothing wrong with that, they’re much happier now, and we’re still friends). Thus, I forged forward alone.

Based on the research I’d done in 2015 (and which I re-did periodically to make sure it was current), I had a basic idea of what I wanted to create: a Limited Liability Corporation, owned by me but with a team to help since it’s way more than one person can do alone. I’d looked into Book View Cafe, a cooperative publisher that works with established authors to put out works they want to do but for whatever reason don’t want to go a traditional root with, and I loved the idea of a co-op (that remains our ultimate goal). By reducing initial outlay costs on editing, graphic design, and other “basics,” and doing a lot of the production work on a barter basis, we could minimize expenses and maximize the amount we pay authors. I started quietly sending out feelers, to see what other fanfiction authors might be interested in joining something like this, and found a lot of support that helped me think the core idea would be viable.

But could we make money? I need to prove that, to myself and in a way demonstrable to others, before I could proceed.

Despite having a rough pregnancy, and then an infant, I edited and preparing A Glimmer of Hope for self-publishing (I also have my own reasons I’m not interested in pursuing traditional publishing). In fall, 2016, drawing on the support of people who enjoyed my fanfiction, I successfully funded a Kickstarter for A Glimmer of Hope, which convinced me that my core idea from the previous summer was sound: working with fanfiction authors who wanted to publish original work could produce enough support to pay for putting out books, especially if those books catered to fanfiction reader’s taste.

If I could do one book by myself and turn a profit, surely many authors working together to produce works of different lengths and anthologies could do even better! Validated, and having found the Kickstarter surprisingly easy to put together, I continued to form my plans.

As I putting together the final draft of A Glimmer of Hope, I wanted a publisher imprint to put on the spine and title page, and after a lot of pondering, I settled on Duck Prints Press. This was an homage to fireun and our time in college as roommates, when we pranked each other in increasingly absurd ways that always involved ducks (my favorite was when I propped a bucket of stuffed ducks over their door such that it fell out on their head when they opened the door...another excellent one was when fireun used all the ceiling light drawstrings in our house to hang rubber ducks threateningly around...it all stemmed for a ridiculous AIM conversation, circa 2001, where we swore vengeance on each other over some absurdity but we could only use ducks, Gackt music, and library books to exact our revenge). Ducks were near and dear to my heart because of all this, and strongly associated with my relationship with fireun, so of course I wanted to immortalize that in our name. I also developed the initial version of our duck print logo, with the intention that someday, I’d make the press a fully-realized reality, and not merely an imprint on a single self-published book.

Since I sent those books out in 2016, it’s taken more than 4 years to convert those nascent plans into the reality of Duck Prints Press LLC. I made a push in 2019, and that’s when jhoom, formidablepassion, alessariel and adaille signed on to help. We did a lot of planning then, but fall of 2019 was busy for us and we had to put things on hold, and then 2020 happened (need I say more?).

As the last difficult year came to a close, I reached out to the others and we agreed: 2021 would be our year.

So, here we are, and we’re excited to finally be sharing the dream that started as mine and fireuns, and then was mine alone, and now belongs to many people - and more all the time. We’ll be announcing author recruitment for our first anthology imminently (...probably tomorrow!) and we’re hoping that, just as once fireun hoped to help launch new authors with anthologies, the five of us who run Duck Prints Press will be able to recruit a core team of authors interested in publishing original work with us in the future. We’re very excited - to publish new works, to bring in new readers, to support authors, and to publish original fiction that brings all the joy that our favorite fanfiction elicits.

We couldn’t be more thrilled to be writing books about your new OTPs.

Thanks, everyone, for joining us at the start of this journey. We can’t wait to see what the future holds for all of us!

#duck prints press #about duck prints press #mod post

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pochapal · 3 years

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rank every year of the 2010s from best to worst i want some pochapal lore

[warning for discussion of my fucked up mental health and my myriad traumas. we’re really opening the pandora’s box here gang]

ok time for me to overshare on the internet again! super long post because i can’t shut up and you asked for it. anyway, by objective ranking:

#1: 2012 - halcyon era, my personal peak. spent the whole year writing hunger games oc fics with my deviantart fanfiction besties whom i still think about all the time and always hope are having the best possible day. if you were here for this era understand i still hold you so closely and dearly in my heart <3.

#2: 2013 - god i was such a good example of a human being back then. was the year my writing like actually took off and i had a healthy balance between creative stuff and a social life (said social life consisting of spending lunchtimes at school breaking into classrooms and discussing fandom shit with five other people. reading homestuck updates in the music room on one person’s really shaky mobile data...legendary). highlight of the year and maybe my life was in the april of 2013 when i got out of failing to submit a hard deadline essay by telling my english teacher i wrote a whole novel over the two week break and then producing said novel. god i wish i had that level of like. fucking confidence back me back then knew what i wanted and how to get it.

#3: 2010 - the last year of childhood. i was 12 and played pokemon all the time with my friends and went places and had a moderately successful youtube channel and it didn’t matter that i was bullied so badly at school because i was basically high off life. summer of 2010 was so good specifically. i’d used to get the bus with a friend and go see movies and break into historical sites and get into normal childhood mayhem and maxed out my pokewalkers twice a month and i was buzzed because i had two (2) whole friendship groups to choose from and that was such a huge deal to me the terminal social outcast. it was so simple and carefree and even though everything and everyone involved in this era grew up to suck except for one specific person i kinda really miss it.

#4: 2018 - this was the first year i wasn’t depressed to the point of nonfunctioning. it was 20gayteen, i was on antidepressants, i was as close to thriving as i got at uni (going into town with people once a week, attending art and culture events, getting good grades across the board), i started to write for fun again, i got my cat whom i love dearly, i was exhibited in my uni’s city’s literature festival, GOD i actually nearly attended a pride event that year can you imagine. this year was basically my life’s second peak. miss getting the 8am train and daintily sipping on a cherry coke to keep me from passing out. wish this time could have lasted longer.

#5: 2019 - kinda absolute middle of the road year not for lack of anything happening but because the overwhelming amount of good and bad things cancelled each other out. so like there’s the fact that i was at the top of my uni game this year, was basically making the first steps into a professional writing career (covid i will never forgive you for killing all that dead </3), finally saved up enough to buy myself a gaming pc, and the summer after the homestuck epilogues, but equally 2019 was the start of the Pochapal Gender Fiasco which is by far the most horrible thing i am still currently undergoing and i burnt myself out mentally about halfway through the year (being stuck overnight in a hospital for a panic attack absolutely horrible horrible irredeemable) and then got like super death plague flu that i was sick with for three months (literally recovered less than a month before rona hit. god’s cruel karma.). so like...it kind of averaged out? the good shit was good but not as great as other years and the bad shit was awful but nowhere near as terrible as it could have been. gotta give a shoutout to 90% of my current mutual cohort for following me in 2019...omelette route gang make some noise !!

#6: 2014 - oof. this year essentially marked the start of a four year long downward mental health spiral because everything fell into awful alignment. i’d just turned 16, finished secondary school, had all my friends up and ditch me at once, was home alone for a whole summer, and was hit with Sudden Intense Body Image Issues that i couldn’t explain until uh. after very recent developments lmao. this one goes out to the me of july 2014 who did nothing but lay in bed and listen to the same two marina albums on a loop because fuck i’m attracted to men and also my facial and body hair are really starting to come in and if i think about this for too long i will literally kill myself because oh god i can’t handle getting older which is clearly and definitely the issue going on here. my brain fucking broke super hardcore and it’s a miracle that an overeating disorder was like the worst thing i walked away with.

#7: 2015 - downward spiral year two!! i was so volatile this year it was such a mess. i was totally socially isolated after a brief stint of falling in with a group of people at the start of my first year of sixth form until january where in quick succession a) it turned out every single one of these people was friends with the person who sexually assaulted me whom i obviously had a lot of complicated feelings towards and b) baby’s first crush came out as bisexual but in the “women and also trans women” kind of way which tore me up so terribly in ways i couldn’t begin to understand. no words for the experience of seeing a girl kiss a boy and crying so hard at night you threw up because you could never be her no matter how much you wanted it. actually kinda get the sense what was going on there was bigger than just some crush lmao. then after that i was so mentally ill i basically attended school less than half the time and it was the only year in my life i failed my exams. i ended up having to resit my entire set of first year a level exams because jesus christ was i in such a bad way it was a miracle i even showed up to them. all i did was either have anxiety attacks or enter bedbound depressive slumps for weeks at a time. but it’s okay because it gets worse.

#8: 2016 - downward spiral act iii: the spiralling. prefacing this by saying that i actually had two whole good months (april - may) in that i was functioning enough to do my exams and finish school with decent grades. the rest was super extra mega terrible. my school attendance for year 13 dipped below 65% and literally the only thing that kept me from being kicked out was the fact that i was naturally smart at the subjects i took and also because the school would have a lot to answer for after letting me get to that state despite having a hefty file on how damaged i was. keep in mind every single part of this was fully untreated btw - i was just floundering around and letting it all fester. i spent three solid weeks going to school but locking myself in the bathroom all day every day and having mental health episodes then going home like nothing else happened only to continue the breakdown that night. then things got kicked into fucked up overdrive when i moved out to uni and was cut off from what little support structures i did have. it was so bad all i did was cry all the time and never went anywhere to the point where three separate sources recommended me to the wellbeing and crisis counselling service that i stopped going to after two sessions because i was fucked up in ways cbt techniques could not even touch. at least i tried to make an effort for the first two months of uni which like. good for me?

#9: 2017 - what lieth at the base of the spiral. helltrench year. i was at literal rock bottom. i stopped going to class, i didn’t hand in a single piece of work. i lied to my parents and would book trains each day only to go back to my student flat and sit there and contemplate suicide. like i would just slump on the floor in a catatonic state and vividly contemplate one of four or so ways i could end my own life. i only didn’t because i wanted to wait until the summer to collect my last student loan and transfer it to my parents as an apology for my death which obviously didn’t end up happening. honestly i can’t remember much of the first half of 2017 that’s how bad it was. i remember taking a gender studies class and the teacher made it Weird that i was the Only Male Student in the room and then she sent me a scolding email after i walked out halfway through a class and never returned. apparently i got into a lot of online discourse in this year but i don’t remember anything other than being put on a blocklist by the milkfic author over ace discourse which is funny if you have the context. mostly i just baited terfs and weirdo freaks to get them to say horrible things to me as what i guess amounts to some kind of digital self harm. anyway breaking point came in late august when i got kicked out of university and then nobody could ignore it any more so there was no choice left but for me to seek out help and recover enough to function which luckily i did. i really Do Not remember 2017. you could tell me anything about that year and i’d probably believe you.

#10: 2011 - extra circle of hell for this little fucked up gem of a year. on the surface it wasn’t actually that terrible, until the Summer 2011 Domino Effect Of Bad Shit. up until like may/june it was a pretty all right year! i was 13 and had a surprisingly successful youtube channel uploading pokemon soundfont remixes to an audience of i think ~350-400 subscribers at my peak? anyway then i got hit with the early summer triple combo of childhood friends moving away, cute and quirky sexual assault at the hands of a person in my friend group, and then having some Really Great and Super Appropriate interactions with adults on deviantart. like obviously there’s the actual ptsd-inducing event which totally disrupted and killed the person i was right up until that moment and reshaped every facet of my life for better or worse (there’s an alternate timeline where that didn’t happen and i got into electronic music and/or coding instead) but really it’s the events that followed in its wake which were kind of more fucked up. so like all of a sudden i was super aware of my body and me growing my hair out and being mistaken for a girl in class suddenly became this Less Innocent thing and i ended up spending hours overnight going to transgender questioning forums and looking up hrt timeline videos and having the wikipedia article on tracheal shaving saved because it was a life raft to me whose voice was imminently gonna deepen and i was simultaneously reeling with constant trauma flashbacks and the whole thing was so so fucked up. then i was on deviantart and i don’t remember exactly how but a small group of furry guys ten to fifteen years older than me started messaging me and encouraging and requesting me to produce nonsexual fetish stuff for them and talking to me about stuff like if i’d ever thought about growing up to be gay and i didn’t think anything of it for a long while because they called me a very talented writer and it felt so good to have someone be nice to me after being so alone and isolated for months on end. anyway the only reason i got out of that before it got bad was because they invited me to one of the big furry sites and i was weirded out because i thought it was a porn site and thinking about sexual stuff was a huge trauma trigger so i just ended up blocking them all and pretending like it didn’t happen. at the time half this shit didn’t bother me but in retrospect holy fuck 2011 was such a damaging year. to think if like three events didn’t happen i wouldn’t be the fucked up mess you see before you today.

god fuck this turned out super long but i’m not apologising because this was a therapeutic exercise for me and also constitutes as one of the biggest pochapal lore dumps of all time. come get your food or whatever.

#Anonymous #long post #read all of this if you have vested interest in knowing intimate details about my life or whatever

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astyle-alex · 3 years

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April Wrap-Up & May 2021 Goals

Guess who let this semester's Finals period sneak up on her? THIS CHICK.

So while this month was in some ways WILDLY productive, it was also extremely limited in what was produced and what I was producing took a lot more time for a lot less objective output in the easily visible stats... (I'm actually not even done yet, I've still got one more paper left to finish up by the end of the week).

Therefore, I did not quite make it to may usual monthly goal of 50k in new words written, but considering most of what I wrote was short-hand notes, but since if I'd written the bullet points out into full sentences (or even actual words in many cases), I would definitely be solidly into the 75k range, I'm actually pretty chill with that outcome. I wound up at ~47k and averaging ~1,600 per day.

Again, my forward progress on the day to day was actually quite steady, so I have no real complaints, only wistful regret that one cannot magically manage to focus on pleasure projects & side hustles while also devoting due time to irl school / work obligations...

The project labeled "Gatewatch" is really just a pile of plot bunny notes on my phone that I needed to get out of my brain so that I could concentrate on school. It's a stand-alone original fiction project that I think could turn into a really cool novel, but for the moment, I don't think it'll be able to get off the ground.

I still need to finish my last essay and then I am getting upsettingly close to running out my queue for Sun & Stars... so I'll be trying to put my focus into that this month.

Speaking of goals, I didn't even look at what I'd hoped I'd get done for April, so let's see how I ended u doing:

I did not query anyone for anything... I did not write anything new at all but I did post 3 new chapters of Sun & Stars, here & on Ao3, and I posted 4 chapters of Multiverse Mishap, with 2 new going up for both the Bat Version and the SPN version... I definitely got my 4 media reviews up... and I got 6 job apps in, though one of them was to be a zoo keeper (which I'm not really qualified for, but it might be kinda cool and was listed as 'entry level' with no experience requirement), so at least that one probably shouldn't count as a legitimate job app, but still... And, including the Duchess post, I technically did post 3 'other' types of post, so I'mma roll with that as a minor victory!

Over all, that's not nearly as bad as I feared it might be.

Which means I can head into May feeling almost confident!

So, May 2021 Goals:

- Query 3 Lit Agents

- Post 3 Chapters of Sun & Stars, here & on Ao3.

- Draft 3 full chapters of Sun & Stars.

- Post 4 Chapters of Multiverse Mishap.

- Post 8 Media Reviews

- Make 3 other kinds of Post (special release, culture crit, write life, etc)

- Submit 12 Job Applications

And May 2021 Schedule:

Monday: Post new chapter of Multiverse Mishap. (Biweekly)

Tuesday: Post new chapter of Sun & Stars.

Wednesday: Post Media Review.

Thursday: Special Access, Write Life, or Culture Crit posts.

Friday: Post Media Review.

Saturday: Post new chapter of Multiverse Mishap. (Biweekly)

Sunday: No Post.

Hopefully, I'll be able to get reorient myself this month, and (best case scenario) finish up Sun & Stars well enough to be confident in wrapping up it entirely by the end of summer. I have no idea if I'll continue with Gatewatch, but you'll be the first to get any updates on it!

We have the Kentucky Derby coming up this afternoon and I literally have no idea who is running or what the odds are, so I'm not betting (tragically), but I will definitely be watching and looking forward to marking the semi-official start of SUMMERTIME!

I hope you guys have a wonderful May!

GOOD LUCK!

#goals #yay schedules #writer problems #write life

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evalinkatrineberg · 4 years

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Unexpected

A/N: Yet another RP with @arin-schreave :)

Life had gone back to normal for the most part since I had left Clemence’s room four nights ago. I had settled back into my routine as if nothing had happened. Wake up early, run, shower, breakfast, read, lunch, study, dinner, relax - wash, rinse, repeat. The monotony of it all was kind of comforting. It wasn’t that I hadn’t enjoyed the ever-changing atmosphere of the palace at all since getting here, but there was a familiarity about having time to myself, to get done what I needed to do. To think.

I had a good bit of thinking to do, and yet, here I was, procrastinating on thinking by working on some summer readings for my fall classes. I had gotten the go-ahead from all of the professors of the classes I had planned on taking to complete their classes online for as long as I was away. The only issue that had arisen was the laboratory portion of my biochemistry class, but the professor had informed me that she was going to reach out to Proctor and see if she could get the lab work I had done under Proctor’s supervision to count for the lab work I was missing out on while I was here. I had thanked my professor profusely for offering to do so, though I didn’t have high hopes that she would succeed. I hadn’t spoken to Proctor since leaving, hadn’t even heard her name since my last phone call with Lukas, but from what I had gathered, she was still rather unhappy with my decision to come here, as well as my decision not to assist her in reaching her non-academic pursuits.

That was one of the things I was trying not to think about. The other was the proposal that each of the Selected were going to have to submit by the end of the week. I had a topic, thanks to my conversations with Itzel and Safiya in the gardens not too long ago, but I wasn’t content with the feasibility of my proposed plan yet. I would’ve felt more comfortable if I could somehow have gotten access to the royal budget, just to see the numbers, but there was no way that was happening. It was for good reason, but at the same time, it was a mild inconvenience. I didn’t want to look like a fool if there weren’t nearly enough funds for my proposal. There was also the fact that I wasn’t sure my proposal was nearly as impactful as it could be. Again, having access to official numbers would have helped me to conceptualize it a bit, but I’d have to go without, I was afraid.

I put down the black pen I had been using, switching to an indigo color to signify a different carboxyl group in my notes as the next song started to play through my earbuds. The light, airy tones of a violin floated through my ears as I finished writing, looking down at the page in front of me. I took great pride in my notes. They were like an art form for me - a way to express myself and organize my thoughts on one neat, lined sheet of paper. My siblings had always joked that I could sell my notes for money, and maybe they had a point - the extra money would also certainly help fuel my caffeine addiction, I was sure - but I didn’t plan on ever following through with it. They were my notes, after all. I was the one who had put in the time and effort. Yet, it was nice to know that other people saw and appreciated that.

I smiled down at my notebook, satisfied at the quality of my work so far today, before sitting up and twisting in my chair, cracking my back. Only fifteen more pages to go by the end of the week! Done with stretching, I reached over for my water bottle, finally looking at the library around me as I took a sip. It was empty, for the most part. The majority of the people living here must have decided to take advantage of the nice weather and spend some time outside. I couldn’t blame them, but I had work to get done, and the peace and quiet was a welcome change.

My eyes narrowed as I looked to my right. I wasn’t alone, after all. There was Arin, emerging from the stacks with a book in hand. His footsteps were light - almost silent - as he walked towards the door, like he didn’t want to be seen.

I frowned. Would it be worth it to say anything? What good would come of it? If he didn’t want to be bothered, me saying anything would likely just put him in a bad mood, and yet, that possibility in and of itself sounded kind of entertaining to me. He had made it pretty clear when we had last spoken that he didn’t want us Selected girls here, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy myself while I was here.

I took out one earbud, intent on keeping my voice quiet, as we were in a library, after all. “Hello.”

His shoulders tensed up at the sound of my voice, despite my low volume. Did he think someone was going to attack him in the library, or something? Why would a potential attacker even greet him to begin with? Any good assassin would stab first and ask questions later, in my opinion. It only seemed rational.

His shoulders fell as he looked over his shoulder and caught sight of me. “Hi, Evalin.”

His startled expression set me laughing for a brief moment. I’d never seen him caught off guard like this, even when I had literally collided with him in the hallway. It was kind of refreshing, actually - like it made him more human, somehow.

Composing myself once again, I paused my music and took out my remaining earbud, gesturing with my free hand towards the book he was holding. “Doing some light reading?”

He paused for a moment, sizing me up with his eyes, as if he was debating whether or not to respond. I had to admit, that stung a little bit. After a few seconds, though, he lifted the book he was holding, waving it through the air in a small motion. “A bit.”

“Anything in particular?” I put one of my pens in the spine of my textbook, which was sitting open on the table, to mark the page. I could come back to biochemistry later, I supposed. Turning to face him, I swung my legs towards the side of my chair, crossing my left leg over my right.

He hesitated for a second, but then took a few steps towards me. Why was he acting so cautiously? Is he afraid of me? The thought almost had me laughing again, but maybe I was on to something. I could understand if he might think that I was upset over what he had disclosed to me in the hallway when we had last seen each other.

That was one of the other things I had been trying not to think about.

“Systems of Necessary Authority and Power by Ian Mondeli,” he answered, glancing down at the book in his hands.

“Ah, I see,” I replied, nodding slowly and pursing my lips. The name of the book was familiar, though I was certain I had never read it. It sounded like something off of the syllabus of a political science course, but I had never taken one, so I didn’t know for certain. Sure, we had to take two social science classes as a general education requirement at my university, but I had elected to fulfill that requirement with history courses. History was almost straight memorization, which I could do well. Plus, it was more interesting to me than most other social sciences, and didn’t encourage the same level of introspection as a course like psychology.

Still, maybe I could use this as a talking point. I had been telling the truth when I had told Arin that I would like to get to know him better. “Are you a fan of nonfiction, then?”

He nodded slowly, taking a few more steps towards the table. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Me too,” I responded with a sheepish smile. I enjoyed some fiction, sure, but even as a kid, I would beg my father to buy me books about topics such as dinosaurs or marine animals, instead of just reading one of the many fiction novels my siblings had offered me. Political science was quite different from dinosaurs, though, I mused as I glanced back at my notebook for a moment. Maybe he did have an interest in other topics, though. The only way to find out was to ask. “Though I assume you tend to stick to the social sciences?” I looked up at him, inclining my head slightly to the right, bracing my right arm on the back of my wooden chair.

“It depends. It’s good to know about different subjects.” He set the book on the table, taking care to make sure that it didn’t make any noise, and that the edge of the book was perfectly lined with up with the edge of the table. It was oddly particular. So he likes things done a certain way, then. Maybe.

The fact that he had other interests outside of political science and its related fields shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. He was human, after all. It was only natural for him to have a wide variety of interests and hobbies. However, every time I had inquired as to what his other interests might be, he had brushed me off. I hummed thoughtfully, looking at the book and wondering if this might be my chance to finally get to know something more about what he was interested in. I turned my gaze upwards, meeting his eyes once again. “Such as?”

He shrugged. “Anything. Everything.”

Okay, so, my mission had been unsuccessful after all.

I rolled my eyes at his non-answer, still smiling at him, though. Maybe a joke would work, then. “Mm, somehow, I have a hard time picturing you reading about math.” I picked up one of my other pens, tapping it lightly against my chin as I attempted to imagine him reading Fermat’s Last Theorem. The mental image fizzled out before it ever focused, though, like even my subconscious knew there was no way it would happen.

“Well, it’s a graduation requirement at all schools, so…” he trailed off, rocking back and forth on his heels.

So he actually did his assigned readings, then. I raised my eyebrows at him, before I realized that him doing the readings for classes made a good deal of sense, assuming he did actually enjoy reading nonfiction. Course syllabi must be like a free list of book recommendations to him, then.

“True, but most math classes tend to focus on problem solving instead of theory. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course! It’s a useful skill.” And problem sets are more fun than memorizing theories, anyway. My eyes were drawn once again to the book he had set down on the table, and my curiosity got the better of me. “Dare I ask what that’s about?”

He hesitated once again, looking down at the book as he answered. “It’s about the caste system.”

Ah, so maybe that was why he hadn’t wanted to be seen then. What was he doing reading about the caste system, anyway? Proctor’s parting comments to me nagged at the back of my mind, but I tried my best to mute them, raising my eyebrows a bit at him. “Oh, neat!”

I probably sounded way too intrigued for my own good. I was tempted to explain myself, but I nixed the idea, deciding it was better to stay quiet. How many times had my mouth gotten me into awkward conversations since I had been here? I had lost count.

He didn’t seem to notice or care, though, simply nodding as he shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing over at my books. “What are you reading?”

Ah, that. I laughed once lightly, my head angled down as my eyes peered upwards at him. “My biochem textbook.” God, it sounded so lame. Who read textbooks - besides me, apparently? “Pretty dry content, I’m afraid.” I bit my lip, more curious as to why he was reading out the caste system than I was willing to explain glycolysis to him. My own curiosity began to mingle with Proctor’s words in my mind, but still I kept my mouth shut. It was too dangerous of a topic. I shouldn’t.

“Ah, well, you’ve got me there.” He nodded again, a slight frown forming on his face as he continued to look at the textbook.

I nodded once. I couldn’t take the awkwardness of this conversation anymore. If it was going to be tense, I might was well make sure my own yearning to know more was satisfied, for the sake of me being able to sleep at night without the questions lingering in my mind. I gestured towards his book, asking, “So, what made you choose that book in particular?” An innocent question. Nothing more. Nothing treasonous about it. Yet, I could feel my heartbeat picking up.

His gaze shifted from my book to his as he considered my question for a moment. “The author has some very interesting opinions - but I’ve read it already.”

“Interesting,” I mumbled under my breath, furrowing my brows as I studied the cover of the book again, making a mental note to look into reading it at some point. It looked pretty innocuous - plain cover, typical fancy lettering - and yet the book seemed to give off a sinister air. I had to be imagining it.

I looked back up at him again, smiling. “It’s nice to re-read books sometimes - to look at them again with a different perspective.”

“Yeah, it can be,” he answered with a nod, watching me for a moment before looking away.

Don’t think I didn’t notice that, Arin.

I followed his gaze, narrowing my eyes slightly as I turned my head. I had been expecting to see someone else coming our way, or at the very least, something of interest, but the library appeared to be empty, besides the two of us. What was he looking at then?

I felt his stare on me once again, and looked back at him in time to see him blink once. Right, it’s my turn to speak. “So,” I began in a ploy to buy myself some time to think of something to say, of what direction to take this conversation in. Clearing my throat, I considered my options. The caste system or biochem appeared to be my only two choices, judging off of what was on the table. Biochem was familiar to me. I didn’t need to hear his opinion on that. I brushed my hand over my notebook and looked back up at him, my mind made up. What was life without a little risk, anyway?

Less stressful.

“Do you ever wonder why the caste system formed in Illea, but not in other countries?” Was this too far? No, calm down! I looked down and shook my head, as if I could knock my fear right out of my brain. It was clearly something he was interested in, which should make it fair game. “I mean, maybe it’s only crossed my mind because my grandparents are from Swendway, and they’ve never really understood it, but…” I trailed off, unsure of where I had even planned on going with this.

He sighed, and immediately something in my chest fell. Maybe he hadn’t been that interested in it after all. However, he then came around to the edge of the table, leaning back on it as if he wanted to take a seat without fully sitting down. Looking down at me, he stated, “It’s a complicated issue.”

“Right.” Was he talking down to me? Bold of him to assume that I was incapable of wrapping my head around anything that wasn’t a science. I avoided social sciences and humanities because other topics interested me more, not because I couldn’t comprehend them. I looked up at him, tapping my pen against my chin again one more time. “I’ve gathered that much from the history courses I’ve taken.”

His head tilted towards the side as he watched me, considering what I had just said to him. “And what did they teach you? Other than that it’s complicated.”

I looked to the side, trying to dredge up as many details as I could from my memory before looking at him again. “I know it started after the first war with New Asia.” I could remember nothing after that, though, and not because I had forgotten it - I was sure of that much. I frowned. “Professors never really explained much beyond that. They were always pretty vague about it. To be honest, I don’t even know how my grandparents were -” I searched for the right word “- assigned, I suppose, their caste when they immigrated here. I would assume it was based on occupation, but…” I didn’t want to finish my sentence. Maybe he had been right - not in talking down to me, but in recognizing that this really was something I knew very little about.

Maybe I should’ve listened to Proctor a little more closely.

The thought sent chills down my spine.

He raised his eyebrows at me, unfazed by any visceral reaction I may have had to my own thoughts. “Well, we have a lot of good history books in here.”

I hesitated for a moment. Between him and Reggie, I might just have hit the book recommendation jackpot. “Can you recommend a few?”

He peered over at my textbook as he nodded. “If you want.”

“That would be great thank you. Of the social sciences, history was always my favorite.” I was still looking at him, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention at all, completely enamored by whatever had caught his attention in my textbook. Surely he wasn’t that interested in protein synthesis.

He nodded once more at my words, squinting at the small font of my textbook. Was that genuine curiosity I saw on his face? I followed his line of sight, trying to figure out what part, in particular, he was reading. Did he find my biochem textbook more interesting than me? I wanted to laugh, but I cleared my throat instead. “If you want, the notes I’ve taken might make more sense than the book itself.” I gestured to my notebook, my color-coded molecule drawings seeming to smile back at me, surrounded by little blurbs of text with the necessary facts and formulas, any words that required definitions highlighted.

“I’d…” he paused, looking at me and frowning a little, “appreciate that.”

Well, it was something. I pushed my notebook in his direction, offering him a small smile as I did. This was certainly not how I had ever pictured my note-taking skills coming in handy. My siblings were going to have a field day with this one.

He picked it up gingerly, as if it might break under his touch. Good. I had worked hard on those notes. He had better not wreck them. I watched as he began to read, a look of genuine interest plastered on his face. We sat like that for a few minutes, him flipping through the pages and me just watching him do so, until he eventually paused on one. Turning the page to face me, he pointed to one of the drawings and asked, “What does this mean?”

Well, this was my time to shine! I took a quick glance at the diagram he had pointed to, my smile growing immediately. “Oh, okay, so that parts about DNA mutations! This is actually related to what I used to work on in the lab.” This could not be more perfect! I began to explain each diagram, pointing to them one-by-one in turn. “That first one is insertion or deletion, which is basically when one or more nucleotides are added or subtracted within a sequence of dna. The second one is point mutation, which is one when nucleotide is changed - like if an adenine turned into a thymine. The third is translocation, which is the movement of one segment of dna from one chromosome to another. That last one at the bottom of the page is inversion, which is essentially just a 180 degree flip of the DNA, so it’s basically reversed to what it was originally.”

He blinked, and I could see through his eyes that the wheels within his brain were turning in overdrive as he tried to process what I had just said. “You’re really smart.”

I looked down at the table, my face turning red as I tried to keep myself from laughing at his oh-so-intelligent response. Fidgeting with my hands in my lap, I waited until I was sure I could speak without snickering, and then looked up again, offering him a smile. “Thank you.”

He turned back to my notebook, continuing to read through the pages. I couldn’t help but wonder what in particular he found so interesting. He seemed a tad confused by the science, so was it the notes themselves then? Did he like my handwriting, or maybe the care I put into each page of notes? My organizational skills were definitely on good display, at the moment. Maybe he was impressed with that. God, I wished I could read his mind as I peered over at each page he scanned over, my focus alternating between that and his face, searching for any sign of recognition or questioning.

“Aren’t you usually the one who asks me why I’m staring?” Ah, crap, he had caught me. He was looking right at me, in fact.

“Yes, I am.” I let out a breathy laugh, feeling the tips of my ears turn red. “I’m just a little surprised that you’re interested in this, is all.”

“Why's that?” There was no malice in his words or face, just genuine curiosity.

I frowned as I considered his question. “I guess it’s just never come up before. Plus, most people I try to explain this to tend to blank out once I start talking - you know -” I began to gesture with my hands as I spoke “- the whole, blank face, glazed-over eyes look.” I laughed lightly, even though the more I thought about it, the more upsetting the truth became to me. Most people just didn’t care to hear what I had to say on the topic. With people outside of my major, the complaint was that I was showing off, or that I made no sense. When dealing with other biology students, I found that I was very rarely taken seriously, or had to justify every thought and idea I voiced aloud, and at that point, everybody had already moved on to some other task.

He ran his fingers over a line of words I had written. The gesture felt intimate somehow, and had my stomach doing cartwheels, as if he was touching my arm or something, instead of only my notebook. Why? “And did I do that?”

“No, not at all.”

He blinked, his eyes widening for a fragment of a second. “Well then, maybe I'm not as bad at acting as everyone said, because I didn't understand a word.”

Oh. Ouch.

I laughed it off, trying to rationalize what I had seen from him with what he had felt. “Understanding and listening with interest are two different things, and the fact that you didn’t understand probably reflects more on my poor teaching skills than anything else.”

“Evalin.” I could’ve sworn my name was accompanied with a sigh. He looked over at his book, and then back at me.

I looked right back at him. “Yes?”

He opened his mouth, words on the tip of his tongue, when my notebook slipped out from his hands, tumbling across the floor.

“Smooth,” I teased, laughing at him as I stood up. Within the span of a few seconds, I had walked over to it and picked it up, my eyes on his as I made the walk back to my chair. “You were saying?”

“Thank you,” was all he said as he took the notebook from my hands. Not done with it yet, then. Interesting. Before I could retake my seat, he added, “You didn’t do a bad job.”

“Oh.” The corners of my lips tugged upwards in a small smile. That was oddly nice of him to say. My thoughts lingered on it as I smoothed out my dress beneath me, taking my seat again and recrossing my legs before looking back up at him. “Thank you.”

He stared at me again, his expression similar to the one that had frustrated me with its elusive meaning every other time we had interacted, but there was a little something more to this one. It was as if he was seeing me for the first time - all of me. It was like I was finally more than just an unwanted guest in his home, more than just some girl invited here for the sake of tradition, from his point of view. I followed his eyes as they moved from my hair, to my own eyes, and then down towards something a little lower on my face.

My lips? Oh, God.

Suddenly I was fifteen years old again, sneaking my brother Gabriel’s friend out to our backyard, leading him behind the oak tree by the shed, and asking him to kiss me. He had been my first kiss. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but it really hadn’t been a very good kiss. It had been sloppy, and rushed, but absolutely exhilarating at the same time. It was a part of my teenage years that I’d always looked back on with nostalgia.

I was eighteen years old again, attending my first college party, a little tipsy for the first time ever, the warm August air mingling with the heat of the bodies around me. June and I had moved to the back deck of the house, an empty beer bottle in her hand. A few people followed us, including a few rather attractive boys. I spun the bottle. I lost track of how many times I had kissed and been kissed that night, more drunk off the rush of someone else’s lips on mine than on actual alcoholic beverages.

I was nineteen years old again, at a Christmas party in the lab. Lukas and I had walked in together, as we almost always did. Someone had hung a piece of mistletoe over the doorway - a trap laid just for us, I was almost entirely certain. “Kiss!” they all yelled at us. Lukas had shrugged, his eyes fixed only on my lips as he had closed the distance between us faster than I could even think. I had allowed him a little peck on the lips before I had jerked away. I had felt nothing, except embarrassment. It had meant nothing to me. I had never told anybody about it.

I was twenty years old, and the prince of Illea was looking at me like he wanted to kiss me.

I tilted my head slightly to the side, smiling back at him. Maybe I was overthinking this. Maybe I wasn’t. Either way, I couldn’t get enough of the way he was looking at me. I wanted to capture this image in my mind like a photograph and hold on to it forever, a memory in a shoebox that my grandkids would find one day.

I stared into his eyes. “What is it?”

His expression didn’t change in the slightest. “What’s what?”

So we were playing this game again. I leaned forwards a bit, placing my arms on the table. “Nothing,” I answered, shaking my head, my smile growing every so slightly. Maybe I had been imagining it, but I still wasn’t so sure of that.

“You’re staring at me.”

Indeed. I raised an eyebrow at him, retorting, “You’re staring at me, too.”

“Am I?”

Very much so. “You are,” I informed him, chuckling lightly and nodding once.

“You don’t seem annoyed by it this time,” he mused, his eyes still on my face.

I had to laugh a little at that. “A very astute observation. Are you bothered by it?”

“Hmm?” He moved a little closer, clearly at least a little spaced out.

He was staring at my lips again.

“You’re hopeless,” I informed him, chuckling. Clemence had been right when she’d said as much, but I didn’t think she had quite pictured this scenario when she had called Arin hopeless.

“About?” His eyes met mine again.

Now I was the one looking at his lips, my one-track mind useless as all of my brain power was channeled into imagining what it might be like to kiss him. I had a gut feeling he’d be a good kisser. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was the look of his lips, or maybe it was my own naivety that led me to believe that - I didn’t care. I had to conduct an experiment to draw a conclusion on the matter, if he would let me.

I laughed, meeting his eyes again. “Are you going to make your move, or are we just going to sit here?”

His eyes went wide at that, his mouth fluttering open and closed like a fish out of water. “Evalin, I -” He didn’t finish the thought. Fuck, maybe I had read the situation wrong.

I raised an eyebrow at him, still smiling. All my doubts dissipated as he leaned in closer, keeping his eyes on mine for only a moment before looking at my mouth once again. The anticipation was killing me, but I refused to be the one to make the first move. I had to know that he wanted to do this, to kiss me, not just to be kissed by the first girl he had happened to run into. God, did I want him to kiss me, though. I leaned in a bit, my eyes focusing only on his mouth as the distance between us shrunk with each passing heartbeat. So close. So fricking close.

He finally closed the distance, leaning down and planting his lips on mine as he placed one of his hands on the back of my head, the other still braced against the table. His lips were just as soft as I had imagined them to be. The realization filled me with no small amount of satisfaction, but that was washed away as I closed my eyes, kissing him back, moving my hands to his shoulders, my fingers resting against his back. My mind shut down, my body going on autopilot for moments that seemed to last an eternity in the best way possible.

He pulled away first, lingering for a few seconds before leaning back a bit. I opened my eyes to see him staring at me breathlessly, a smile growing on my own face as I watched him in return. I knew my own breathing was a little heavier than normal, but I didn’t care. That - that kiss - had been amazing, indescribable, really. It had left me at a complete loss for words, my mind still empty as we held each other’s gazes.

This. This had been what I hoped for when I had filled out the application for the Selection.

I had never been more glad that I had.

He leaned back a little further, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t yet form the words. “I-”

I exhaled lightly, my smile only growing. “Yeah.”

We sat like that for a few more minutes, simply drinking in the sight of each other, attempting to reboot our own brains and form a coherent sentence. I had never been great with words, but they had never been this elusive, either.

I leaned back now, the gears in my brain turning once more. “I, uh…” I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.

“I should have asked,” he stated with a frown, leaning back even more.

I wanted to agree, but I had also clearly invited him to kiss me. Or at least, I had thought I was pretty clear. I shook my head. “No, it…” He’s right, though. He should have asked. “Don’t worry. Sorry if I didn’t make it clear enough that I was okay with it.”

“Don't apologize.” Right, we had talked about that a few night ago. Now it was his turn to shake his head.

“Right, well…” I trailed off, narrowing my eyes at him as I tried to find the right words. “Don’t you apologize either, then. No apologies are warranted in this situation.” I let out a single laugh, my eyes searching his face for any clue as to what he might be thinking. Did he not enjoy it?

He kept his eyes on me for only a brief moment longer, and then pushed himself off the table, bending over to pick something up. Oh, we must have knocked something over when we were kissing. That was only mildly embarrassing. At least there was nobody else here. When he stood up, he had my notebook in his hand, which he held out in my direction wordlessly.

“Oh.” My cheeks were flushed red at this point, and a nervous laugh accompanied my words. “Thank you.”

“Here you go.”

A little late to the draw there, Arin.

“Right, thanks.” My fingertips brushed against the bare skin of his hands as I grabbed my notebook back from him, my cheeks flaring red again as I slowly pulled my arms back, pulling my notebook into my chest. What to say in a moment like this? “So, uh,” I tried, clearing my throat, “that happened. Nice.” Another nervous laugh escaped my lips before I added, “Um, we could do it again, sometime - if you want to, of course.” The words left my mouth in one rapid-fire jumble, a succession of waves quickly crashing over each other as they raced to leave my mouth.

Earth to Evalin! Get your shit together!

He looked lost in thought, but he nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He began looking around then, though for what, I had no clue.

I couldn’t control my face from falling. Had it been that bad, for him? I didn’t think that was possible. Worse, if he didn’t realize where he was, was it because he was picturing someone else, in another place, when he had kissed me? What had I done?

“Right, well,” I began, fidgeting with my hands in my lap as I looked down at the table, “I uh, didn’t mean to keep you from your reading. Though, this was a very welcome study break.”

“Evalin?”

So, he knew who I was then, at least. That was good.

I looked up at him, a small close lipped smile on my face. “Mhmm?”

His smile was nothing short of shy as he said, “Thank you.”

I blinked. “You’re welcome?” I had never been thanked for kissing somebody before. That must be a good sign, right?

He quickly stood up then, straightening his tie and walking around to the other side of the table. I followed suit, gathering up my own books and pulling my backpack out from under my chair. How many times had I run into Arin when I had this backpack on me now? Twice? Once was random, twice was a coincidence. Were we aiming for a third? I kind of hoped so.

“That was nice,” I said earnestly, looking up at him as I zipped my backpack. Then, pushing in my chair, I decided to go for it. “So, see you around, I guess?”

He nodded. “I’ll see you around.” He walked towards the door of the library then, pausing in the doorway to give me one more nod, before exiting completely.

A few seconds later, I left as well, my thoughts still an incomprehensible, garbled mess of emotions and exclamations. Had that actually happened? I must be dreaming. Yet, if I wasn’t…

This might have just been my best day here so far.

#selectionoc

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booksalves · 4 years

Text

The Sound of Murakami

Try reading an excerpt from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle to my curated playlist!

June and July 1984

Tuesday's Wind-Up Bird

Six Fingers and Four Breasts

When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.

I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.

"Ten minutes, please," said a woman on the other end.

I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew.

"Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?"

"To you, of course. Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other." Her voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript.

"Understand each other?"

"Each other's feelings."

I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.

"Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti. Can I ask you to call back later?"

"Spaghetti!? What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning?"

"That's none of your business," I said. "I decide what I eat and when I eat it."

"True enough. I'll call back," she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. A little change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice.

"Hold on a minute," I said before she could hang up. "If this is some new sales gimmick, you can forget it. I'm out of work. I'm not in the market for anything."

"Don't worry. I know."

"You know? You know what?"

"That you're out of work. I know about that. So go cook your precious spaghetti."

"Who the hell-"

She cut the connection.

With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti. Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating - and thinking.

Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Or some new sales pitch. In any case, it had nothing to do with me.

After lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now and then at the telephone. What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten minutes? Come to think of it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth. As if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Like cooking spaghetti al dente.

I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right.

I ironed three shirts, checking them over for wrinkles and putting them on hangers. Once I had switched off the iron and put it away with the ironing board in the hall closet, my mind felt a good deal clearer.

I was on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water when the phone rang again. I hesitated for a second but decided to answer it. If it was the same woman, I'd tell her I was ironing and hang up.

This time it was Kumiko. The wall clock said eleven-thirty. "How are you?" she asked.

"Fine," I said, relieved to hear my wife's voice.

"What are you doing?"

"Just finished ironing."

"What's wrong?" There was a note of tension in her voice. She knew what it meant for me to be ironing.

"Nothing. I was just ironing some shirts." I sat down and shifted the receiver from my left hand to my right. "What's up?"

"Can you write poetry?" she asked.

"Poetry!?" Poetry? Did she mean . . . poetry?

"I know the publisher of a story magazine for girls. They're looking for somebody to pick and revise poems submitted by readers. And they want the person to write a short poem every month for the frontispiece. Pay's not bad for an easy job. Of course, it's part-time. But they might add some editorial work if the person-"

"Easy work?" I broke in. "Hey, wait a minute. I'm looking for something in law, not poetry."

"I thought you did some writing in high school."

"Yeah, sure, for the school newspaper: which team won the soccer championship or how the physics teacher fell down the stairs and ended up in the hospital - that kind of stuff. Not poetry. I can't write poetry."

"Sure, but I'm not talking about great poetry, just something for high school girls. It doesn't have to find a place in literary history. You could do it with your eyes closed. Don't you see?"

"Look, I just can't write poetry - eyes open or closed. I've never done it, and I'm not going to start now."

"All right," said Kumiko, with a hint of regret. "But it's hard to find legal work."

"I know. That's why I've got so many feelers out. I should be hearing something this week. If it's no go, I'll think about doing something else."

"Well, I suppose that's that. By the way, what's today? What day of the week?"

I thought a moment and said, "Tuesday."

"Then will you go to the bank and pay the gas and telephone?"

"Sure. I was just about to go shopping for dinner anyway."

"What are you planning to make?"

"I don't know yet. I'll decide when I'm shopping."

She paused. "Come to think of it," she said, with a new seriousness, "there's no great hurry about your finding a job."

This took me off guard. "Why's that?" I asked. Had the women of the world chosen today to surprise me on the telephone? "My unemployment's going to run out sooner or later. I can't keep hanging around forever."

"True, but with my raise and occasional side jobs and our savings, we can get by OK if we're careful. There's no real emergency. Do you hate staying at home like this and doing housework? I mean, is this life so wrong for you?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. I really didn't know.

"Well, take your time and give it some thought," she said. "Anyhow, has the cat come back?"

The cat. I hadn't thought about the cat all morning. "No," I said.

"Not yet."

"Can you please have a look around the neighborhood? It's been gone over a week now."

I gave a noncommittal grunt and shifted the receiver back to my left hand. She went on:

"I'm almost certain it's hanging around the empty house at the other end of the alley. The one with the bird statue in the yard. I've seen it in there several times."

"The alley? Since when have you been going to the alley? You've never said anything-"

"Oops! Got to run. Lots of work to do. Don't forget about the cat."

She hung up. I found myself staring at the receiver again. Then I set it down in its cradle.

I wondered what had brought Kumiko to the alley. To get there from our house, you had to climb over the cinder-block wall. And once you'd made the effort, there was no point in being there.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, then out to the veranda to look at the cat's dish. The mound of sardines was untouched from last night. No, the cat had not come back. I stood there looking at our small garden, with the early-summer sunshine streaming into it. Not that ours was the kind of garden that gives you spiritual solace to look at. The sun managed to find its way in there for the smallest fraction of each day, so the earth was always black and moist, and all we had by way of garden plants were a few drab hydrangeas in one corner - and I don't like hydrangeas. There was a small stand of trees nearby, and from it you could hear the mechanical cry of a bird that sounded as if it were winding a spring. We called it the wind-up bird. Kumiko gave it the name. We didn't know what it was really called or what it looked like, but that didn't bother the wind-up bird. Every day it would come to the stand of trees in our neighborhood and wind the spring of our quiet little world.

So now I had to go cat hunting. I had always liked cats. And I liked this particular cat. But cats have their own way of living. They're not stupid. If a cat stopped living where you happened to be, that meant it had decided to go somewhere else. If it got tired and hungry, it would come back. Finally, though, to keep Kumiko happy, I would have to go looking for our cat. I had nothing better to do.

I had quit my job at the beginning of April - the law job I had had since graduation. Not that I had quit for any special reason. I didn't dislike the work. It wasn't thrilling, but the pay was all right and the office atmosphere was friendly.

My role at the firm was - not to put too fine a point on it - that of professional gofer. And I was good at it. I might say I have a real talent for the execution of such practical duties. I'm a quick study, efficient, I never complain, and I'm realistic. Which is why, when I said I wanted to quit, the senior partner (the father in this father-and-son law firm) went so far as to offer me a small raise.

But I quit just the same. Not that quitting would help me realize any particular hopes or prospects. The last thing I wanted to do, for example, was shut myself up in the house and study for the bar exam. I was surer than ever that I didn't want to become a lawyer. I knew, too, that I didn't want to stay where I was and continue with the job I had. If I was going to quit, now was the time to do it. If I stayed with the firm any longer, I'd be there for the rest of my life. I was thirty years old, after all.

I had told Kumiko at the dinner table that I was thinking of quitting my job. Her only response had been, "I see." I didn't know what she meant by that, but for a while she said nothing more.

I kept silent too, until she added, "If you want to quit, you should quit. It's your life, and you should live it the way you want to." Having said this much, she then became involved in picking out fish bones with her chopsticks and moving them to the edge of her plate.

Kumiko earned pretty good pay as editor of a health food magazine, and she would occasionally take on illustration assignments from editor friends at other magazines to earn substantial additional income. (She had studied design in college and had hoped to be a freelance illustrator.) In addition, if I quit I would have my own income for a while from unemployment insurance. Which meant that even if I stayed home and took care of the house, we would still have enough for extras such as eating out and paying the cleaning bill, and our lifestyle would hardly change.

And so I had quit my job.

I was loading groceries into the refrigerator when the phone rang. The ringing seemed to have an impatient edge to it this time. I had just ripped open a plastic pack of tofu, which I set down carefully on the kitchen table to keep the water from spilling out. I went to the living room and picked up the phone.

"You must have finished your spaghetti by now," said the woman.

"You're right. But now I have to go look for the cat."

"That can wait for ten minutes, I'm sure. It's not like cooking spaghetti."

For some reason, I couldn't just hang up on her. There was something about her voice that commanded my attention. "OK, but no more than ten minutes."

"Now we'll be able to understand each other," she said with quiet certainty. I sensed her settling comfortably into a chair and crossing her legs.

"I wonder," I said. "What can you understand in ten minutes?"

"Ten minutes may be longer than you think," she said.

"Are you sure you know me?"

"Of course I do. We've met hundreds of times."

"Where? When?"

"Somewhere, sometime," she said. "But if I went into that, ten minutes would never be enough. What's important is the time we have now. The present. Don't you agree?"

"Maybe. But I'd like some proof that you know me."

"What kind of proof?"

"My age, say?"

"Thirty," she answered instantaneously. "Thirty and two months. Good enough?"

That shut me up. She obviously did know me, but I had absolutely no memory of her voice.

"Now it's your turn," she said, her voice seductive. "Try picturing me. From my voice. Imagine what I'm like. My age. Where I am. How I'm dressed. Go ahead."

"I have no idea," I said.

"Oh, come on," she said. "Try."

I looked at my watch. Only a minute and five seconds had gone by. "I have no idea," I said again.

"Then let me help you," she said. "I'm in bed. I just got out of the shower, and I'm not wearing a thing."

Oh, great. Telephone sex.

"Or would you prefer me with something on? Something lacy. Or stockings. Would that work better for you?"

"I don't give a damn. Do what you like," I said. "Put something on if you want to. Stay naked if you want to. Sorry, but I'm not interested in telephone games like this. I've got a lot of things I have to-"

"Ten minutes," she said. "Ten minutes won't kill you. It won't put a hole in your life. Just answer my question. Do you want me naked or with something on? I've got all kinds of things I could put on. Black lace panties . . ."

"Naked is fine."

"Well, good. You want me naked."

"Yes. Naked. Good."

Four minutes.

"My pubic hair is still wet," she said. "I didn't dry myself very well. Oh, I'm so wet! Warm and moist. And soft. Wonderfully soft and black. Touch me."

"Look, I'm sorry, but-"

"And down below too. All the way down. It's so warm down there, like butter cream. So warm. Mmm. And my legs. What position do you think my legs are in? My right knee is up, and my left leg is open just enough. Say, ten-oh-five on the clock."

I could tell from her voice that she was not faking it. She really did have her legs open to ten-oh-five, her sex warm and moist.

"Touch the lips," she said. "Slooowly. Now open them. That's it. Slowly, slowly. Let your fingers caress them. Oh so slowly. Now, with your other hand, touch my left breast. Play with it. Caress it. Upward. And give the nipple a little squeeze. Do it again. And again. And again. Until I'm just about to come."

Without a word, I put the receiver down. Stretching out on the sofa, I stared at the clock and released a long, deep sigh. I had spoken with her for close to six minutes.

The phone rang again ten minutes later, but I left it on the hook. It rang fifteen times. And when it stopped, a deep, cold silence descended upon the room.

Just before two, I climbed over the cinder-block wall and down into the alley - or what we called the alley. It was not an "alley" in the proper sense of the word, but then, there was probably no word for what it was. It wasn't a "road" or a "path" or even a "way." Properly speaking, a "way" should be a pathway or channel with an entrance and an exit, which takes you somewhere if you follow it. But our "alley" had neither entrance nor exit. You couldn't call it a cul-de-sac, either: a cul-de-sac has at least one open end. The alley had not one dead end but two. The people of the neighborhood called it "the alley" strictly as an expedient. It was some two hundred yards in length and threaded its way between the back gardens of the houses that lined either side. Barely over three feet in width, it had several spots at which you had to edge through sideways because of fences sticking out into the path or things that people had left in the way.

About this alley, the story was - the story I heard from my uncle, who rented us our house for next to nothing - that it used to have both an entrance and an exit and actually served the purpose of providing a shortcut between two streets. But with the rapid economic growth of the mid-fifties, rows of new houses came to fill the empty lots on either side of the road, squeezing it down until it was little more than a narrow path. People didn't like strangers passing so close to their houses and yards, so before long, one end of the path was blocked off - or, rather, screened off - with an unassertive fence. Then one local citizen decided to enlarge his yard and completely sealed off his end of the alley with a cinder-block wall. As if in response, a barbed-wire barrier went up at the other end, preventing even dogs from getting through. None of the neighbors complained, because none of them used the alley as a passageway, and they were just as happy to have this extra protection against crime. As a result, the alley remained like some kind of abandoned canal, unused, serving as little more than a buffer zone between two rows of houses. Spiders spread their sticky webs in the overgrowth.

Why had Kumiko been frequenting such a place? I myself had walked down that "alley" no more than twice, and Kumiko was afraid of spiders at the best of times. Oh, what the hell - if Kumiko said I should go to the alley and look for the cat, I'd go to the alley and look for the cat. What came later I could think about later. Walking outside like this was far better than sitting in the house waiting for the phone to ring.

The sharp sunshine of early summer dappled the surface of the alley with the hard shadows of the branches that stretched overhead. Without wind to move the branches, the shadows looked like permanent stains, destined to remain imprinted on the pavement forever. No sounds of any kind seemed to penetrate this place. I could almost hear the blades of grass breathing in the sunlight. A few small clouds floated in the sky, their shapes clear and precise, like the clouds in medieval engravings. I saw everything with such terrific clarity that my own body felt vague and boundless and flowing . . . and hot!

I wore a T-shirt, thin cotton pants, and tennis shoes, but walking in the summer sun, I could feel a light film of sweat forming under my arms and in the hollow of my chest. The T-shirt and pants had been packed away in a box crammed with summer clothing until I pulled them out that morning, the sharp smell of mothballs penetrating my nostrils.

The houses that lined the alley fell into two distinct categories: older houses and those built more recently. As a group, the newer ones were smaller, with smaller yards to match. Their clothes-drying poles often protruded into the alley, making it necessary for me to thread my way through the occasional screen of towels and sheets and undershirts. Over some back walls came the clear sound of television sets and flushing toilets, and the smell of curry cooking.

The older houses, by contrast, gave hardly any sense of life. These were screened off by well-placed shrubs and hedges, between which I caught glimpses of manicured gardens.

An old, brown, withered Christmas tree stood in the corner of one garden. Another had become the dumping ground for every toy known to man, the apparent leavings of several childhoods. There were tricycles and toss rings and plastic swords and rubber balls and tortoise dolls and little baseball bats. One garden had a basketball hoop, and another had fine lawn chairs surrounding a ceramic table. The white chairs were caked in dirt, as if they had not been used for some months or even years. The tabletop was coated with lavender magnolia petals, beaten down by the rain.

I had a clear view of one living room through an aluminum storm door. It had a matching leather sofa and chairs, a large TV, a sideboard (atop which sat a tropical-fish tank and two trophies of some kind), and a decorative floor lamp. The room looked like the set of a TV drama. A huge doghouse occupied a large part of another garden, but there was no sign of the dog itself, and the house's door stood open. The screen of the doghouse door bulged outward, as if someone had been leaning against it for months at a time.

The vacant house that Kumiko had told me about lay just beyond the place with the huge doghouse. One glance was all I needed to see that it was empty - and had been for some time. It was a fairly new two-story house, yet its wooden storm shutters showed signs of severe aging, and the railings outside the second-story windows were caked with rust. The house had a cozy little garden, in which, to be sure, a stone statue of a bird stood. The statue rested on a base that came to chest height and was surrounded by a thick growth of weeds. Tall fronds of goldenrod were almost touching the bird's feet. The bird - I had no idea what kind of bird it was supposed to be - had its wings open as if it wanted to escape from this unpleasant place as soon as possible. Aside from the statue, the garden had no decorative features. A pile of aging plastic lawn chairs stood against the house, and beside them an azalea bush displayed its bright-red blossoms, their color strangely unreal. Weeds made up the rest.

I leaned against the chest-high chain-link fence for a while, contemplating the garden. It should have been a paradise for cats, but there was no sign of cats here now. Perched on the roof's TV antenna, a single pigeon lent its monotonous cries to the scene. The stone bird's shadow fell on the surrounding undergrowth, breaking apart.

I took a lemon drop from my pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into my mouth. I had taken my resignation from the firm as an opportunity to quit smoking, but now I was never without a pack of lemon drops. Kumiko said I was addicted to them and warned me that I'd soon have a mouthful of cavities, but I had to have my lemon drops. While I stood there looking at the garden, the pigeon on the TV antenna kept up its regular cooing, like some clerk stamping numbers on a sheaf of bills. I don't know how long I stayed there, leaning against the fence, but I remember spitting my lemon drop on the ground when, half melted, it filled my mouth with its sticky sweetness. I had just shifted my gaze to the shadow of the stone bird when I sensed that someone was calling to me from behind.

I turned, to see a girl standing in the garden on the other side of the alley. She was small and had her hair in a ponytail. She wore dark sunglasses with amber frames, and a light-blue sleeveless T-shirt. The rainy season had barely ended, and yet she had already managed to give her slender arms a nice, smooth tan. She had one hand jammed into the pocket of her short pants. The other rested on a waist-high bamboo gate, which could not have been providing much support. Only three feet - maybe four - separated us.

"Hot," she said to me.

"Yeah, right," I answered.

After this brief exchange of views, she stood there looking at me. Then she took a box of Hope regulars from her pants pocket, drew out a cigarette, and put it between her lips. She had a small mouth, the upper lip turned slightly upward. She struck a match and lit her cigarette. When she inclined her head to one side, her hair swung away to reveal a beautifully shaped ear, smooth as if freshly made, its edge aglow with a downy fringe.

She flicked her match away and exhaled smoke through pursed lips. Then she looked up at me as if she had forgotten that I was there. I couldn't see her eyes through the dark, reflective lenses of her sunglasses.

"You live around here?" she asked.

"Uh-huh." I wanted to motion toward our house, but I had turned so many odd angles to get here that I no longer knew exactly where it was. I ended up pointing at random.

"I'm looking for my cat," I explained, wiping a sweaty palm on my pants. "It's been gone for a week. Somebody saw it around here somewhere."

"What kind of cat?"

"A big tom. Brown stripes. Tip of the tail a little bent."

"Name?"

"Noboru. Noboru Wataya."

"No, not your name. The cat's."

"That is my cat's name."

"Oh! Very impressive!"

"Well, actually, it's my brother-in-law's name. The cat sort of reminds us of him. We gave the cat his name, just for fun."

"How does the cat remind you of him?"

"I don't know. Just in general. The way it walks. And it has this blank stare."

She smiled now for the first time, which made her look a lot more childlike than she had seemed at first. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen. With its slight curl, her upper lip pointed up at a strange angle. I seemed to hear a voice saying "Touch me" - the voice of the woman on the phone. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

"A brown-striped cat with a bent tail," said the girl. "Hmm. Does it have a collar or something?"

"A black flea collar."

She stood there thinking for ten or fifteen seconds, her hand still resting on the gate. Then she dropped what was left of her cigarette and crushed it under her sandal.

"Maybe I did see a cat like that," she said. "I don't know about the bent tail, but it was a brown tiger cat, big, and I think it had a collar."

"When did you see it?"

"When did I see it? Hmm. No more than three or four days ago. Our yard is a kind of highway for the neighborhood cats. They all cut across here from the Takitanis' to the Miyawakis'."

She pointed toward the vacant house, where the stone bird still spread its wings, the tall goldenrod still caught the early-summer sun, and the pigeon went on with its monotonous cooing atop the TV antenna.

"I've got an idea," she said. "Why don't you wait here? All the cats eventually pass through our place on their way to the Miyawakis'. And somebody's bound to call the cops if they see you hanging around like that. It wouldn't be the first time."

I hesitated.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm the only one here. The two of us can sit in the sun and wait for the cat to show up. I'll help. I've got twenty-twenty vision."

I looked at my watch. Two twenty-six. All I had to do today before it got dark was take in the laundry and fix dinner.

I went in through the gate and followed the girl across the lawn. She dragged her right leg slightly. She took a few steps, stopped, and turned to face me.

"I got thrown from the back of a motorcycle," she said, as if it hardly mattered.

A large oak tree stood at the point where the yard's lawn gave out. Under the tree sat two canvas deck chairs, one draped with a blue beach towel. Scattered on the other were a new box of Hope regulars, an ashtray and lighter, a magazine, and an oversize boom box. The boom box was playing hard-rock music at low volume. She turned the music off and took all the stuff out of the chair for me, dropping it on the grass. From the chair, I could see into the yard of the vacant house - the stone bird, the goldenrod, the chain-link fence. The girl had probably been watching me the whole time I was there.

The yard of this house was very large. It had a broad, sloping lawn dotted with clumps of trees. To the left of the deck chairs was a rather large concrete-lined pond, its empty bottom exposed to the sun. Judging from its greenish tinge, it had been without water for some time. We sat with our backs to the house, which was visible through a screen of trees. The house was neither large nor lavish in its construction. Only the yard gave an impression of large size, and it was well manicured.

"What a big yard," I said, looking around. "It must be a pain to take care of."

"Must be."

"I used to work for a lawn-mowing company when I was a kid."

"Oh?" She was obviously not interested in lawns.

"Are you always here alone?" I asked.

"Yeah. Always. Except a maid comes mornings and evenings. During the day it's just me. Alone. Want a cold drink? We've got beer."

"No, thanks."

"Really? Don't be shy."

I shook my head. "Don't you go to school?"

"Don't you go to work?"

"No work to go to."

"Lost your job?"

"Sort of. I quit a few weeks ago."

"What kind of job?"

"I was a lawyer's gofer. I'd go to different government offices to pick up documents, put materials in order, check on legal precedents, handle court procedures - that kind of stuff."

"But you quit."

"Yeah."

"Does your wife have a job?"

"She does."

The pigeon across the way must have stopped its cooing and gone off somewhere. I suddenly realized that a deep silence lay all around me.

"Right over there is where the cats go through," she said, pointing toward the far side of the lawn. "See the incinerator in the Takitanis' yard? They come under the fence at that point, cut across the grass, and go out under the gate to the yard across the way. They always follow exactly the same route."

She perched her sunglasses on her forehead, squinted at the yard, and lowered her glasses again, exhaling a cloud of smoke. In the interval, I saw that she had a two-inch cut next to her left eye - the kind of cut that would probably leave a scar the rest of her life. The dark sunglasses were probably meant to hide the wound. The girl's face was not a particularly beautiful one, but there was something attractive about it, probably the lively eyes or the unusual shape of the lips.

"Do you know about the Miyawakis?" she asked.

"Not a thing," I said.

"They're the ones who lived in the vacant house. A very proper family. They had two daughters, both in a private girls' school. Mr. Miyawaki owned a few family restaurants."

"Why'd they leave?"

"Maybe he was in debt. It was like they ran away - just cleared out one night. About a year ago, I think. Left the place to rot and breed cats. My mother's always complaining."

"Are there so many cats in there?"

Cigarette in her lips, the girl looked up at the sky.

"All kinds of cats. Some losing their fur, some with one eye . . . and where the other eye used to be, a lump of raw flesh. Yuck!"

I nodded.

"I've got a relative with six fingers on each hand. She's just a little older than me. Next to her pinkie she's got this extra finger, like a baby's finger. She knows how to keep it folded up so most people don't notice. She's really pretty."

I nodded again.

"You think it's in the family? What do you call it . . . part of the bloodline?"

"I don't know much about heredity."

She stopped talking. I sucked on my lemon drop and looked hard at the cat path. Not one cat had shown itself so far.

"Sure you don't want something to drink?" she asked. "I'm going to have a Coke."

I said I didn't need a drink.

She left her deck chair and disappeared through the trees, dragging her bad leg slightly. I picked up her magazine from the grass and leafed through it. Much to my surprise, it turned out to be a men's magazine, one of the glossy monthlies. The woman in the foldout wore thin panties that showed her slit and pubic hair. She sat on a stool with her legs spread out at weird angles. With a sigh, I put the magazine back, folded my hands on my chest, and focused on the cat path again.

A very long time went by before the girl came back, with a Coke in her hand. The heat was getting to me. Sitting under the sun, I felt my brain fogging over. The last thing I wanted to do was think.

"Tell me," she said, picking up her earlier conversation. "If you were in love with a girl and she turned out to have six fingers, what would you do?"

"Sell her to the circus," I answered.

"Really?"

"No, of course not," I said. "I'm kidding. I don't think it would bother me."

"Even if your kids might inherit it?"

I took a moment to think about that.

"No, I really don't think it would bother me. What harm would an extra finger do?"

"What if she had four breasts?"

I thought about that too.

"I don't know."

Four breasts? This kind of thing could go on forever. I decided to change the subject.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Sixteen," she said. "Just had my birthday. First year in high school."

"Have you been out of school long?"

"My leg hurts if I walk too much. And I've got this scar near my eye. My school's very strict. They'd probably start bugging me if they found out I hurt myself falling off a motorcycle. So I'm out 'sick.' I could take a year off. I'm not in any hurry to go up a grade."

"No, I guess not," I said.

"Anyhow, what you were saying before, that you wouldn't mind marrying a girl with six fingers but not four breasts . . ."

"I didn't say that. I said I didn't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"I don't know - it's hard to imagine such a thing."

"Can you imagine someone with six fingers?"

"Sure, I guess so."

"So why not four breasts? What's the difference?"

I took another moment to think it over, but I couldn't find an answer.

"Do I ask too many questions?"

"Do people tell you that?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

I turned toward the cat path again. What the hell was I doing here? Not one cat had showed itself the whole time. Hands still folded on my chest, I closed my eyes for maybe thirty seconds. I could feel the sweat forming on different parts of my body. The sun poured into me with a strange heaviness. Whenever the girl moved her glass, the ice clinked inside it like a cowbell.

"Go to sleep if you want," she whispered. "I'll wake you if a cat shows up."

Eyes closed, I nodded in silence.

The air was still. There were no sounds of any kind. The pigeon had long since disappeared. I kept thinking about the woman on the telephone. Did I really know her? There had been nothing remotely familiar about her voice or her manner of speaking. But she definitely knew me. I could have been looking at a De Chirico scene: the woman's long shadow cutting across an empty street and stretching toward me, but she herself in a place far removed from the bounds of my consciousness. A bell went on ringing and ringing next to my ear.

"Are you asleep?" the girl asked, in a voice so tiny I could not be sure I was hearing it.

"No, I'm not sleeping," I said.

"Can I get closer? It'll be . . . easier if I keep my voice low."

"Fine with me," I said, eyes still closed.

She moved her chair until it struck mine with a dry, wooden clack.

Strange, the girl's voice sounded completely different, depending on whether my eyes were open or closed.

"Can I talk? I'll keep real quiet, and you don't have to answer. You can even fall asleep. I don't mind."

"OK," I said.

"When people die, it's so neat."

Her mouth was next to my ear now, so the words worked their way inside me along with her warm, moist breath.

"Why's that?" I asked.

She put a finger on my lips as if to seal them.

"No questions," she said. "And don't open your eyes. OK?"

My nod was as small as her voice.

She took her finger from my lips and placed it on my wrist.

"I wish I had a scalpel. I'd cut it open and look inside. Not the corpse . . . the lump of death. I'm sure there must be something like that. Something round and squishy, like a softball, with a hard little core of dead nerves. I want to take it out of a dead person and cut it open and look inside. I always wonder what it's like. Maybe it's all hard, like toothpaste dried up inside the tube. That's it, don't you think? No, don't answer. It's squishy on the outside, and the deeper you go inside, the harder it gets. I want to cut open the skin and take out the squishy stuff, use a scalpel and some kind of spatula to get through it, and the closer you get to the center, the harder the squishy stuff gets, until you reach this tiny core. It's sooo tiny, like a tiny ball bearing, and really hard. It must be like that, don't you think?"

She cleared her throat a few times.

"That's all I think about these days. Must be because I have so much time to kill every day. When you don't have anything to do, your thoughts get really, really far out - so far out you can't follow them all the way to the end."

She took the finger from my wrist and drank down the rest of her cola. I knew the glass was empty from the sound of the ice.

"Don't worry about the cat - I'm watching for it. I'll let you know if Noboru Wataya shows up. Keep your eyes closed. I'm sure Noboru Wataya is walking around here someplace. He'll be here any minute now. He's coming. I know he's coming-through the grass, under the fence, stopping to sniff the flowers along the way, little by little Noboru Wataya is coming closer. Picture him that way, get his image in mind."

I tried to picture the image of the cat, but the best I could do was a blurry, backlighted photo. The sunlight penetrating my eyelids destabilized and diffused my inner darkness, making it impossible for me to bring up a precise image of the cat. Instead, what I imagined was a failed portrait, a strange, distorted picture, certain distinguishing features bearing some resemblance to the original but the most important parts missing. I couldn't even recall how the cat looked when it walked.

The girl put her finger on my wrist again, using the tip to draw an odd diagram of uncertain shape. As if in response, a new kind of darkness - different in quality from the darkness I had been experiencing until that moment - began to burrow into my consciousness. I was probably falling asleep. I didn't want this to happen, but there was no way I could resist it. My body felt like a corpse - someone else's corpse - sinking into the canvas deck chair.

In the darkness, I saw the four legs of Noboru Wataya, four silent brown legs atop four soft paws with swelling, rubberlike pads, legs that were soundlessly treading the earth somewhere.

But where?

"Ten minutes is all it will take," said the woman on the phone. No, she had to be wrong. Sometimes ten minutes is not ten minutes. It can stretch and shrink. That was something I did know for sure.

When I woke up, I was alone. The girl had disappeared from the deck chair, which was still touching mine. The towel and cigarettes and magazine were there, but not the glass or the boom box.

The sun had begun to sink in the west, and the shadow of an oak branch had crept across my knees. My watch said it was four-fifteen. I sat up and looked around. Broad lawn, dry pond, fence, stone bird, goldenrod, TV antenna. Still no sign of the cat. Or of the girl.

I glanced at the cat path and waited for the girl to come back. Ten minutes went by, and neither cat nor girl showed up. Nothing moved. I felt as if I had aged tremendously while I slept.

I stood and glanced toward the house, where there was no sign of a human presence. The bay window reflected the glare of the western sun. I gave up waiting and crossed the lawn to the alley, returning home. I hadn't found the cat, but I had tried my best.

At home, I took in the wash and made preparations for a simple dinner. The phone rang twelve times at five-thirty, but I didn't answer it. Even after the ringing stopped, the sound of the bell lingered in the indoor evening gloom like dust floating in the air. With the tips of its hard claws, the table clock tapped at a transparent board floating in space.

Why not write a poem about the wind-up bird? The idea struck me, but the first line would not come. How could high school girls possibly enjoy a poem about a wind-up bird?

Kumiko came home at seven-thirty. She had been arriving later and later over the past month. It was not unusual for her to return after eight, and sometimes even after ten. Now that I was at home preparing dinner, she no longer had to hurry back. They were understaffed, in any case, and lately one of her colleagues had been out sick.

"Sorry," she said. "The work just wouldn't end, and that part-time girl is useless."

I went to the kitchen and cooked: fish sautéed in butter, salad, and miso soup. Kumiko sat at the kitchen table and vegged out.

"Where were you at five-thirty?" she asked. "I tried to call to say I'd be late."

"The butter ran out. I went to the store," I lied.

"Did you go to the bank?"

"Sure."

"And the cat?"

"Couldn't find it. I went to the vacant house, like you said, but there was no trace of it. I bet it went farther away than that."

She said nothing.

When I finished bathing after dinner, Kumiko was sitting in the living room with the lights out. Hunched down in the dark with her gray shirt on, she looked like a piece of luggage that had been left in the wrong place.

Drying my hair with a bath towel, I sat on the sofa opposite Kumiko.

In a voice I could barely catch, she said, "I'm sure the cat's dead."

"Don't be silly," I replied. "I'm sure it's having a grand old time somewhere. It'll get hungry and come home soon. The same thing happened once before, remember? When we lived in Koenji . . ."

"This time's different," she said. "This time you're wrong. I know it. The cat's dead. It's rotting in a clump of grass. Did you look in the grass in the vacant house?"

"No, I didn't. The house may be vacant, but it does belong to somebody. I can't just go barging in there."

"Then where did you look for the cat? I'll bet you didn't even try. That's why you didn't find it."

I sighed and wiped my hair again with the towel. I started to speak but gave up when I realized that Kumiko was crying. It was understandable: Kumiko loved the cat. It had been with us since shortly after our wedding. I threw my towel in the bathroom hamper and went to the kitchen for a cold beer. What a stupid day it had been: a stupid day of a stupid month of a stupid year.

Noboru Wataya, where are you? Did the wind-up bird forget to wind your spring?

The words came to me like lines of poetry.

Noboru Wataya, Where are you? Did the wind-up bird Forget to wind your spring?

When I was halfway through my beer, the phone started to ring.

"Get it, will you?" I shouted into the darkness of the living room.

"Not me," she said. "You get it."

"I don't want to."

The phone kept on ringing, stirring up the dust that floated in the darkness. Neither of us said a word. I drank my beer, and Kumiko went on crying soundlessly. I counted twenty rings and gave up. There was no point in counting forever.

#haruki murakami #books #book music

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castillo-adrian · 5 years

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Franz Ferdinand | Closed.

Note: Important to the St. Clair VS Rutherford conflict. Featuring @lin-melissa @johnathanparsons @divyakoshal

Dissatisfied by Adrian’s performance at the end of the 6ème grade, Madame Vallereau, his English teacher, gave him Agatha Christie books for a summer reading. The most effective way to brush up his English skills, she thought, and wasn’t wrong.

‘Murder on the Links,’ one of the novels that Adrian read that summer, opened with an anecdote.

“A young writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors, penned the following sentence: “‘Hell!’ said the Duchess.”

Sitting across the glossy hardwood table in Johnathan Parsons’ office, an entertained smile painted Adrian’s features, as he’d be reminded of that exact line upon witnessing the man slam his fist in an angry fashion.

“Hell!” said the boss, “They made a grave mistake. Attempting to dip their dirty toes in Westminster, of all places? Well, I’m going to cut them off one by one.”

The man’s wrath had been justified. The borough of Westminster was a Rutherford stronghold. The French attempting to buy a property with the intention to build a club and push their drug trade was... bold to say the least. Johnathan had eyes and ears in every nook and cranny of this part of the city (and pretty much the rest of it, too) and he’d been informed of the news long before the French would have enough time to seal the deal.

Johnathan’s solution was simple: chop up the poor fucker who agreed to sell his property and deliver his body parts to the doorstep of Marine Charif, the commandant of Camden, the one behind the scheme.

“I want the bitch to remember to stay in her fucking lane,” Johnathan growled.

“If I may propose an alternative,” Adrian spoke softly and leaned in towards the table.

Melissa gave him a curious look. It was enough for Adrian to continue.

“Let them –”

“What on Earth are you talking about, Castillo?” Johnathan cut him off, “you’re not feeling nostalgic, are you?”

“Johnathan,” Melissa intervened, “let him finish.”

Brushing off the annoying inclinations of Johnathan’s question, Adrian proceeded.

“Let them buy the property, invest their money, build the club, bring in the shipment, you know, the whole deal and then, right before the opening, burn it to the ashes. And we don’t kill the owner, we kill the commandant. Stronger message.”

“Damn, Castillo,” Johnathan sunk back into his leather chair and took a sip of his whiskey, “Not bad, in theory, but the French will be guarding the place like rabid dogs as soon as the sale goes through. You won’t be able to get in without opening a massive fire and we do not want to turn our turf into a battle zone. Especially Westminster.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Adrian’s smile hinted at something Machiavellian, “I’m sure we have people at the City Hall who’d be more than eager to give us the blueprints of the club, once submitted, and call an inspection. The French won’t bother moving drugs, just hide it somewhere inside the club. They’ll just have to clear out the building for a few hours. Enough time to plant the explosives.”

Johnathan and Melissa exchanged glances. After a few minutes of consideration, the boss spoke.

“Adrian’s plan does sound more sustainable in the long run, unless we’re killing every business owner who is considering to sell to the French,” Melissa raised an eyebrow, “I’d rather we drum up the French death toll, than the local.”

“This is a huge risk, however. If your stint doesn’t work, we’re going to have to open fire on our territory, which is not part of my plan. Are you sure you can pull this off?” Johnathan inquired.

“I am, yes,” Adrian nodded firmly.

“Remember, you will be the one to pay the price, if it doesn’t.”

Had he not been confident in his abilities, Adrian would’ve backed out right then and there. After all, what kind of fool with no sense of self-preservation would risk being at the receiving end of Johnathan Parsons’ fury?

II.

Adrian Castillo stood on top of the roof with a majestic content. The events had transpired the way he had planned, and they all led to this particular night. In a few short minutes, Marine Charif, the infamous commandant would join her friends and soldiers in a for French only, pre-celebration get-together, before the actual opening night.

How to shoot your target 500 yards away?

With math and physics. Neither an exceptionally skilled sniper, nor an excellent piece of machinery was enough to pull it off with success, and Adrian was one and held one. Luckily, he had enough basic STEM knowledge, too, the courtesy of his training as a GIGN sniper.

As soon as the bullet leaves the barrel, it’s influenced by two basic forces: gravity and drag. The fraction of a millisecond prior to the bullet exiting, it’s been under one single, fairly significant force: the pressure of the expanding gasses of the powder charge behind the bullet. As soon as that gas can escape the barrel, acceleration stops, and deceleration due to drag takes over, as does gravity once the bullet is no longer supported on all sides by the rifle barrel.

Even if he took gravity and drag into consideration, he had to account for velocity, trigonometry, wind direction, and optics. The rifle, set up hours beforehand, was sitting at the edge of the roof, with Adrian behind it.

“…Roger that. We’re in the position,” spoke Divya through comms, “waiting for your signal.”

The group of people led by Divya was partly made up with the newest recruits of Rutherford organisation, hand-picked solely for this mission. They were to mix with the club staff and lock down all the exits once Adrian had executed his kill. The other part though, the more experienced ones, were on a stand-by, to gun down any escapees with silenced pistols and dump their bodies on the French territory.

They’d planted the bombs two days prior, when the city hall demanded an inspection upon Rutherford orders and their loyalists, dressed up as the crew, hid explosives in ten different spots inside the club.

“Stand by,” responded Adrian to Divya. Introducing them to the basic military lingo was one of the first things Adrian had done during the training. Discipline and precision were key to pulling off the mission and he had no intention to leave any room for error.

Three minutes later, there was a sound of a car pulling up at the parking lot and clicking of boots on the concrete.

When the woman neared Adrian’s shooting range and he saw her face, there was a millisecond of hesitation.

He had studied her photographs whilst planning the attack, but now, seeing her in flash, it all came back to him - the reason why her name had sounded so damn familiar.

Marine Charif was introduced to the French Organisation ten years ago, by Laure. He could remember it all so vividly now: Laure walking into the room, with young Marine in tow, announcing to him, Julien and Évelyne that her cousin from Marseille had joined the St. Clair ranks.

But the millisecond was not enough to intervene with the kill.

Almost as soon as his .223 Remington, 69–80-grain bullets left the rifle and tore through Marine’s temple and into her skull, Adrian gave a command.

“Engage.”

The team had worked like a well-geared machine.

It all happened simultaneously.

Marine’s blood spattering all over the parking lot.

One of Divya’s man dragging her body out.

Rutherford loyalists locking down every possible exit from the building.

Divya pushing her thumb into the detonator.

The club lighting up the London skyline like the parade of fireworks.

The sound was deafening. The flames exploded in a mini-supernova, turning everyone and everything inside the club – the people, the expensive equipment, the furniture, the insane amounts of cocaine, into a gruesome pile of pieces of human flesh, wood, and metal, scattered like a jigsaw puzzle. And above all that, the grey powder of ash started to descend and add a monochromatic layer, like fallen snow on a forgotten city.

III.

The firefighter John Coyle shook his head in disbelief.

“This is clearly not a gas leak.”

“Don’t be a fucking hero, mate, and take the money. God knows you could use it,” his co-worker of seven years patted him on the back, “and so could I. Tara is starting school this year.”

“There are more than thirty people burnt to the crisp, man, thirty.”

“Listen, it’s already been written off as a gas leak, give it a rest. Besides,” he leaned in closer to whisper, “I heard they were some drug dealing French criminals, I say, London is better off.”

“God’s sakes, they were people.”

With those simple words, John Coyle had turned himself into a loose end. Unfortunately for him, Rutherfords didn’t leave those alive. He was no exception, as he’d soon find out, standing behind a gun pointed at him by one of Adrian’s people, and drawing his last breath before the trigger was pulled.

IV.

The reason why Adrian was holding a glass of scotch in his hand was to celebrate a successful job, not the fact that he had just sent more than three dozen people to meet their maker.

Johnathan and Melissa, though, they were glad no St. Clair loyalist would venture to make a move on Westminster for a long time.

“Marine was a commandant. Her assassination will trigger a chain of events,” Adrian pointed out the obvious.

“Exactly the point. And this? This was just an opening act to the big event,” Johnathan smirked and poured another glass. “Wait until you hear who your next target is. Let’s say the hotel launch will be even more memorable for the French than we’d initially planned.”

Adrian had already been wrapping up his preparations for the upcoming attack on Amir Dawar’s new hotel opening night, and the news of an unknown variable thrown into the equation drew all of his attention.

“A special guest from across the pond,” Melissa sat in a chair and crossed her leg.

IV.

The next day Marine Charif’s body would be found nailed to a metal plaque that read “The City of Westminster,” in a trash bin outside her Camden house.

And trash was exactly where dead rats belonged.

#this is huge but no read more because it will be impossible to read #Also the title is the hint ;) for fellow history nerds #Selfpara

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realityboresme-blog · 5 years

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First Steps

With greater blogging access comes greater self direction, so on so forth.

I am not sure if that is even remotely accurate, but I did not know how else to start writing. Basically I have taken a leap of faith and joined Tumblr to actually try and achieve some life goals. By forcing myself to commit to an online diary, I might be more willing to document my daily struggles and establish a more positive outlook on life (dreaming too big?). Whether it works or not, who can really tell? If I could contact Dr. Strange to look into fourteen million, six hundred and five of my own alternate futures... Who am I kidding? If I could contact Dr. Strange it would be for an entirely different reason... for a more intimate conversation. Instead I am racking my brain for some witty goals to write humorously with a touch of anxiety. Instead, due to technical difficulties (i.e. I’m just not that funny) here is a boring list:

1. Read more books.

Sounds pretty basic, right? Once upon a time I was the type of avid reader who would smash out ten books in a week. Now? I can barely get passed the cover page. My world of dragons and demigods, bad ass bitches and hunky vampires has disappeared into a void created by the “I don’t have time” excuse. Not only that, but reading would always inspire a new story. If I am being honest (which I have to be), there are probably fifty plus barely started Word documents saved on my computer under “Ideas for Novels”. So yeah, read more.

2. Actually finish a story.

Okay, so this one may be a little tricky. Working full time as well as completing my final university subjects is difficult enough. So you can see why forcing myself to stare at a computer screen with a cup of coffee until it evaporates and I have keyboard imprints on my forehead does not seem like a fun idea. But if I can maybe commit myself to writing a short story (note to self: SHORT), that may be a more achievable goal. Bonus points if I manage to submit an entry into a Short Story Competition.

3. Be a nicer person.

Ugh, boring. But I cannot expect myself to be happy in my life if I cannot be happy in my... life. So yes, I admit that I do have a temper. It may or may not be the result of trigger words (or certain people), but these reasons should not stand as acceptable (75% of the time may be acceptable - open to negotiations).

4. Become more active.

I am definitely not one for exercise or diets (I work in a bakery - who do you think most of the sales come from?), but I am going to be making more of an effort to at least get out and walk around the blog. Maybe even finally meeting up with a friend to hike a hill or paying a ridiculous amount of money to attend a class at gym (I’m a tight ass). Whatever I decide to do, I am aiming to do 3 different activities a week. At least then I can strive for an almost-summer-ready-body (basically me after throwing up last night’s wine).

5. Commit to this blog.

Enough said.

So for those who happen to stumble across this wholesome, inspirational (but really, just sad) diary entry, I will endeavour to log my activity and reflections bi-weekly until I either lose interest or actually manage to achieve what I have set out to do. Níl saoi gan locht.

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todisturbtheuniverse · 5 years

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2018 Year End Writing Review

Even though I haven’t been posting much fic around these parts, it’s become something of an annual tradition to look back on the year’s progress, writing-wise.

The short version: I wrote 500,206 words this year, and spent about 364 hours doing it. Since I wrote 500,017 words last year, I fully expected this year to be kind of a dip year, but instead, I’ve written a million words in the last two years. That is...pretty damn neat, honestly.

The long version, if you’re interested in a load of stuff I couldn’t post here:

What I worked on:

More of that 2013 NaNo novel. The whale, as I called it in my last year-end report. It is still that. I still love it, I still hate it, I will keep chipping away at it. I did a huge re-outline of it earlier this year and began redrafting, but late in the year I largely shelved it to focus on another project that I felt was closer to being “done” (see below).

A second draft of the novella whose first draft I finished near the end of 2017. Is it still going to be a novella when it’s done? Fuck if I know. We’ll find out eventually. This is another project I stalled on and ended up shelving near the end of the year, but I’m hoping to pick it up again in 2019 and push forward.

An old romance novel concept that I’d dropped a few years back. I picked it up again, gave it a bit of a polish, a new outline, and got some chapters written. I’m planning on pushing forward with this, too, so that the next time a certain publisher sends out their open call again that I’ll be ready to submit.

Writing the recaps for our group’s first Pathfinder game, which I was a player/recordkeeper for. They were narrative recaps. They were detailed. They took a lot of time. But I’m glad to have the record.

Worldbuilding and story prep for the Pathfinder game I started running in late September. I started working on this in March, for an introductory one-shot that I ran in May, and then continued working on it throughout the summer--and beyond, of course, because even while the game is now being played, there’s a whole wide world to develop. This is my happy sandbox place, where I get to put things like villages with sod roof houses and vast cities built into an ancient forest and twisty pantheons. Sometimes I feel crushed beneath the anxiety of actually running the game--I would probably do better with a system like 5E, with less goddamn crunch--but just creating for this place is usually a joy.

Fic. I revisited Inquisition and Mass Effect; branched into Star Wars: Rebels; and got really, really into Stardew Valley (more fic definitely to come on that front). I’ve really allowed fic to become my happy, easy place this year; it’s not something I do unless I’m really just feeling like relaxing, and that’s really nice. But I don’t necessarily post it, unless I feel it’s ready to face the world...and sometimes, I write things that just won’t see the light of day. I’m becoming more comfortable with that. Sometimes it feels like writing without a purpose, but sometimes the purpose of entertaining myself is enough, yeah?

There was a real variety in what I wrote this year. I always felt like I had something I could work on, and this list doesn’t even really encompass the random new ideas that I scribbled down during weekly prompt sprints/while on walks/shower thoughts/etc. I had a lot of options, a lot of things in various stages of creation (brainstorming, outlining, first draft, second draft, eighth draft, whatever). So even when I was stuck on one thing, I could progress on another.

But how well did I stick to the goals I set last year? Ehhh.

Last Year’s Goals

Spend a little time writing every day: This was probably the smartest of my goals. Committing myself to spend a little time--even just five minutes--writing daily leads to me writing more, overall. And I did a fair job of it, writing somewhere between 2/3 and 3/4 of days every month. This is the goal I did best with, and it’s one I want to keep.

No word count goal: I’m pretty sure I set this goal and forgot all about it. I crave word count goals. I love them. They feed me. I set a bunch of them, month by month. I’m not sure they’re totally nutritious, though. More about that later.

Permission to write ficlets, drabbles, and even multi-chaptered fics as I want to: I did write--and post--more fic this year than in 2017, 35,221 words to AO3 and much more that didn’t get posted. But still hardly any, compared to my previous output. There was a different category of writing that kind of sucked up the time I would usually use for polishing fic, I think: building a world/campaign for a new Pathfinder game.

Get back to These Chains: I did not. *the world’s longest sigh* I was so optimistic when I first started posting this thing. I had it pretty much fully outlined and a draft halfway written, so I figured I would have no trouble keeping up a posting schedule, but. That didn’t happen, and then the thing has languished, and given everything that happened in 2018 I just didn’t have time to get back to it. Someday. I hope.

So. What have we learned?

Well, there’s a thing I’m good at, and a thing I’m comfortable with, and a thing I like doing above all else, and that’s churning out a first draft. Working on a new thing. Spitting out words haphazardly. That’s how I, personally, wrote a million words in two years. I love it. It feeds my soul.

But something needs to change if I ever want to really finish these six hundred projects I’m juggling with increasingly frantic speed. And fuck, do I. I feel like my 2013 NaNo novel has potential, but for five years now that’s all it’s been--potential, locked up behind five additional drafts which have not been so much refined as have been entirely new drafts. I don’t like editing. It’s hard and annoying and at the end of two hours I feel like I have pretty much nothing to show for it. No nice numbers I can plug into my fancy spreadsheet. Maybe less words than I began with. Probably less words than I began with, actually.

But editing is probably hard for me because it’s not something I like to practice, so I haven’t. Not with any real dedication. And with that in mind...

Goals for 2019

Write, brainstorm, or edit a little bit every day. I’m starting off easy in January with a totally attainable goal of 5 minutes per day, which I will surely overshoot, but toward the end of last year I really fell out of the habit of writing or writing-adjacent activities, and it showed in how my word count and time spent dropped. Habits help me, so I’m going to re-establish some good habits.

Learn some different editing techniques, and practice them. In particular, I try to do everything at once when I edit, and I want to try that top down method of: one pass for worldbuilding, one pass for plot structure, one pass for character arcs, one pass for dialogue, etc., etc.

Remember to do your fun writing when you need it. There could always stand to be more fic in the world, after all.

And that’s that! Here we go into 2019. I hope all of your creative endeavors, whatever they may be, meet with much success.

#universe writes about writing

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ianbrunner · 5 years

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Gayle Forman’s: I Was Here and Suicide Ideation

Trigger Warning: Suicide

If you or someone you is struggling with thoughts of suicide please call this number: 1-800-273-8255

It’s been asked endless times. In Hamlet it’s phrased: “To be or not to be” (Folger Digital Texts. n.d.). La Dispute in the opening track of their album Here, Hear: One allude to Camus and his thoughts of suicide writing “...the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not” (Robbins, 2008). Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy sings: “I love the world but I just don’t love the way it makes me feel/ Got a few more fake friends/ And it’s getting hard to know what’s real/ And if death is the last appointment/ Then we’re all just sitting in the waiting room (Mr. Stump?)/ I am just a human trying to avoid my certain doom” (York et al, 2017) in their song Church. I’m sure you can think of more examples, but despite all this we’re still here.

After having recently re-read Gayle Forman’s: I Was Here (Forman, 20150), a novel in which a girl named Cody, blindsided by her best friend Meg’s sudden suicide, searches for meaning in her own life, I found myself thinking about myself (shocking right?). A few months ago, while visiting my girlfriend in Atlanta, I experienced my first breakdown, or at least the closest thing I’ve ever had to one. I’m naturally a depressive person. It’s not really a big deal anymore for me to feel sad, or to make a morbid joke, or to have a few days where I feel off. What I never really tell people is how much I think about suicide. Not in the I’m planning my death kinda way. Just in the it’s a thing that happens in the world and I’m really tired and I wonder what it would feel like to not carry my stress anymore. I wonder what it would be like to go to sleep and not have to wake up. Sometimes, when driving I find myself imagining what would happen if I swerved off the road suddenly.

My breakdown was more than likely brought on by stress and work. In order to finish my Masters on time I took six classes for three semesters consecutively including a condensed summer semester. On top of that I was working my job at a bookstore, writing and submitting my own stories and poems, and trying to plan a distant future move to Atlanta. Fast forward to my spring break in Atlanta and it was the first time I had a week with no responsibilities. I wanted it to be a time to unwind. I wanted to read Murakami and sit and relax but instead I couldn’t let go of the idea that I would have to go back to all that work. It kept going around and around and around in my mind. I wasn’t sleeping and when I did sleep it wasn’t restful. I lost my appetite and I had trouble focusing. Basically, the only thing that helped me escape from my own head was playing Pokemon Go. I didn’t really start to feel better until a week after I got back to university and even now, I still know that whatever that feeling was is lurking somewhere inside me.

At one point, in I Was Here, Cody is thinking about her friend’s suicide note in which she writes “This decision has been a long time coming (Forman, p. 10). This led me to wonder how long people carry these thoughts around with them before they act on them? Does ideation lead eventually to suicide or is it more outside factors that eventually push someone to it? Is it better to talk about it, or does weighing your friends and loved ones down by your bad brain chemistry or whatever it is that causes you to feel this way make them feel worse? I don’t have good answers to these except people who love you will support you, however, you also have to be aware that they might not know how.

Later, in the novel, Cody remembers all these vivid memories with her best friend. She remembers sleep overs, and dances, and talking about nothing important till the sun comes up. Sometimes, when I think about those times, I feel like I’ve seen everything and like nothing will ever be surprising again. Whenever I see a terrible headline the dark parts of humanity no longer surprise me. On the rare times when I have a real laugh, the kind that goes on so long it hurts, I remember that I can’t know the next time a laugh like that will happen, and that makes me sad. In this novel, there are two recurring characters. Two kittens named Pete and Repeat who repeatedly bring Cody and a boy named Ben back into contact with one another. These kittens, who Cody discovers that her friend had saved shortly before death seem to symbolize that she was always taking care of other things and not herself. Cody ruminates on these kittens and how she didn’t know about these kittens just like she didn’t know about Meg’s thoughts until it was too late and this lead me to wonder how often we talk about our own pain. How do we communicate this to each other? It’s not always explicit and direct and because of this it's important to be aware of the symptoms. The Mayo Clinic website lists these as:

Talking about suicide — for example, making statements such as "I'm going to kill myself," "I wish I were dead" or "I wish I hadn't been born"

Getting the means to take your own life, such as buying a gun or stockpiling pills

Withdrawing from social contact and wanting to be left alone

Having mood swings, such as being emotionally high one day and deeply discouraged the next

Being preoccupied with death, dying or violence

Feeling trapped or hopeless about a situation

Increasing use of alcohol or drugs

Changing normal routine, including eating or sleeping patterns

Doing risky or self-destructive things, such as using drugs or driving recklessly

Giving away belongings or getting affairs in order when there's no other logical explanation for doing this

Saying goodbye to people as if they won't be seen again

Developing personality changes or being severely anxious or agitated, particularly when experiencing some of the warning signs listed above (Mayo Clinic, 2018)

and because they may not always obvious this is why it’s important to check on your friends.

Why am I writing this? Because I think it needs to be talked about more. I couldn’t find good statistics for the amount of people carrying around thoughts of suicide who never act on it but going through life with one foot in the grave is no way to live, even if we’re all on the way there. Whether you believe in God or gods or an afterlife, or just something (and I’ve had my share of weird paranormal experiences) we’re all going to find out eventually, and when you wonder why it’s worth it, or why you should get out of bed, or why you should enjoy that food you ordered, or why sometimes you manage to get lost in living I recommend reading these two quotes (even if they’re not from the book this whole post was about): First, is a scene from the Doctor Who episode The Lion, The Doctor, The Widow, and The Wardrobe (Moffat, S., & Blackburn, F. December 25th, 2011) featuring Matt Smith as the Eleventh Doctor, in which a character Madge wonders why she keeps shouting at her children. To this, the Doctor replies:

Because every time you see them happy you remember how sad they're going to be. And it breaks your heart. Because what's the point in them being happy now if they're going to be sad later. The answer is, of course, because they are going to be sad later.

Simply put, no matter how sad you are on the regular there will be moments where you feel joy. No matter how hard life gets, or how down you feel there should be something you’re working towards, even if that thing is simply survival.

The other quote, as cliche as it might be is from Madeline L’engle’s: A Wind in the Door, in which she writes “There are still stars which move in ordered and beautiful rhythm. There are still people in this world who keep promises. Even little ones…That’s enough to keep my heart optimistic no matter how pessimistic my mind” (L’engle, A Wind in the Door) and that is enough to convince me there’s something worth it.

References

Folger Shakespeare Library. (n.d.) Hamlet from Folger Digital Texts. Retrieved from www.folgerdigitaltexts.org

Forman, G. (2017). I was here. Penguin young readers group. New York, NY.

L’Engle, N. (1973). A wind in the door. Fraar, Straus, & Giroux. New York: NY

Mayo Clinic. (2018). Suicide and suicidal thoughts[Website]. Retrieved from

https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/suicide/symptoms-causes/syc-20378048

Moffat, S. (Writer), & Blackburn, D. (Director). (2011).The doctor, the widow, and the wardrobe

[Television series episode]. In Moffat, S (Producer), Doctor Who, United Kingdom: BBC.

Robbins, T. (2008). One [Recorded by La Dispute]. On Here, hear [MP3 file].

York, K., & Mae, A., & Stump, P., & Trohman, A., & Hurley, A., & Wentz. P. (2018). Church [Recorded by Fall Out Boy]. On MANIA.

#Gayle Forman #I was here #trigger warning #tw: sucide mention #mental health

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himluv · 5 years

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I’m so excited to share this new layout with all of you! I really like this one. It’s crisp, super easy to navigate, and very professional looking. It also feels a bit more dynamic than last year’s. I’m not sure if that’s because of the contrasting aqua and purple (my favorite colors), or the widgets, or the site logo, but I do know I like it a lot.

Now, let’s get down to business and talk about what the heck happened in 2018!

In 2018 I said I wanted to:

Finish The Steel Armada

Finish Santa Sarita

Submit 2 short stories

Publish 52 blog posts

Read 65 books

Maintain my yoga practice

How’d it go?

Finish The Steel Armada

…Yes! As far as I’m concerned, right now, this project is stamped ‘done’. It turned out nothing how I planned, and became almost a complete rewrite halfway through 2018. The Steel Armada became Exodus: Descent, a SolarPunk novella. I sent it to Tim the Agent™ back in August, but have not heard from him. I’m shelving it for now, though I have plans for future novellas set in the same world. So, final status of this project is: Done for now.

Finish Santa Sarita

No. I thought so, and then BAM, another sequel appeared. I bit off a lot with this one, and I’m a little worried about it. So, this will be a pretty high priority in 2019. I don’t want this project lingering over my head anymore. Project status: In Progress.

Submit 2 short stories

Heck yes! This was much easier to do than I thought when I made this goal. So much so that by the end of 2018 I had three stories out for submission.

Publish 52 blog posts

Yep. And then some. This was, hands-down, the best year the blog has ever had. 119 posts, an average of one comment per post, and over 5,000 hits this year has really blown my mind. Consistency really is key.

Read 65 books

Yes! I read 67 books this year! It wasn’t easy, by any means, but I had just enough time and graphic novels to really pad my Goodreads Challenge.

Maintain my yoga practice

Hahaha. No. I got bronchitis two weeks into 2018 and fell out of my practice. I’m contemplating trying again this year, but with two jobs and some lofty writing goals, I’m not sure if I can dedicate the time.

2018 Total Word Count: 149,331

Honorable Mentions

2018 was an eventful year, both personally and in my working life. I received a scholarship to attend the Oregon Writer’s Colony Annual Conference in April, which really affirmed that I’m on the right track and making strides in this whole writing life thing. Right about that time I started submitting my short stories for the first time in over four years. That was a roller coaster all its own, and has been a great learning experience and growth opportunity for me.

June saw my traditional wave of summer depression. I coped by binge-playing Horizon Zero Dawn and eating way too many Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

But, July and August were some of my most productive months of the year, with the completion of Exodus��and the rough draft of my newest short story, That Which Illuminates Heaven.

September was the least productive month of the year, and reasonably so because we spent 12 days in Germany! It was an amazing trip, the exact vacation we so desperately needed, and our first journey abroad together. We hope to spend more time in Munich someday, especially for Christmas. And of course, we have other travel dreams! Ireland, New Zealand, Italy, the UK! The world is a big place, and I want to see as much of it as we can.

October was spent readjusting to working two jobs and outlining and researching for my new novel. Writing was limited and that sucked, but it was all part of the plan. It worked out, because I met my word count goal for November, with a startling 25k words! That’s about a third of the planned manuscript, which is kind of crazy if I think about it too much.

December is a busy month in our house, what with my birthday and the holiday. Add in the mental recuperation from Nanowrimo and it meant I just didn’t expect much from myself that month. But I did finish my reading goal while I let my writing muscle relax!

I read 16,300 pages across 67 titles in 2018!

I also flexed my editing muscle this year with The Audient Void. We released two issues this year, and are on the cusp of releasing a new chapbook of some of David Barker’s previously unpublished short stories, Half in Light, Half in Shadow.

2018’s word was FOCUS. It was my mantra, the thing I came back to when I felt out of control or like I was drowning in my workload. Based on how well my year went, I think it worked. So, I want to pick a new word for 2019:

INTENT.

I want to be purposeful in my writing, I want to take the time to better learn my craft and write with more intention. I don’t really know what that will mean for my writing just yet, but I bet I will by January 1, 2020.

What am I doing in 2019?

I am finishing the Tavi rough draft. I’m already a third of the way there. In an ideal world this rough draft will be done by the end of March/beginning of April. Realistically, this will take the first half of the year.

I will finish Santa Sarita. This is a big job still. I think, right now, I’m really stuck in my head about it. I need to sit down and start writing this story again and let it take the reins. I honestly think that’s the only way it’ll get done.

I will revise Cards. This is the project that comes after the Tavi rough draft. I wrote Cards back in 2014, and I’ve learned a lot since then. Much like The Steel Armada, I anticipate Cards will require extensive rewrites. But, I’m ready. I learned how to do that last year and I’m equipped with the skills and knowledge to do it again this year.

I will publish something! This is a tricky one. I don’t actually have much control over this goal. There are a lot of factors that go into getting a piece published and almost none of them are decided by me. But, I have three stories out right now. I want at least one of them to find a home.

I will publish two blog posts a week. I’ve got this into a rhythm now, so I’m confident I can do it again.

I will read 70 titles. I exceeded my reading goal this year, it only makes sense to increase it in 2019.

If time allows, I’d like to…

Make considerable progress (30k words) on From the Quorum. This novel is the first in a planned trilogy, and is my longest-lived idea. I first met these characters in 2009, and they are still around, patiently waiting for me to tell their story. I don’t know if I’ll make much progress on it this year, but it will definitely be a priority in 2020.

Write a new short story! I have three out now that are performing well. It’s just a matter of time before one of them finds a home. It’d be nice to have one waiting in the wings and ready to go when that finally happens.

Submit Exodus to novella markets. I actually think this one is pretty likely to happen. But, with Tavi and Cards looming, this won’t be on my radar until the later half of the year.

There’s a lot to do in 2019. I probably bit off more than I can chew, especially since I’m working two jobs right now. There’s also always the reading and editing for Madhu and The Audient Void to consider.

So, in short, I’m a busy busy lady and nothing about that will change in 2019. I look forward to sharing that journey with all of you in the coming months.

I’ll be back later this week with the Monthly Recap!

Until then, Blogland.

New Year’s, New Look – 2019 I'm so excited to share this new layout with all of you! I really like this one.

#Accomplishments #Editing #Fantasy Fiction #goals #new look #New Year #Novella #Novels #Reading #Rewriting #Short Stories #Submissions #The Audient Void #workworkwork #Writing #year in review

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marathoncoder · 3 years

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Validation (of a sort)

It was last summer (I think it was, but I have a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old, and so my flow of time has been seriously disrupted) when I decided I wanted to write a novel, just to see if I could, with no expectations. Right now that novel has passed the 45,000 word mark en route to a projected 70,000 word finish.

I guess the idea stemmed from events from a past Age of the World when I was in school and received assignments to write. Infrequently I felt inspiration, and wrote something I found amusing, and occasionally others did as well. Most commonly however I had other things on my mind and felt the task to be pure drudgery, to be written out at lunch before English class for a passing, but not particularly sparkling grade. I dread the day when I could be called upon to deliver a lecture to one of my boys on the importance of putting effort into high school, not knowing how I could do it without blatant hypocrisy given my own study habits in those days, which generally consisted of completing my homework in the class before it was due. You see, I had more important things to do at home than actual homework, like playing computer games, programming computers, playing trumpet, reading science fiction, and watching TV (particularly Late Night with David Letterman - no I didn’t sleep much in high school, especially when I had to be at school at 7 am for marching band practice).

But I digress. In the fall I had ideas, real ideas that popped into my head and refused to be dismissed, particularly when I was watching my eldest at a park or holding him as he wound down his day. So within a few weeks I cranked out a couple short stories - the first 1900 words long, and the second 3400. The question was what should I do with them. The idea of submitting them for publication or even showing them to friends was a bit frightening. My training and general mindset comes from the sciences, and the very real fact that I was incapable of judging the quality of my own writing was a bit disconcerting. The more I’ve read from far better and far more experienced writers confirms this to be a fact. They generally urge you to find out how good you are by submitting and seeing what happens. That was fine, but there was a part of me that needed to know if they sucked or not before going any further.

I read about the quarterly L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest, which is the biggest science fiction writing contest out there for amateurs, and is even free (Hubbard bequeathed enough funds to start the contest as a way to give back to the science fiction community). This seemed like a great idea. Entering the contest meant experienced professionals in the field would actually read and evaluate my work. I entered the two stories in the Q1 contest (deadline December 31st) and Q2 contest (deadline March 31st), and sat back to wait. The contest is far too big for individualized feedback except for the top finishers, but they award certificates for several levels of accomplishment. This weekend I found out I scored honorable mention, which is typically achieved by anywhere from 5-15% of entrants in any quarter. So there it is. I don’t know how good it was. I don’t know what my upside is. But I know that one story didn’t suck, and that feels really sweet.

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thedaughterofkings · 7 years

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the one I want

Finished for Sterekweek ‘17 Days Four and Five: Mates and Lyrics&Quotes, though it was originally started for Solstice, the Sterek charity zine! Check it out, preorders start in November and you don’t want to miss that!

I ended up submitting another fic for the zine, so now you get to enjoy 2.1k of a soulmate AU with soulsongs!

We’re soaring, flying, there’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reach…

“If we’re trying, so we’re breaking free,” Derek sings under his breath while brushing his teeth and chokes on his toothpaste when Laura suddenly speaks up behind him:

“High School Musical? Really, little bro?”

“Shut up, Laura,” Derek croaks and slams the door in her face.

His soulmate is either a twelve year old girl or hates him. They’ve been singing nothing but High School Musical for days and Derek is going out of his mind. Sure, his mum gets misty eyed whenever he starts singing, talking about “soul songs” and how lucky he is to have a soulmate close enough to hear his heart song, but Derek has some serious doubts about this soulmate business if it makes him belt out Get’cha Head in the Game in the middle of the basketball court. How strong the urge is to sing along with your soulmate out loud supposedly depends on how close you are to them, but Derek couldn’t find anyone who looked like they were currently singing High School Musical in the crowd, so not even embarrassing himself in front of most of the school got him any closer to finding out who his soulmate is.

Derek wants to find them so he can wring their neck, not because he’s “secretly a romantic marshmallow at heart”, no matter what Laura says.

Until he can get his revenge in person, though, he’s going to put on some speed metal on the way to school and yell along in the car. If there’s any good in the world his soulmate will be taking the bus to school and be forced to screech along with him.

Derek never claimed to be a good person and he’s getting really fed up with High School Musical.

~*~

Hey, I just met you and this is crazy...

“But here’s my number, so call me maybe,” Derek says through clenched teeth and the barista laughs at him.

“I don’t go for jailbait, kid, but here’s your coffee and call me maybe in five years,” he says and Derek snatches his coffee and hurries out of the café with his face burning hotly.

This stupid song has been stuck in his head for weeks, thanks to everyone and their mother - including his soulmate - singing it. Mostly Derek has been able to ignore the urge to sing along - other than proximity, enthusiasm is the most important factor when it comes to soulsongs. If you just hum a song under your breath, your soulmate probably won’t even hear it. If you sing along to something on the radio and are separated by a couple of blocks, your soulmate is probably going to hear it and be filled with a slight urge to sing along, but that urge is nothing you can’t resist. But just as the urge gets stronger the closer two soulmates are, it also grows with the enthusiasm of the singer. So for Derek not being able to resist the push of the soulsong, his soulmate has to be either around the corner or belting out Carly Rae Jepsen as if his life depends on it.

Yes, his. Derek can’t know for sure until he meets him, but occasionally he can hear an actual voice singing their soulsong and he’s pretty sure it’s male. Laura’s romance novels - which Derek reads for research, really! - always read that as a sign for an especially strong connection, but Derek isn’t sure how reliable they really are. An awful lot of Lairds and Ladies discover that their soulmate has been the stable boy all along in those novels, and that just doesn’t seem statistically probable. But still, Derek’s soulmate is almost definitely male and quite probably near him singing Carly Rae Jepsen.

So Derek quickly looks around to make sure no one is near him and then starts singing himself:

“Shut up, just shut up, shut up!”

Singing a Black Eyed Peas song that will have him declare himself “crazayyyyy for tryin’ to be your ladyyyy” in just a few lines might not be the best choice, but Derek hopes that it’ll get his opinion on Carly Rae Jepsen’s telephone struggles across nevertheless.

~*~

Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven. Will it be the same, if I saw you in heaven …

Derek bites his lip and looks around automatically, hoping to see someone singing Eric Clapton, but everyone seems to be deep in conversation with someone else. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees one of Cora’s classmates leave the cafeteria, but he’s gone too quickly for Derek to check whether he might have been singing.

His soulmate had sounded so sad and while he’s mostly been a giant pain in Derek’s ass so far, he feels as though he has to do something to help. That’s hard to do without knowing what’s wrong, though, or even what’s wrong with whom, as he’s still no closer to finding out who his soulmate is. There’s no way to comfort his soulmate physically, but there’s one thing Derek can do:

“Don't give up 'Cause you have friends. Don't give up You're not beaten yet. Don't give up I know you can make it good.”

~*~

Took her bowling in the arcade We went strolling, drank lemonade...

Laura has declared the week ‘Grease week’ and it’s all they’ve been watching and listening to for three days and Derek doesn’t even mind. Summer Nights in particular has been stuck in his head and he’s singing it under his breath on his cooling down walk home after his daily run through the preserve. As he’s alone he’s doing both parts to the best of his ability, but when he sings the next lines, a different voice answers him.

“We made out under the dock-” Derek sings and the new voice continues:

“- we stayed out 'til ten o'clock. Summer fling, don't mean a thing, But ah, oh, those summer nights.”

Derek whirls around and sees a guy who looks vaguely familiar. He’s got messy brown hair, laughing light brown eyes, and dark moles scattered all over his pale skin. Derek is pretty sure he’s one of Cora’s classmates. He thinks he knows him actually - it’s Sheriff Stilinski’s son, if Derek is not mistaken, Stiles.

“Dude, Grease!” Stiles says, grinning widely, and Derek automatically retorts: “Don’t call me ‘Dude’.”

“What should I call you then?” Stiles asks, unperturbed, and Derek suddenly develops a coughing fit because - was that flirting? It’s not unheard of - they are not the Victorians after all, obsessed with keeping all contact between anyone but mates or family to a very decorous minimum. There’s no guarantee to hear your soulsong and find your soulmate, so of course people flirt, hoping to find a partner nevertheless. But Derek has been hearing his soulsong for most of his life, and it just hadn’t felt right to go look for anyone but his soulmate. So he’d just awkwardly glowered whenever someone had tried to approach him and eventually people stopped trying. But that means his first hand knowledge of flirting comes from Laura’s romance novels and again, Lairds and Ladies are not the most realistic example to model your experiences on. So Derek just offers his names slightly hesitantly:

“Derek? I mean, I’m Derek, Derek Hale.”

“Oh, you are Cora’s brother!” Stiles exclaims and sticks his hand out for a fist bump that Derek returns, increasingly bewildered. “I’m Stiles, Stiles Stilinski, and we should totally sing Grease together!”

Derek manages to hold back the automatic “I know” in reaction to Stiles offering his name, but instead he blurts: “We should?” which really isn’t much smoother.

“Yes, we should!” Stiles insist and starts: “Summer lovin’ had me a blast-”

He looks at Derek expectantly and Derek just can’t resist those puppy dog eyes (and the insistent voice in the back of his head saying how familiar Stiles’ voice sounds despite Derek never having heard it before): “Summer lovin’, happened so fast-”

Stiles cheers and continues with a wink: “I met a boy crazy for me-”

Derek can feel his cheeks growing hot and his voice is slightly hoarse on the next line: “I met a boy, cute as can be-”

This time it’s Stiles’ turn to blush and duck his head and Derek’s voice comes steadier again as they join up on the next lines:

Summer days driftin' away, To uh - oh those summer nights…

~*~

I'm walking on sunshine (Wow!) And don't it feel good!

“So happy, dear bro?” Laura sticks her head into Derek’s room with a grin and laughs when Derek falls off his bed. He’d been jumping around and singing along with his soulmate until Laura interrupted him and not even lying on his back like a turtle can wipe the grin off his face. His soulmate has been happy, happier than happy, singing joyful songs in a voice that is feeling more familiar every day.

Derek has been spending more time with Stiles lately, Stiles joining him on his daily runs regularly, but also seeking out Derek in school for lunch or in between classes. He is always singing, an eclectic mix of Disney songs and eighties power ballads and whatever's top of the charts right now. Derek mostly rolls his eyes at Stiles’ antics (it comes without saying that Stiles’ renditions always have to include a full blown choreography), but sometimes he retaliates with musical theatre, symphonic metal, and on one very memorable occasion with a perfect rendition of the fresh Prince of Bel Air.

That night his soulsong is full of kings and princes and thrones and “chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool” and Derek just knows who his soulmate is, but at the same time he doesn’t know. Not for sure. It might all still be a remarkable coincidence. Not very likely, but possible and Derek can’t take the chance. So he’s going to - as Laura likes to tell him - put on his big boy pants and sing his soulsong and hope it’ll be answered. Tomorrow. Tonight he’s going to sing happy songs in his room and hope his soulmate hears them, too.

Because I’m happy …

~*~

I got chills they're multiplying And I'm losing control 'Cause the power you're supplying It's electrifying…

Derek is in the forest, waiting for Stiles, and singing his soulsong. There’s a difference between simply singing and singing your soulsong. The latter depends on intent and belief and hope. The intent to promise yourself to another, the belief that you’ve found them, and the hope that they feel the same. Singing your soulsong gives your soulmate a choice: to accept or to reject - but ignoring it is not an option. So Derek hopes to hear his soulsong returned - by Stiles of course.

“You better shape up, 'cause I need a man And my heart is set on you You better shape up, you better understand To my heart I must be true-”

Stiles does not just sing the next lines - Stiles does all the jumps and twirls and shimmies Sandy does and even a cops a feel. There’s a pronounced blush on his cheeks, but it seems to have been caused by delight rather than anger, and Derek feels the ball of icy anxiety in his belly melt. His soulmate is Stiles, that much is clear, the only thing that remains in question is what Stiles’ answer is going to be. But Derek has a hunch what it might be:

“Nothing left, nothing left for me to do-”

Stiles winks and sings one last line:

“You're the one that I want!”

Then he throws himself at Derek in an exuberant hug that sends them both to the forest floor. The impact knocks the breath out of Derek but Stiles’ face close to his, bright with joy and framed by leaves caught in his hair, more than makes up for it. Stiles settles in more comfortably on top of Derek and grins down at him. Derek swallows and asks, still slightly breathless:

“Is that your answer?”

Stiles smirks and whispers:

“You are the one I want, Derek Hale.”

And then he ducks his head down for a kiss that first knocks their teeth together painfully, but gentles when Derek curves one hand around the back of Stiles’ head and slightly tugs until their mouths fit together perfectly. Stiles sinks more heavily into Derek’s embrace and Derek wraps his other arm around Stiles’ waist securely and loses himself in the kiss.

In his head, their soulsong continues:

Oo-oo-oo, honey The one that I want You are the one I want

[my other Sterekweek 2017 fics]

#Sterekweek2017 #sterekmates #stereklyrics3 #Sterek #teen wolf #eternalsterek #haleinski #my fic #my Sterek fic #happy reading!#my Sterekweek fic

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rjcauthor · 6 years

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How to Make a Living as an Indie Author

[Author Note: Originally published on my website in 2014. The basics remain the same.]

I thought about titling this post, "My Advice to Writers 2014 - 150,000 Books Later," [2018 Update - 1,000,000+ sold and counting] but it'd be disingenuous. I'm not speaking to all writers here. There are plenty of advice guides/blog posts for basic writers, for the hobbyist, for the person who wants to get their book queried and submitted, etc, etc.

I'm not really an expert in any of those fields, so why spend my day off writing a blog post about it? (Why spend my day off writing a blog post at all, honestly? Fuck if I know. I should be on the couch partaking of the last day of the Titanfall beta or rewatching a few of the Harry Potter movies on Blu-ray. Instead, I'm doing this. I must be mental.) Anyway, I'm writing this because I want to speak to a certain segment of the writing population, and that's the person who wants to make a living as an indie author.

I've written advice posts before, and a lot of them were filled with caveats that were designed to protect people's feelings and avoid controversy, and also protect my ass from anyone who might get upset. Let me get those out of the way ahead of time: I'm assuming if you're going to read further you're:

a) Looking to make a living as an indie author, and are unwilling to accept any other means of making a living long-term.

b) Are smart enough to decide after reading my advice if the methods I describe are a fit for you.

c) Are willing to work for 100 hours per week for a sustained period of time if that's what it takes.

d) Are smart enough to know that I'm too busy to personally mentor anyone beyond this post. You're going to need to figure out the rest for yourself. Find some author friends, some like minded people you can talk to. It'll help a lot.

(As an aside, my harsh words here in this post are going to be the least of the slings and arrows you'll have to deal with if you go down this road, so maybe take it as a warning to look for surer footing elsewhere.)

Some quick background:

In March of 2011 I had been in financial services for seven years. It wasn't going terribly well, and I was spending all my free time working on a story idea that was absolutely haunting me. It kept me up at night writing, and I was having my friends read it and waiting anxiously for their feedback. I loved it - loved writing it, loved hearing what they had to say about it, loved every part of it enough that I was forgoing all my other hobbies just to write.

That was a unique experience for me. I'd gotten a degree in Creative Writing with the intent of becoming a novelist, but gave up on that dream by the time graduation had rolled around. I hated writing after getting my degree, my love of it all ground out of me by years of being forced to write about subjects I did not give two fucks and a shit about. I'd started half a hundred novels from the time I was in fourth grade until college; after college I didn't write anything for eight years.

I had started writing again in the summer of 2010. I kept writing for a few months during that summer, in spite of everything that was going on - work demands, a toddler running around the house, a pregnant wife, a house that we were doing a ton of work on to sell, selling said house, moving in with my in-laws, and a hell of a lot more.

I wrote in spite of all of this. I wrote DURING all of this. I kept coming up with ideas to advance my plot, ideas for interactions between my characters, ideas, ideas and more ideas. I'd sit at work and write ideas down during meetings - whole chunks of scenes and dialogue. I was a financial services salesperson and trainer; I was supposed to be paying attention.

It got bad. I didn't care about my financial services business anymore, all I cared about was writing. So I started trying to figure out how to become a full-time writer, and looked into traditional publishing (which was the only game I had heard of back then). It wasn't a happy answer I came back with. The short version: Good fucking luck, kid, and don't quit your day job.

A little depressed, I put aside my writing for a few months and redoubled my efforts in financial services in preparation for the upcoming baby. By the time January rolled around, I was twice as frustrated, and I was back on the writing again. I looked for answers to the question of, "How do I become a full-time author?" again, and this time I found something different.

Self-publishing. Amanda Hocking. Joe Konrath. They told tales of copious sales, of massive amounts of money, and of working hard, but being in charge of your own destiny. I found a few other names like David Dalglish and B.V. Larson, and I started studying up to figure out how I could do just a fraction of what they were doing. It took me about a month or so to figure it all out, but I came up with a plan, and on March 5, 2011, I told my wife I wanted to quit financial services and stay home with the baby so I could write in every available moment.

I'll spare you the argument and say that eventually she went for it. So I stayed home with our youngest and wrote obsessively during naps and after bedtime, defraying daycare expenditures for the first year and releasing two books with a third finished by the end of the year. After that, we put both kids in daycare all-day, every-day and I started writing full-time as of January 1st, 2012. I was making a living by the end of September, just after my sixth book came out.

And here's what it took to do it.

1. Be calculating

Whenever I talk about what I do/did as an indie author, I inevitably hear people in the background say, "Ehh, he just got lucky, that's all."

To them I say: I planned for both failure and success, understanding that as long as I did not yield, I could work until some level of success was inevitable. Luck may have vaulted me to way above what I'd planned for, but I didn't count on it and it wasn't required to be able to making a living, which is what I wanted - and what I planned for.

I worked my ever-loving ass off in ways that no one ever saw, spent most of my off-hours in analysis, took mighty risks, gambled a lot of money, time and basically my entire future on my own success, and then watched things work ALMOST EXACTLY LIKE I PLANNED FOR IT TO BEFORE I EVEN FINISHED MY FIRST NOVEL.

You need to constantly assess the landscape by reading about your industry. You need to know about what's going on in the world of publishing, the world of craft, everything about your industry that you can soak up. Even if it sounds stupid, even if you violently disagree with it, the time you spend learning these things can all weigh in the formulation of your game plan.

Watch the people who are doing it, and try to distill the common denominators of their success. I heard some motivational coach say, "Success leaves clues." No successful author is doing it exactly the same way, but a lot of them are doing similar things.

A lot of people speak of planning like it's something you do once and forget about.

Are you fucking kidding me? Planning is an ongoing process. Like Sun-Tzu said, your plan ain't gonna survive contact with the enemy (pretty much everything is your enemy, btw, this publishing environment is like Australia) so you have to revise it constantly. Throw out what isn't working, make new plans, revise old ones. My overarching plan (strategy) was this:

i) Write a shitload of books

ii) Get them in people's hands somehow

iii) ?????*

iv) PROFIT!

*(Step iii is actually, "Get them to pay for the next ones.")

It's the little plans (the tactics) - how to get those steps done - that needed changing. And you must assess where you are CONSTANTLY. And it cannot get in the way of your writing. (Starting to see why obsession - #5 - is important?)

I had this basic strategy/plan when I came to my wife on that day in March, and frankly, the strategy hasn't changed in the (nearly) three years since. What has changed are the tactics - the little ways I carried out said plan. Back then the way you carried out ii was through 99 cent pricing. That no longer works the way it once did, so now it's permafree or box sets (or the nuclear option, permafree box sets). (See points #2 and #7).

Caveats/Pitfalls for Point #1:

a) You will need to spend your off hours studying this business the way a horny teenage boy studies every line of the pretty girl in front of him's body while he's bored in math class. (See point #5, re:obsession.) You will need to read articles, journals, blogs, books and possible advice scrawled on rest area bathroom walls. (Jenny - 867-5309 and other assorted bathroom stall wisdom is probably not going to help you, but collect it anyway. Better to have it than not.)

b) If you have no experience running a business of any kind, things will be more difficult for you. I don't know how much. I spent eight years running a business in financial services before taking on this responsibility, and it was like an internship that prepared me for being an indie author. I learned to manage my time, I learned about marketing and sales, about loss leaders, and about picking up the shovel and doing unpleasant work I didn't want to do in the name of staving off working for someone else. I hate the thought of working for someone else. It's a powerful motivator for me. If you don't have motivation to drive yourself, this is going to be tough for you.

2. Write fast

Ingredient number one in the souffle of success is hard work. But simple hard work is not enough; results are key here.

In fact, this is probably the biggest caveat to the whole equation, because if you can't write fast (and a lot of people can't, no shame in that) it might not work for you like it worked for me. I wrote 140,000 words of fiction in my evenings over the course of a couple months while I was still running my financial services business because I was so obsessed with the story I had to tell.

Some things that *might* help you write faster - writing sprints of 15-60 minutes, reinforced by taking your laptop computer somewhere that has no internet/distractions or using an internet blocking program like Anti-Social or Freedom. Still, if you can't write fast enough to get out four books per year...again, this might not be the plan for you. I'm not dogging on you, I just know what it took for me to get to my present level of success, and I'm not sure what it will take below that level of output. Is it still possible? I'm sure it is. I just didn't plan that way so I can't really advise you.

Additional caveats/pitfalls of fast writing -

a) Make sure you have an error correction process in place. Spellcheck alone is not going to do it. Professional editing would be a great idea.You have to decide what your Quality Assurance process will be, but you need to have SOMETHING in place. Not every reader is turned off by tons of errors in a manuscript, but a lot of them are. These errors take away from your story. They're a distraction. You're fighting the wind instead of using it. Don't get me wrong, there's such a thing as TOO MUCH when it comes to time spent on error correction, but you need to find this balance for yourself.

b) You can write crap to get the words out, but you damned sure better edit/rewrite it until it's professional-grade. I can fix words on a page that suck, but I can't edit a blank page. Make sure your stories are good (See point #4), that they're engaging, that they keep the reader moving through. Get beta reader feedback to tell you where people are putting your books down and try to figure out WHY they're doing it. HINT: They may not know the reason why, exactly. Study craft to narrow it down.

3. Learn business

There's a lot of bullshit out there. Tons of it. Enough to fertilize the entire world. In your opinion, maybe this post is filled with it. It doesn't really bother me if that's what you think, because once I write this post, I'm done with it. I'm not an advice guru, I'm a full-time independent author who derives all his income from selling books, not writing advice posts. So if you don't like the material herein and think it's bullshit, you know what to do with it - fertilize something.

What does this have to do with business? Everything. If you're going to be a full-time independent author, you have to fill your time with things an indie author would do. You also have to develop a really exceptional bullshit filter. You need to seek WISDOM (publishing information) from a variety of sources and develop the DISCRETION (bullshit filter) to decide what to apply and what not to. Some of the things you decide not to apply may not be bullshit; they just may not be a fit for the direction you want to take your career.

For example, discounting. Lots of people run sales on books, run specials on books. I haven't done hardly any of this, with a couple recent exceptions. This particular strategy is NOT bullshit, it just doesn't fit for the direction I want to go with my career. It's a perfectly reasonable business plan that works, just not one I want to employ.

Another thing about business - if you're not able to understand basics of profit and loss, contracts and how they affect you, the concept and application of loss leaders, basics of time management - okay, this is going to be a problem. The indie authoring industry is a place of shifting sands, where things are changing rapidly and what worked yesterday isn't necessarily going to work tomorrow.

What else goes into the business end of things? Tracking sales, choosing vendors, figuring out your budget, figuring out how to grow top-line sales while improving the bottom line by controlling costs, and dealing with the ten thousand assorted land mines that could crop up on a daily basis. Other business activities could include trawling through the data on your bit.ly or smartURL links to determine where you sales are coming from, figuring out which the best venues are for adbuys (I have no comment on this) or networking with other writers and talking shop.

Caveats/Pitfalls:

a) This is probably the least clearly delineated subject in this post. The reason why is because I don't really know how fast you can learn what you need to know. Maybe you've already got all the business experience you need to start with the basics. Maybe you have no business experience and are starting from scratch. I'm not even sure what all I've learned along the way from my previous career and how much it helped me, at least not in quantifiable terms. I just know it's helped a TON.

b) If you don't know anything about business, that doesn't mean it's GAME OVER, MAN. You can learn. I highly recommend constantly trying to assess your weaknesses and figuring out how to shore those up. A couple areas I think authors struggle with - Time Management/Procrastination and Self-Discipline. If you've got those areas down, good for you. A few books I think might help if you feel out of control or unsure are Kris Rusch's Freelancer's Survival Guide and Brian Tracy's Eat that Frog! (which is a time management/priority setting book). Actually, I've read a lot of books by Brian Tracy and they've all helped. The Freelancer's Guide is a good starting point, though, for general business basics.

4. Learn your craft

I'm not talking about grammar and spelling. Spellcheck can save you in one of these regards. You do need some basic knowledge of sentence structure, syntax, etc, but a good editor can help you if you're close on that. Grammar and spelling aren't really elements of craft.

Here I'm talking about descriptions, narrative voice, all the components that allow you to take the reader from beginning to end without losing them. There are a LOT of pieces to this particular puzzle, and you'll spend a lifetime working on this if you're serious about it because there's always something new to learn. Still, some fundamentals:

a) Openings

b) Cliffhangers

c) Pacing

d) Character Voice and Setting

Classes on all these topics (and more) can be found online. Make sure you use your bullshit filter to determine whether the person you’re learning from is actually worth learning from.

If you can't afford classes, let me suggest you at least read heavily in these and other areas of craft. There are tons of books on craft from experts out there. I'll try and compile a list to place at the bottom of this post in the comments, but I don't have time for it right now.

Be deliberate, as Joe Konrath would say, considering how best to improve and giving all due thought to how you can employ what you've learned in your next work to make your writing better.

All craft exercises boil down to one purpose and one alone: HOOK YOUR READER FROM THE FIRST WORD AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT FUCKING LET THEM GO UNTIL YOU'RE DONE.

Everything you learn in craft, from characterization to plotting to whatever is essentially boiled down to the essential storytelling skill of keeping them interested in what you're saying. Find the obstacles in your writing that are knocking people out of your work and shave the rough edges off them as fast as your peppy little fingers can figure out which keys to punch to do so.

Some things that can help you build your audience - write in a series. Same characters when possible (not EXACTLY possible in romance to keep the same main characters book after book, but in mystery, sci-fi, fantasy, etc, you should do this). Can you build a career writing standalone novels? Yeah, but I don't know how to do it so go find someone who can instruct you in this manner. (see point #7 for more on the benefits of writing in a series.)

Caveats/Pitfalls:

a) Your first million words is (probably) going to suck. I had an advantage here in that I've been writing books since grade school so I expelled a lot of these crappy words during my teens/early twenties the way White Castle hamburgers are expelled from your digestive tract - violently and messily, with much disgust from anyone who witnesses this spectacle.

b) Taken alongside the first caveat, realize that sometimes you're better off jumping series as your craft/ability to hold the reader improves. My first series did not take off the way my second series has (probably because the first book isn't as strongly written/well-crafted with hooks in the first as the second). It doesn't mean I abandoned my first series (in fact it's doing quite well now) but I did put it on the back-burner for the last couple years as I focused on the one that was paying my bills. The first book of my first series was...my first book. Ever. I was still learning to write a damned novel. My craft got stronger and my second series did much better.

5. Be obsessed

To quote Bree Bridges (half of the Kit Rocha writing duo of hilarity and awesomeness), "When I say it's possible to make money in publishing, I'm assuming you've tried the easier things like digging for pirate treasure."

This does not mean it's impossible. It does not mean you can't do it. It just means that if you're just looking to make a living, it's easier to get a job that works you 40 hours a week that allows you to shut off your brain afterward.

You CANNOT do that in self-publishing and expect to have it work. You will need to think about it all the time. Wanting to make your living telling stories has to be the thing you get up for in the morning and the thing you go to sleep at night thinking about.

I wanted to spend the rest of my life telling stories and getting paid for it. I wanted no boss, no schedule but that I set for myself, and I was willing to work 100 hours per week for myself so I didn't have to work 40 for someone else (thanks to L.T. Ryan for that quote).

6. Market

Lots of people have different definitions for this. I have only one - help people who are looking for a book like yours to find your damned book. You can call it visibility, you can call it discoverability, you can call it the gorram hillbilly rock for all the fucks I give on the subject.

How did I market? One way, and one way only, pretty much. I wrote in a series that had an overarching story, and I set my first book in said series to free. Permanently. That's right, you can read the first book in my two series for absolutely nothing in e-reader formats. (More on this in point #7.)

But wait, you say! It's now 2017 and that doesn't work anymore. Amazon has come along and killed the permafrees to death using an algorithm attached to a death ray.

Fine. What's the lowest possible price you can get as many of your books to? Do that and see how many copies you can give away. No, I don't care if you've got a ten book series and you're selling 9 for 99 cents in order to collect full price for that last one. If that's what it takes to move some fucking books, you'll find me there doing it, too. I will race you to the damned bottom, and I feel confident that I can whip the ass off most of the other people there because I'm obsessed, I'm a fast writer, and I have no problem with discounting ridiculous amounts of my backlist in order to get people to TRY - JUST TRY - my writing. I dare you not to read on.

And really, this is all marketing is. I'm trying to expose the readers who will LOVE my books to...MY BOOKS. Some will merely like them, but keep reading. Some readers will get caught up along the way and only somewhat enjoy my books. Maybe they'll read more, maybe not. A certain percentage will dislike my books. A certain percentage (hopefully small, if I've done my craft job correctly) will absolutely DESPISE my books and want to flame them in perpetuity with bad reviews and bad word of mouth. This number is baked into the cake of success, so get used to it. I want AS MANY OF THOSE HATERS to read my book as possible, because if they're reading it, so are the people who will love it.

Marketing is just finding ways to get those people exposed to your books. I don't do interviews, blog tours, (or blog posts, really), Twitter spamming, etc. I did it my way - permafree and having enough reviews to get the big sites like Pixel of Ink, E-reader News Today, Bookbub, Indie Book Bargains in the UK - to give me some signal boost so my books could go up the freebie charts. Kobo has given me a helping hand before as well, getting visibility on their site. I didn't ask for it, they just gave (and I'm grateful for it). Ultimately, though, none of these things would help me if I hadn't set the damned books free and gotten enough positive exposure to push them up to where people could find them.

Exposure. That's the magic word. And I don't mean the kind that gets you sent to jail for indecency, so put your pants back on. (Until you're a full-time writer, then pants are optional.)

7. Don't be afraid to give your work away for free

Between 11 April 2012 when I released my book Alone: The Girl in the Box, Book 1 and when I set it free in September 2012 some five months later, I sold 42 copies of it through all channels. In August I released books 2 and 3 in that series, ended up making four figures that month for the first time, five figures in November, and I've never even come close to a four-figure month since.

Would that have happened if I hadn't set Alone to permanently free? I doubt it. Sales weren't even moving in the right direction on it before I set it free to boost its exposure. The month before it went free it sold 3 copies. Since then it's been downloaded some 320,000 times for free and generated some 100,000+ paid sales for the rest of the series (almost all at $4.99 or the foreign equivalent).

There are two ways to look at those numbers - the first is to say, MY GOD, YOU MISSED OUT ON 320,000 SALES, ARE YOU MAD?! The answer is no, not really, because I've probably only missed out on the 3 sales a month I'd have generated without the additional visibility brought on by Alone being free, and I traded it for a boatload of money in the form of subsequent sales. That's not even counting all the people who finish reading the Girl in the Box series and move on to the other books I've written, because there are those people, too. (And I love them. My truest fans.)

That's the second way to look at it. The thought that follows is, "if only I could give away MORE copies for free, I'd be able to push that paid number to 200k+ or 300k+." (Which I'm working on).

Let's talk about the emotion of this for a moment. It hurts to set your beloved book free. It's painful to drop it to a low price. But a recent survey of successful indie authors found that something like 85% of those making over $500k per year had at least one permafree. Look for commonalities, right?

Whatever promotion hurts you the most will be most appealing to your readers. (That's according to one of the most awesome gurus of the indie movement, Edward W. Robertson.) I agree with that statement wholeheartedly, which is why this morning I started the process of setting my two biggest sellers - Untouched and Soulless, books 2 and 3 in my Girl in the Box series - to FREE. Why would I do that? Because I'm thinking even if I go from 3:1 freebie to sale ratio, if I could give away a million of those free (because of the added appeal of 3 BOOKS FOR FREE OMG DEAL) and it drops to a 5:1, I've still sold 200,000 more books. Boom.

It hurt when I set my first two books free, but it gets easier every time. And yes, it even hurt when I was selling a couple books a month, because I put blood, sweat and tears into those books, making them as good as I possibly could. However, their true value is not in the price on their cover; it's in how much money they're making for the author. After all, I'm not in this to make $10 per book; I'm in this to make a living. Free is just another tool in the toolbox for making that happen.

Caveats/Pitfalls:

a) Maybe your book isn't appealing to readers (NOTE: I DID NOT SAY YOUR BOOK SUCKS. Though it may. I don't rule that out, having not read your book. It may be sucking the balls of every donkey in the shire, for all I know. But maybe not.)

If this is the case, a few things will happen - once you get to about thirty reviews, you'll probablyknow it it's not appealing to readers because your review average will be low. What's low? If you're below 3.5 on 30 reviews on Amazon.com, it's not a good sign. (Caveat to the caveat: Whatever you do, don't read the reviews for your work on Goodreads. This will not be helpful to your career - or your mental health, in all probability. And definitely don't base any judgments about what to do in your career on Goodreads reviews. Goodreads reviews skew much lower than Amazon, and as far as I'm concerned, anything above 0.1 on Goodreads means I'm doing aight.)

Again, just to be plain, for bad reviews - does it mean your book SUCKS? No, not necessarily. It means that for whatever reason, it's not CONNECTING WITH READERS. Which is the name of the game to make a living. Creating pure and beautiful art is the province of people who don't have any outside concerns (and don't write genre fiction). Us lesser mortals (aka Genre writers) have to get by on the time, energy and money we have.

I would never tell you to base your career decisions on one or two reviews, but if you've got 30 reviews on Amazon and half of them are 1-stars...you're going to have a hell of time getting even a permafree enough exposure. It may be time to jump ship to another series, and possibly another pen name depending on how bad it looks.

Writers are terrible judges of their own work, and the authors who most need to be told their work sucks would still think it's awesome even if they're running a 1-star average on 5000 reviews while an author who writes amazing work tends to bash their own brains in because they got their first 1-star after 9 5-stars in a row. (Another point, which I'm going to say only once here - In the words of Troy McClure, "Get confident, stupid.")

b) Maybe you're in a genre that's not selling. Maybe it's awesome, but it's in a genre that Bookbub is ignoring. (Sorry, Bria!) That can happen. If you can, pick a popular genre. I'm not telling you to defile your art (or whatever), but I was fortunate in that the stories I wanted to tell more or less fit into a reasonably decent-selling genre (Fantasy). If you write second-person POV octopus mysteries, your mileage won't just vary - it will suck. Even if your book is awesome.

8. Never stop learning

Things change rapidly. If you're not constantly paying attention and reading industry blogs/keeping up with the goings on through some form of peer group with its ear to the ground, you will miss opportunities. You will miss landscape changes. These can be subtle (the slow death of Amazon Select - actually, know what what? That wasn't all that subtle) or obvious (I dunno. The caffeine is wearing off. Find an example on your own.) Either way, you'll lose out.

I had my plan, I had my basic strategy, and I started to make money in September 2012. I could have coasted, thinking I had my shit together. Instead, around October or November, I made an enormous change, one that felt like a pain in the ass to implement, but that has made enormous difference in my career.

I implemented a mailing list with links in the back of my books.

I didn't fully finish implementing this until February 2013 (and I kick myself for failing to do so) but HOLY CRAP does it make a different. If you're wondering what I'm talking about with a mailing list, go read THIS POST on Kboards by my friend SM Reine. I'll wait for you here until you get back. Make sure you read her follow-up posts as well, down the thread.

This single change is revolutionary. If you're waiting for your audience to come find you every time you release a book, you're basically throwing your baby into the waiting wolves of the Amazon algorithms. Want to make a bigger splash? Want to "game" the system? Get your damned fans to all buy your book at once. It'll make a bigger splash. If you have half a dozen cherry bombs and you light them one at a time, it's like launching a book with only social media to inform your audience. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop!

Get a mailing list together and send that puppy while you're informing your Facebook and Twitter, and it's like wrapping those cherry bombs together to create a stick of dynamite. It can help you push your new release up the genre list and garner you exposure for your entire series. "Oh, look, book #9 of this series looks interesting. I should go back and read book #1." Boom, you hooked a new reader. And best of all, once they sign up for your mailing list, they're added to the dynamite for future launches.

If you're going to go to the hard work of writing and releasing books for a living while you're trying to build an audience, don't be yutz by skipping the last steps to success. Find a way to make it easier for readers to hand you money. Make it simple for them to know you've got a new book out.

Don't get stuck in marketing like it's 2009 and you can just format a warm turd into a .mobi, price it at 99 cents and have an Amazon Bestseller. ( #1in the Fiction -> Fantasy -> Turds & Burglars category! Oops, sorry, they eliminated that category in the great 2013 category shuffle. Which you would know if you were paying attention.)

Never stop learning. Or you'll get your ass beaten by someone who's figured out something you haven't.

Caveats/Pitfalls:

a) Honestly, no matter how much you're learning, you're going to get caught flatfooted by big changes every now and again. Try and limit how often this happens by keeping your fingers on the pulse of the indie author world (and off other places - you will go blind, dammit, STOP THAT).

b) You're probably going to get your ass beaten by people anyway, so you might as well be a good sport about it. Be honest: from where you're sitting right now, if you were suddenly selling a million books per month at $2.99, would you be happy? What if you were selling that many but you were still #1,987 on your category's Author Ranking?

Put another way, who cares what your peers are doing if you're meeting your goals? Focus on you, because you can't control what others are doing, you can only learn from it and apply it to your own career if it fits.

9. Don't be afraid to fail BIG - and find a way to use it as a stepping stone for future success

My first year as an indie author (2011) I made $12.25. I actually earned more than that, but because of the limitations on how big your earnings need to be before they cut a check, that's all I made. I never cashed that check, and it's still sitting on my desk right now (which is how I knew the specific amount).

That's kind of a big failure, isn't it? Would you be happy earning that much for your year's labor? Whatever your answer (please say no), realize that I was expecting that, so I didn't get disappointed when it happened. The game I was playing was long term, and I was aiming more for growth than anything. I was excited when I went up to 25 sales in a month, and I didn't get all bummed out and pissed off and demotivated when I sagged the next month. New releases and promotions help push you up, but there's a natural sag given time.

Another "failure": I launched a book last month, a collection of short stories in my Sanctuary Series. Thus far it's sold 468 copies, and at a lower price than I usually price my work. Whoops. I wrote a short story collection in my lesser-selling series and it bombed. This isn't a huge surprise or anything, but it's a failure. I'm not going to go crying over it, but you can bet I'll think long and hard before I spend my time writing another short story collection.

Of course, here's the biggest one of all: Every month before I started making a living was a failure, really. It was a calculated failure, but it was a failure nonetheless. We were sinking money into daycare costs, losing time for me to go get a degree in something that would pay me (with an English degree and financial services experience, I don't have a great resume). I was willing to accept as many of those failures as it took to cross through to success. My wife, however, was not going to wait forever.

Every month (even now) I do an autopsy on my calendar. What did I do right this month? What did I do wrong? What can I improve? (I also track my wordcount, sales, and number of books presently for sale.) My entire career in finance ended up as a failure, but that doesn't mean I didn't take away a ton of salvage for use in this one.

Comb through your fuckups. Often times you'll learn more from those than your successes.

Caveats/Pitfalls:

a) When you start to see some success, don't be a fucking idiot and stop working. Work twice as hard, because now you know your strategy is doable. I worked even more in 2013 than I did in 2012 because now I was 100% sure I was on the right track. I'm going to see if I can beat what I did in 2013 this year.

b) I think this probably goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway in case any of you are morons): don't go into something TRYING to fail. Unless it's low risk/low loss. Assess the amount of time/energy/money you're going to sink into something before you commit to it if it's got a high failure rate. Don't waste your time doing stuff you're almost certain is doomed unless it's like five seconds of your time. And don't get bummed when it goes to shit, expect that in advance and be pleasantly surprised if you get anything out of it.

10. Keep writing

I think I'm exhausted and the caffeine is wearing off, so I'm going to make this as quick as I can. If you're the type of person who's easily discouraged, this is going to be tough on you. If you're the type of person who flits from job to job always looking for the "better deal" or the "next thing"...you're probably not going to have much success here, either. If you're not okay with spending ten hours per day hammering at your writing career on various fronts for a while without much of a vacation or break...I don't think I can help you. If you're not bursting with excitement at the stories you have inside that SIMPLY MUST BE TOLD, I'm not sure this career thing is going to be the right fit.

But if you're dedicated beyond the capacities of most humans, if you're obsessed, and you're smart, and you're willing to learn and do whatever it takes (on this side of the legal and ethical bounds please, you Frank Underwood, you) to build a backlist and get your books in front of people, you can make a living as an indie author. Will it be huge? Maybe. Will it be minimal? Maybe. I don't know. There's some definite variance in mileage between writers, but I've seen enough of them MAKE A LIVING to know it's possible if you approach it correctly and you're willing to work hard enough to make a one-armed paperhanger look idle.

Once you've got all these other points down, it's really down to you to keep writing. Keep putting books on your bookshelf. Take the hits that will come and do not stop tapping keys on that keyboard. I don't know how long it will take you to get there, I honestly don't. Personally, I didn't care how long it took. The eighteen months it took for me passed like nothing because I was having the time of my life.

This isn't the lottery; there's not just one winning ticket. There's really no luck involved either, just an obscene number of things that are outside your direct control. There are so many things you can do to influence these events, though, and I've outlined as many of them for you as I could here. I probably missed some; I'm kinda tired by now, and it's my day off.

The bottom line is that if you *really* want to be a full-time indie author, I think you can do it. Will it be easy? FUCK NO. If you're looking for easy, scroll back to that paragraph with Jenny's phone number. This will be a lot of "nose to the grindstone."

But will it be worth it?

In every year of my financial services career, I interviewed people looking to hire them. I'd listen to their stories, hear them talk about their work lives. Every day I did that, I put myself in their shoes and imagined what my life would be like if I had their career. Sometimes I'd shudder, sometimes I'd wonder what it'd be like if I'd made the choice to do what they did. Sometimes I'd wish I had. A lot of times I wished I had. Especially when things got bad.

Since the day I started to write full-time, I have never once imagined myself as anything other than a writer. I have never wanted anyone else's life or job for my own, and I have never wanted to be anyone but me. I've maybe wanted to have other authors sales numbers if they're doing better than me, but I've never wanted to swap anything else.

I don't want to do anything else but what I'm doing. I love this gig. It's the best job I've ever had. Last year I went to England for a week to research a novel and meet some fans. Had one of the best times of my life. In January, it got damned cold here so I picked up and took the kids to Florida for a week to hang out with my parents and go to Disney. Sure, they just went last October, but you only live once, right? (I also wrote something like 12,000 words on a book while I was on "vacation" so...)

For me, it was worth it. It was everything I'd ever wanted and when I got here, it was everything I'd dreamed of plus more. I guess what I'm saying is, if you're the kind of person who wants it that badly, who's willing to do what it takes to do it, I hope this helps you.

Keep writing. That's the last key. Through the bad times, and the good - hopefully it'll mostly be good, but you better plan for the other. If you want it bad enough that you're willing to put in effort in these areas, you can do it. If you're hating every day of it, though, then it's probably not for you, and there's no shame in that.

What being a full-time indie author basically boils down to is that you keep writing, because you love it so much you can't stop. No caveats. No pitfalls. Just a love of writing that won't ever let you quit.

(Editor's Note: There is no editor and I'm sure this post is riddled with errors. Fuck off and go write, okay? I'm going to go play Titanfall.)

#writing #writers #writeblr

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