very independence. such fire. many works. (not an actual entry)

fuck titles, have a meme instead

Writing has been difficult for a good long while now. Years, really. Words used to gush out of me like overflowing floodgates, but that feels like a distant memory now. Depression hasn’t helped, though I don’t think it is the cause, because I’ve written voraciously while suicidally depressed before. Something’s just different, and I’m not quite sure what exactly “different” means in this context. 

inner critic, fuck off. inner editor, cool the fuck down, you’ll get your opportunity in the second draft. stfu before I gag and chloroform you

It’s not because I don’t have anything to say, or because I’m afraid to say whatever I have to say, I’m just not 100% sure of what I want to say. The project I’ve been idly chipping away at is heavy and I don’t want to fuck around with what I put on the page. Suicide, mental illness(es), finding love where you really shouldn’t even be looking, homeless children evading the foster system, cobbling a chosen family together out of whatever pieces fit well enough. None of this is simple. 

I think the first draft was started in 2010, so we’re rounding on ten years with this same story bouncing around in my head and taking vague form on my hard drive. My goal is to have the last solo draft finished and ready to submit to a fuckload of publishers by July 2018.

Writing aside, ermagherd, I’ll be so thrilled when people stop setting off fireworks. My nerves are wonky and the cats are on all the edges. We’re too sensitive for this shit. 

Why can’t we just celebrate quietly? This is pointless. It’s fucking fire season, adding more fire to the season of when shit catches on fire every year without fail is a terrible idea. Or I’m just old for a 25 year old. Bleh. 

I’ve been procrastinating on writing about Dad’s suicide. I didn’t know him. I knew his sickness. Whoever he could have been is irrelevant, he wasn’t even a half-assed parent. Half-assed parents try, at least once in awhile. 

The good thing is, the dead can’t be more dead than they already are. So, like, he’s not going anywhere. So there’s no rush. I’ll get to it. He’ll have to be patient, for the first time in his (after)life. Call it a karmic lesson. Hopefully whoever he is now listens, for their sake.


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