I’m an author
A writer
A poet
A wordsmith
So why,
When the right words are needed,
Can I not find any?
I’m mute
Wordless
Thousands upon thousands of words exist in this language
I know hundreds more in another
But I have none
The words I have hidden behind
Leave me exposed
For the fraud I am
Wordsmith, poet, writer, author
Do any of those words truly describe me
If I haven’t any words?
It’s the weekend. I’m home alone until Sunday afternoon, so I have all the time in the world–or at least thirty-six hours of it–to get shit done.
So why am I rooted to the couch, laptop in hand, working on a rough draft, when I could be sewing, doing laundry, or cleaning up–all the things I don’t have time for during the week?
I guess I’m just prodraftinating. It’s a thing now, I’ve decided. Basically, I’m avoiding all the work I need to do by working on the rough draft of my romance WIP. I’m at 12,600 words out of a minimum 15,000, and the story’s close to wrapping up, but I’m still far from “done.” My story has trapped me, and I have to see it through.
I’m loving my new characters, and it’s nice to take a break from the Abnormalverse (as I’ve dubbed it) for a contemporary story. No magic, no supernatural happenings, so evolutionary powers, no politics–just a story about a girl and a guy and a little happily ever after.
Once it’s drafted, though, I’ll have to dive back into the Abnormalverse for a couple of WIPs: my current 3rd installment of the primary Abnormal series, plus a new WIP that fell into my lap yesterday that takes place in the Abnormalverse but only features a cameo of my MCs from Abnormal.
The writing has taken a sudden leap in volume and prolificity (which, spell check says, is not a word, but I’m already making up words today so whatever). I’ve gone from working on one piece exclusively, with maybe a couple short stories or poems sprinkled between primary writing sessions, to having–let’s see–three active works-in-progress. It’s kind of cool. I feel like a “real” author. Lol
I do have to do some “real” work today, though; my co-host and I have two interviews to record for our podcast, so I’ll have to stop the writing for those at least. What I’ll do after is up in the air, because that just might be the pause button I need to get up and to other things. But those are almost six hours away, so maybe I’ll finish my draft first. Who knows. Ideally, I’d like to finish the first draft within my word count limit, but I might have to go back and revise to fill it in more.
My newest project should be interesting, and even though I’m toiling away at the contemporary romance story, the back of my mind is plotting and devising a strategy for this new WIP. I’m hoping I don’t completely stall out on the 3rd Abnormal book while all this other stuff is going on, but I was needing a break from it anyway. Maybe these other Abnormalverse stories will spark some new ideas for the primary Abnormal story line. Maybe. Who knows.
I guess I’m off to finish my draft now. My characters are standing next to me, arms crossed over their chests, tapping their feet as they wait for me to hurry the fuck up.
Y’all just calm the fuck down. I’m getting to you–just be patient. 😉
The battle’s won
But death is nigh
Red haze of blood
Obscures my eye
I blink, I wipe
I try to clear
But I can’t see
Only can hear
The beat of wings
The rush of air
The winds, they come
Run through my hair
Through blood-red haze
A light does shine
Glowing over
Me and mine
“Come, brave soul”
She says to me
“Come with me now,
And you’ll be free.”
I raise my hand
I take a breath
I try to think
Of what I’ve left
Of who still stands
Who soldiers on
Of who will grieve
Once I am gone
None come to mind
It’s all a blur
My thoughts, my eyes
Centered on her
Her flaxen hair
Her brilliant light
Her beating wings
That give her flight
Her hand takes mine
She pulls me up
Inside I rise
My body slumps
My soul, it flies
With her as guide
Valhalla blooms
Before my eyes
No longer live
But not quite dead
My eyes now cleared
Of haze of red
Odin beckons
Inside his hall
Urging me in
I heed his call
Gliding forward
I take a seat
I lift my cup
I drink the mead
Thoughts of my life
Fade from the fore
My cup empties
I ask for more
I fear not death
Now that I’m here
I welcome fate
With smiles and cheer
The stresses and the hits keep coming.
They never really end.
The punches to the gut keep coming.
They never really end.
When one thing’s over, three more begin.
When will the whole thing end?
Up and down and this and that,
They never really end.
Piles and piles of things to do,
They never really end.
I try to pick the pieces up.
But I cannot find the end.
Dropping balls and tripping up,
It never really ends.
High octane and low on fuel,
What happens if I end?
Bipolar disorder sucks, but it’s livable given the right access to good mental healthcare and the right combination of therapy and pharmaceuticals. Why am I bringing this up now? Well, I’m in talks to, er, talk on a podcast about mental health issues. I was introduced to the podcast by a fellow bipolar author, and it seems like a good fit. I have mental health issues that I have to deal with on a daily basis; they’re a show about mental health.
I talk about mental health a lot here, about my stresses and stressors and stressing out in general, but I want to make it known that you can fight the demons inside and live in the world outside at the same time. It just takes a lot of effort.
It also takes admitting that you need the help.
Hopefully my appearance will help others realize that they don’t have to be holed up in their own little world of demons, suffering through hell on a daily basis. Hopefully it will help them realize that there are options and avenues for relief. And hopefully they’ll realize that they can’t give up after a few things don’t work; they have to keep trying until they find the right combination of therapies for them.
I’d say more, but that would be potential spoilers for the show. 😉 More details as they come!
My book, our book, my book, our book…which one should I work on more?
Ideally, I’d have enough inspiration for both books. However, right now Book 3 is eluding me, so I have to get my writing fixes in whenever my co-author sends me her latest chapter. Unfortunately, I have so much inspiration for the collaboration book that it takes me at most a day to write and send back my chapter. Then I’m left for days trying to think up how to progress the story on Book 3.
Splitting my creative energy between two books has proven difficult for me. I don’t know how some authors can work on a multitude of projects at once. I can throw in a short story or poem or flash piece while I’m working on a novel-length project, but multiple novels at once? I guess I’m not that talented. Lol
I’m going to try to get at least a few paragraphs written in Book 3 this morning. I’ve gotta regain momentum on that project, because Book 2 is in edits at the moment, and if I don’t write I’ll go nuts.
My problem is this: I have tons of ideas for further on in the book, but the point I’m at now is stalled. I have to write in order, for the most part. Sure, I can go back in revisions and add a chapter here or there out of order, then change things to make it fit, but writing the story out of order in the first draft? That would just be wrong.
Maybe I’ll retcon some of what I’ve already written and restart that part. I could be moving the plot too quickly, and maybe that’s why things don’t feel “right.” And who knows? Maybe I’ll find my groove again if I just go back and start over from the beginning of Chapter 2. (Yes, I’m that badly stalled.) Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Back up and restart in a different direction.
Time to get some more coffee and get typing. 🙂
The visit was sweet
Until it went sour
Bitterness brewed
And cut the binds
Life handed lemons
We offered to share
Not from the tree
But from our own
Words became twisted
Like the proverbial knife
Ties that bound
Sliced dangerously thin
To salvage what’s left
Away we must go
Before the tightrope snaps
Insults hurled
Shots fired
That can’t be taken back
So we leave
Guests un-welcomed
Perhaps time can heal
The passing aggression
Until then
We will let aggression pass
As we drive through the night
Hey
I’m here
I wanted to say hi
And I kinda want to talk
But I don’t have anything to say
There’s nothing new with me
No news
No excitement
Just plain old boring old me
But I kinda want to talk
I want to ask what’s up with you
But I don’t want to bother you
You’ve probably got stuff going on
News
Excitement
You know… stuff
I wish I had something to say
Some reason to talk
But there’s nothing new
Just plain me
Boring me
Just me
I wonder where the dragons went
The spirits & sprites & things
I wonder exactly when they left
These magical, mystical things
I wonder if it was just my mind
Concocting them for me
I wonder if I’ll find again
A spirit I can see
I wonder if they were ever there
Or if I was merely ill
Because I lost touch with all magical things
As soon as I took the pills
It’s World Mental Health Day, and I thought I’d take a little bit of time to discuss mental health–largely because it is most definitely directly relevant to my life. Sometimes I joke about it, because the humor helps relieve the pressure. Other times, though, like right now, I want to be more serious about the subject of mental health. It’s a very serious thing, and one that needs more awareness.
It has been a while since I’ve mentioned this here (because, well, it shouldn’t be something worth mentioning): I’m bipolar. I don’t have it as bad as some people, and the medications keep my emotional state mostly under control, but it’s there all the same. I don’t get to take a vacation from it. I don’t get to say, “Y’know, I think I’m not going to be bipolar today.” It’s there. It’s a daily thing, regardless of whether or not it’s at the forefront of my mind.
The fates have been kind to me lately in that I have been able to almost forget that I’m bipolar–almost. My moods have been running fairly stable, and aside from the daily pill regimen to keep those moods in check I really don’t have any constant reminders these days of the horror that I used to endure. I can’t really describe it adequately in prose; poetry sometimes better conveys the roller coaster of bipolar life. I’m going to add a poem here that the narcissist in me is quite proud of: “Hostage in My Head,” a poem written during a more difficult mental state.
“Hostage in My Head” (from Kamikaze Butterflies by AJ Mullican)
Trapped alone
Awash in a sea of terror
No escape from my own deranged thoughts
Impossible futures scroll through my mind
Over and over on a continuous loop
My mental movie screen glows
As the macabre fantasy plays unbidden
Death and disaster overtake reality
Can’t focus on the here and now
When the “might be” looms on the horizon
Against my will my death plays out again
For the hundredth time this hour
I watch my lifeless form slide to the ground
Shot in the convenience store
Pulled from the mangled wreck
Coded mysteriously at work
At the sight of my imagined death
My heart rate soars and pounds
There’s nothing beautiful and delicate
About the kamikaze butterflies in my chest
Every single nerve
Teeters on the edge of a precipitous drop
With a nightmare at the bottom
Just one nudge
One little push
And everything will come crashing down
I tiptoe on the inside
Walking the fine line between sanity and oblivion
Pacing the padded room within my skull
Inside I scream for a reprieve, for escape
Even for sweet, sweet nothingness
But my calls go unheeded
The nightmare begins anew
I am my own personal terrorist
And I am the hostage
So yeah. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes it’s easy going. Sometimes it scares the fuck out of me. You can never tell what the next day–or minute, or second–will bring. And you know what else you sometimes can’t tell? If someone even has mental illness. That’s right, it’s sneaky shit. The stereotype is always the scruffy guy standing in the corner at the bus station, muttering to himself. That. Is. NOT. Typical of mental illness. Yes, it happens, but mental illness could be as innocuous as a slight slump to the shoulders, an unusual amount of energy, a sigh. There are infinite signs, and they can be infinitesimal.
To anyone reading this who suffers from mental illness, no matter what that illness is, I’m here. I may not be able to fully understand your personal illness, or even your own form of bipolar disorder, but I can talk. I can listen. To anyone reading this who is fortunate enough to be fairly mentally “sound,” if you know someone who is mentally ill, be that person who talks. Who listens. Sometimes just a little show of support and understanding is enough to keep the demons at bay.
For now the demons are quiet, and I think I’ll let them sleep a little longer.
