Merry Christmas!

I haven't been able to do too much these last few weeks. I called in ill Tuesday the week before last and haven't been to my day job since because of burn-out. In the first four days after calling in sick I managed to write 40k words because another project fell apart. I'm now working on it from another angle.

Depression's kept me mostly in the house meanwhile. As stated in my last post I ordered lots of food because I was too exhausted to make any. HOWEVER. I have also been more productive with THINGS THAT MATTER (TM) than in the months before.

I have FINALLY FINISHED a novella I've been trying to work out the last two years since early (March) 2015. This is called ELEGY OF THE STARS and you can read the first 'chapter' (It's not really meant to be read in chapters) here: Elegy of the Stars Chapter 1

This novella was extremely emotionally taxing and the last kick I needed - apparently - was the absolute and complete meltdown I had last week. I spent a few hours crying to myself and ranting on reddit and then spent some more hours pitying myself. This happens to me approximately once a year or so. It's no longer a big deal. It stills feels bad. It felt bad enough I didn't manage to send proper Christmas gifts or invite anyone over. (However a quiet Christmas is sometimes nice and it gives me additional recovery time!)

Anyway... let's go back to the novella now that you have some insight in what depression has been doing to me the last few weeks.

As I said this novella was insanely difficult to finish despite being only 30k words. I picked it up and dropped it about 4-5 times before because it was just so incredibly emotionally taxing to write it.

Elegy of the Stars is about this little girl (Oria) struggling to survive on the streets of a small planet called Glast. The plot's already explained in the post linked above so I won't go into more detail. I'd rather talk about the worldbuilding of it! Here we go.

Glast:

This planet isn't in view of any sun (the planet Reath is blocking the sun year round) and so scientists had to make their own artificial star - the Seirios. The Seirios sits on top of the main Administrative building in the only and very small and dirty city of Glast - Oblivion - and the star's light is transported via light pipes to fields and so on to keep the planet lit. The streets are harsh: during the creation of the Seirios radiation went rampant and a lot of people (90%) got infected by the mutation virus that came with it. They're not all that there any more and part of that infected population has formed a cult around the Seirios. There's also miners who like little girls and boys. However the most problematic part of this population is the healthy citizens of Oblivion. They've always had access to the radiation vaccine and they basically rule the planet. They're the cultivators who produce the food and supplies everyone needs but almost no one can afford. They're also not altruistic.

This is the world Oria has to navigate and she can only rely on herself. During the years on the street she's allowed one person to rely on her but eschews all other forms of communication or teamwork with even fellow street rats. This changes when she meets Quinn. He saves her life and suddenly she's in his debt. He has an easy solution to getting rid of that debt but when she agrees to it instead of getting rid of Quinn she falls into even deeper debts to him.

There is a lot of pain and struggle in the story. It's not something that I'd usually write (probably that is why it was so hard). I don't like reading depressing stories and don't like writing them either. And yet. This was a story I couldn't get out of my mind. I mean I could. I got it off my mind a year and then another - but at some point I had to return. I had to try again. And it's finally done!

So what are the next steps?

I've commissioned my cover artist to make cover for the story and I hope to be done with the last edit (spellings and general polishing) by the time the cover is done. And then it's off to KDP!

Again! If you want to read the first chapter please click here: Elegy of the Stars Chapter 1

I'll post some more chapters (probably the whole novella) in the future and will have some small comments about what was so difficult! Tune in if you like.

PS: I'm also always happy about comments!

Here's one of my current WIP's: Elegy of the Stars Chapter 1

All right. As I've recently read a book (a great book! Show Your Work! by Austin Kleon!) and he recommends showing/sharing what you're working on I've decided I'ma try it.

I wrote this novella (it's complete at approximately 30k words) around (almost) three years ago in March 2015.

Elegy of the Stars is set on a planet called Glast. It's in traveling distance of Earth and the novella revolves about Oria, a street girl who doesn't rely on anyone but herself. During a theft gone wrong she suddenly has to trust another street rat, Quinn, to get her to safety, and a sort of relationship between the two forms. They plan a heist to the local star-cult to steal enough food to survive the winter. But if that heist goes wrong... both of them might not survive.

Here is chapter one of Elegy of the Stars:

1.

I am Seirios.

Sirius in your language.

The watcher on the evening sky, who guides your seafarers home in even the darkest of nights.

Thirteen years ago she was born and they created a star; a binary star system in the center of Oblivion, the sole city on the planet Glast, the place of her birth and dreary existence. They called it Seirios. The Scorcher. A bit like her own name, Oria, which meant bright and burning in the language of Glast. Seirios destroyed the world as they knew it. Its genesis – also called the Cataclysm – collapsed laboratory of the time and pulverized most of the city into white-hot debris. But still, an achievement was an achievement.

Oria clutched the colourful scarf tighter around her thin neck and suppressed a snort as she averted her eyes from the stars where they gleamed from the shrine atop the Hall of Harvest. She would have been more impressed if what was left of the Administrative Council came up with a way to feed those who starved and froze to death next to her in the dusty alleys and derelict buildings of Oblivion. Heber had told her the Consortium of Science's power was reduced now that they had been decimated, most, if not all, of its members... changed by the radiation.

Heber was an idiot. He knew nothing about the real world beyond his science and math and all the other useless things he tried to teach her when she visited.

Why would he even think she wanted to know she was thirteen human years old? That Glast rotated around a sun so far away one human year stretched to 500 Glast days? How the Seirios cult operated? What the cultivators had done to the scientists to drag them down into the hole they were in now? What did it matter when she was trying not to starve or freeze to death every other day?

And it wasn't even winter yet.

Her teeth clattered at the thought but it might also have been the chill wind ghosting through the alley. How was she going to survive the cold season with its ice storms and perpetual darkness this year?

She crouched to check whether her moccasins were hidden by the hem of her trousers. The toes when she peeled away the soles were purplish-blue with the cold. She had to be careful if she didn't want to lose one of them – perhaps swipe a scrap of leather somewhere to close the holes before winter arrived. Still. To the west a scattering of suns too distant to provide much warmth or light was rising and they would do for now. They would have to – or she would be weak again tomorrow. Her stomach grumbled. It had been doing that for a while.

Oria let the soles go, and they popped back against the rim with a weak crack. Her hands went up to her dark hair and she gathered it into the balloon cap Heber had given her when she asked if he had anything less conspicuous than the dress he tried to deal her the last time. She dropped the filthy blanket that hadn't been washed since she swiped it from the clothes line from her shoulders and stood. The wind increased. Her nose seemed to blister with the cold as she made her way down the alley to its mouth.

Still.

It couldn't be helped. She hadn't eaten anything solid in two and a half days and nobody could survive on a sip of water muddied with rat excrement and pieces of mouldy bread somebody else already half chewed and then spit out alone.

She drew the hat deeper into her face as she exited the alley's south end and the glow of Seirios increased. The Hall of Harvest was still a few minutes walk, and the distance felt like a trip to Earth with her empty belly and all but bare feet unprotected from the wood-and-glass splinter strewn ground, but the artificial star bathed the city itself into a beautiful light.

It was easier to be a boy on the street. Nobody looked twice at a farmhand on their way back to the master they served, but they would want to take advantage of a lonely girl. Not that she was a solitary case in the city, an abandoned girl looking for food and shelter, but if Heber had taught her anything useful at all, then it was that men didn't care whether there were other girls just as vulnerable as she when they found her first. Of course, she hadn't know what that meant at the time, but several long years on the street had wisened her. Which was the reason she now carried a knife whereever she went. Which also was the reason she was glad to have a chest as flat as any boy's, on contrary to the older girls she sometimes met.

She ignored the guards' stares as she approached the Hall of Harvest. Today she was an acolyte of the Seirios – the child of the Administrator or one of the other cultivators – out to attend her first (or second) convergence with the adults. It was best she pretended to belong even if she didn't. The guards wore uniforms and weapons. They were initiates into the official ranks. The ones who still had to prove themselves to the Administrator and his staff. At least that was what Heber said.

Her pulse quickened as she came to the gates. Would they let her through? Was it usual for children to arrive early at the festival market without their parents? She wouldn't know. She didn't have any parents nor did she care to. The only person closest to a father was Heber, and Heber would have reproached her if he knew about this plan.

And yet.

How else was she going to survive? He couldn't feed another mouth. He had it hard enough with his sick sister and even if he would have let her stay with him she could fend for herself. It was difficult enough to feed one person.

Then she was through.

The Hall of Harvest itself was the size of one of the giant spaceships that made the trip to distant Earth every once in a while and would do so again after winter started. Once filled with wealthy scholars and scientists, or so she had been told, the only people who were able to afford the market nowadays were the farmers and asteroid miners themselves. The ceiling crisscrossed with intricately carved light-pipes that transported the Seirios's illumination to the distant fields on the other side of the planet and made the cultivators richer every day.

The market itself was a coagulation of carts and stalls with wide displays of food almost nobody could afford, situated in the heart of Oblivion's least destroyed district. Oria strolled along the aisles casually, dark hair tucked away into her hat, gaze cast down though there was nothing to see underfoot but sand and dirt. It hadn't taken long for her to learn that it was best to appear as if you belonged even if you didn't.

She found her target relatively quickly. A stand half concealed between two others, whose owner sold fruit, like apples and pears and grapes, and that Seirios-mutated fruit called starfruit, which supposedly tasted like sweet sugary heaven, and which she had never had and could never afford. The symbol of the Administrative Council was painted on the wooden frame of his stand. Another Cataclysm-richened farmer.

The farmer himself was fat and bald. Most of them were fat. Two apples less wouldn't hurt that one's wallet, but that didn't mean he was going to give them up for free.

Oria picked her way closer, always staying hidden inside the shade cast by the surrounding ruins, her gaze darting around for guards or cultists. It was a gamble and the wager was her life. If she was caught by the city watch she would be whipped and beheaded on the public spot to set an example.

But she wouldn't be caught. The farmers lived in abundance and didn't pay enough attention to the paupers who starved in droves just around their corners. On top of that she was fast, faster than anybody she knew, and she knew a fair few fast rats around these perimeters, most of who couldn't be trusted, the rest crippled or blind from the Cataclysm and in much more need than even herself. That was why her next stop would be the deformed old man close to the Seirios Cult's headquarters. Though she could hardly afford it, she had allowed him to rely on her.

And then maybe she would check on useless Heber, see if he hadn't died of idiocy yet, or his mutated sister hadn't gone insane, as many of the mutation victims did, and murdered him in his sleep.

But that was after.

Oria slowed her steps as she approached her target's stand. She had already caught sight of her quarry, two apples at the lowest edge of the layered display, one of them wizened and the sickly pale colour of diseased skin, nothing the high society would want to buy anyway, the other round and red as her cheeks would have been had she been one of the councilmen's children, and was scouring the lavish display for anything else she could take.

A scrap of leather to wrap around her shoes so the soles would last another day? A morsel of bread to go with the apples? Maybe even an egg from that basket a little higher up? But that would be too risky. The apples were already uncertain enough although she could swipe those without raising her arms, inconspicuously, and be gone before the farmer noticed they were missing, which she doubted he ever would in any case.

Oria reached the stall. There was a basket of turnips on the other end from which she could grab a handful when she left, but for the moment her attention was focused solely on appearing as if she belonged, and that included wearing an impassive and impertinently unconcerned expression and not staring at the goods even though their delicious scent was enough to drive her mad with hunger.

Quick as an arrow she snatched the two apples without halting her pace, just as she had planned, just as she had done several times before, ambling along casually, without so much as a tiny skip in her step, and stowed them inside her shirt. The process was so familiar by now that her heart didn't even speed as it had the first few thefts. Then it was time for the turnips.

She was small enough she wouldn't have to bend to reach the basket. It would do to stretch out her left hand, snatch a turnip, and then proceed leisurely back to the end of the market from which she had come, where she could begin to sprint back to her sheltered alley and examine her loot.

She hadn't taken so much as a step forward when a hand grabbed her from behind.

You can also find it here if you use fictionpress (sorry! I'm old-fashioned): https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3318299/1/Elegy-of-the-Stars

If you want, leave some comments, either here or on fictionpress! Every input helps!

Depression and why you should NOT be a writer every day

I want to talk about taking breaks.

I'll talk a little bit more about myself first (but there'll be practical advice too so stick with it!). I'll tell you about my life for one reason: It's vital to understanding my art. In order to do this let me explain a bit about depression.

Imagine going to sleep at 9 PM and waking up ten hours later still (or perhaps already) tired. Imagine having to order food twice or three times in a row because you weren't able to face going outside/to face reality/to face other people and maybe having to speak to the cashier in at the store. That's just a short insight in what depression can be like. I don't want to bore you.

It suffices to say depression is a terrible ghost. I'd love to exorcise it but that will never truly be possible and it does sometimes affect my work. I don't have as much energy to write and I need to take breaks often during the day. I also have a day job.

In addition to having depression I'm also a perfectionist. I can't just put 'any' short story or novel out there even if it sounds good in my head or is mostly completed. If it's missing the special spark it has no place under my name.

I won't lie. I don't always do good work and sometimes it's true crap as well. I'm not always as productive as I could be (thank you reddit). But I do my best. I do as much as I can every single day, even if I know some projects won't work out.

Doing my best means - for me - also taking breaks. If you're burnt out, then the best you can do is take a break and forget those spivs trying to convince you you're not a real writer if you take a day, a week, a month, or even a year or two off. Writing is a profession as any other. Would you say a policeman isn't a policeman because he doesn't work one weekend of the month? If he takes a year off to recover? Police work is hard work and so is writing - a book or short story or anything else you pour your heart into and risk your (mental/virtual) life for. And that's what a good book should be. It should risk your reputation and challenge everything you ever believed.

You deserve to take breaks just like the coffeeshop lady eating her sandwich in the back.

And if this doesn't convince you yet then consider that: Don't want to write for a month? Ok. A lot of people will think or tell you you're not/no longer a SERIOUS WRITER (TM). I won't because that's bullshit (reasons explained above). But let's say you're no longer a writer because you dared take a break. You know what? The moment you pick up your pen or keyboard again you'll be a writer again - just like magic! Any really. I'd rather not be a writer for a year, then be one again, if that helps me stay relatively sane.

I'm not sure if this'll be of any help to anyone but I often have to give myself permission to take a break. It's not easy. I'd love to work every day the whole day and write 20 million books a year.

But it's not possible.

Depression makes writing everything even more exhausting than it is/has to be and I'm probably a lot more sensitive than others to the break-needs because of that. However - everyone needs a break every once in a while to stay healthy. So please take a break. Do it before you burn out. Do it now if you feel like your head is stuffy/about to explode.

You can still be a writer tomorrow or next month.

A long hiatus... but I have good news!

I know I haven't posted in a while. I'm sorry. I'll be trying to post more but I didn't want to spam y'all with useless posts. If I have nothing to say I'd rather shut up most of the time. (Unless it's an argument I need to win!!!!)

Anyway! I wanted to take the time to list some accomplishments before the new years starts and you're all welcome to participate/tell me about yours! (PS: this blog will turn more informal than it has been.)

So.

What have I done this year?

1. I've finished the third draft of my post-apocalyptic dinosaur and cyborg book. This is great news because it means only one more draft and it's done! I'll be sending it out to agents (and publishers in some cases) and hope someone takes it! My beta reader has also been very positive about this book so that makes me double happy.

2. I wrote about three short stories. I've sent one to the New Yorker because it applies to the real world (strangely enough) and is about a popular current topic (children's privacy on the internet/especially concerning pictures). I'm pretty sure they won't want it but hey! Worth a try anyway. I'll probably be putting it into a collection on amazon soon. It's called KIDNAPPING SKY.

3. I have three wonderful covers on three of my short stories! I love them and they're done by the very talented Hannah Hilton (link to follow shortly).

Here they are:


also following shortly with amazon link

On Amazon!

On Amazon!

On Amazon!

4. I've also read 30 books of my 53 book goal! I'd hoped to do more but am not terribly disappointed. 30 is good. 52 would be better but I did my best and it just wasn't possible. I'll try again in the New Year! :)

That's it from me folks. How about you?

PS: Merry Christmas! It's only three more days!

I want to quit. But then I don't.

I just got home from w- don't even want to say the word. I left around 11 hours ago at 07:40 AM (it's 6:40 PM now) and that's only because I was able to leave earlier and catch an earlier train. Usually I get home at 7 PM.

I want to quit.

It's not just the sh*tty dayjob. It's the depression and constant boredom that comes with it. Do you know what else? It's the time I don't have if I want to live a life. I am supposed to get up around 06:40 AM if I'm to make the 08:02 train. I'm supposed to go to sleep early... but then where is the life?

I try to squeeze writing in whenever I can (such as now). I get up at 05:00 - 05:30 in the morning for that extra hour and it's f*cking damn hard. (PS: I don't like to swear). It means 7 hours of sleep - or 6 if I still want to have a life and, you know, hobbies.

Yes, many people are going through this. I'm sure. But I'm not many people.

Ok, but, you're talking about writing here, yes? So what's the point of this rant? What has this to do with writing?

Everything.

The dayjob leaves me drained and tired and I just want to curl up underneath the blankets in the 160x200 cm bed and stay there until it all ends. But then... writing.

I get to my desk, which is a safe zone or, let's call it refuge, for me. There's papers all over, drafts from years ago, drafts from minutes ago, some printed out, some scribbled in notebooks, and on top of it all, my kindle. And another notebook (this one half the size of the others). And a green pen. And a blue pen. And another half-size notebook. And my cup. The cup. And my nail clippers (because I don't have the time to go the bathroom to clip my nails.) (PS: don't worry though, the nails, once cut, all get thrown away, properly. I'm not a complete... I'd say pig, but pigs are actually very clean animals.)

Anyway...

This is my safe zone, but until I get there, life sucks.

And then there's the constant doubt about myself

I feel like I'm not good enough, not smart enough. In 2012 I wrote 5 books (a series of 5, about 100k-160k words each) and started 2-3 more drafts. In 2013 and 2014 I wrote about 2-3 books and started some more drafts. In 2015 I managed 1 or 2 books and some short stories. I'm mostly happy with those short stories (also available to read here: ?) and I've struggled to make some of the books work (especially the earlier ones). I finally decided this is it (several times) and dropped those ancient drafts to write something new.

In 2016 and 2017 I did about 1 full book each and several first drafts / new edits of old books. I also wrote more short stories. (Most of which still need to be edited.)

I'm getting to the point where my first drafts are pretty lean. They're understandable (even by people who are not me) and the prose is quite all right. But it's the edits that make me despair. How do I fix something that's broken?

I don't feel like I'm smart enough to do it. I've tried, with those books from 2012, and I'm trying every year. I went through another round just a while ago... but it never works out. Is the trick to drop these and do new projects? Edit something 'younger'? But even then, I'm afraid to fail. I've been putting it off and reading self-help books (some of which are quite good) and writing craft books (still working on a list resource of the best books I found to publish on here) and I've recently started to read 'The Artful Edit' by Susan Bell. I'm 10% in and quite excited.

But most of all, I've started the edit on a project I haven't touched in two years. That's hard and it's harsh, but with the experience (all the failed things) I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's still hard. I'm now beating myself up because... what if I don't manage to get it up to speed? What if this will be another dropped project? It might be. I want to be realistic. I'll waste away at the dayj- even longer.

And then what?

I have other things to edit, it's true.

But what if none of them work? I'm already drained.

What if?

You know what if?

I'll get up even earlier (though not all the time) and I'll edit more. And more. And I'll edit more after that. And more.

And at some point, hey, it has to work, right?

Just like I once got a nice comment instead of a standard rejection back from a short story anthology.

And if it doesn't work? Well, f*ck that. It has to work, and if it doesn't, I'll still do it, because my desk is my safe space, and this is what I chose to do.

JMT


(PS: Hope you have a better day than me! Cheers)

DON'T write every day

Hi

I've been thinking about this a lot and thought I'd make a post about it. DON'T write every day.

Why not??!?!?!?! I hear you scream in despair. EVERYONE tells you to do it! Every writer tells us to write every day!

Yeah... but not me.

When I say I've been thinking about it a lot, I mean obsessively, compulsively. I've studied this stuff. I know my stuff. I've tried to write every day. I did. I swear. Every day, and in the beginning, it was fine, I got work done, it was fun. I wrote 5-10k a day and after a week or so I'd maybe take a day off... then continue writing 5-7k a day. That's most of the day. 9 AM to 11 PM. I did nothing but write and the occasional ten minutes of surfing funny pics online.

I did this for about a year.

Every day. Monday-Sunday with the occasional day off. (Good times, no day job, "studying" at university without going to lectures).

I then... was finished with 3 books and wrote the next... started editing the first... went to the next...

Skip forward.

I moved. I had all the time in the world still, but I couldn't focus on ANYTHING. Never mind for 12 hours like I used to.

Time passed (as it does).

I tried to at least write so and so many words a day. It worked somewhat.

BUT:

and here's the whole reason for this post.

It didn't work ALWAYS.

I get tired. I get demotivated. I realized that some stories just don't want to be written - or at least not by me. I try to force myself... at least 1k a day... at least 500 words a day. Can I do 100 words and say it's an achievement? But it's not. I can do 1.5k in 30 mins fairly easily. Yes, this sounds a lot like boasting, but once I'm into something, the writing flies, and time doesn't.

But it's no good. It's no good to force yourself.

So... why do you tell us this now? Why the sudden wisdom?

You've read last week's post? Yah. That's why. Trying to force myself to write every day (instead of when it was REALLY pressing and I had the STRONG URGE to write) made me burn out. It's done this quite a few times by now and I'm starting to see a pattern there.

So.

Don't write every day.

I know I won't. It makes me crazy. I'm fine taking a few weeks break's between projects... and at other times I'd rather write compulsively the whole day/a whole week/month than force myself to write during those 'down-times'. It's useless. All it does is make me hate ever having chosen to sit down/get up at 5 AM. And that's not an environment to write in.

If you don't want to write, don't. Take a break.

The writing, if it's meant for you, if it's your story to tell, and if you're truly a writer, will come to you. When it is ready. Not when you're trying to force it.

It helped me to realize this (although no doubt in a few week's time I'll be crying and whining about how much I suck again). I hope this helps anyone else too!

PS: don't think this is an easy process to decide. I've been bombarded with write every day for years... and I feel guilty if I don't. But for me, this just doesn't work. I can't force the writing, at least not if I want to be good, if I want it to be coherent. And to be honest, I have way too many ideas in my mind to edit a piece 20 times if it doesn't come out at least decent right away. No single idea is THAT important. And if you only have one idea? Then it's ok that you quit after you're done with it. I can guarantee another idea will show up at you door and knock you over. In time. It might not be tomorrow, or next week, and perhaps not even this year.

But in time, another idea will find you, and you'll catch fire, like you did with that first idea. That's when you write. When you NEED to write, or otherwise, you might die.

Cheers!

I suck at... everything

Hi

I'm not very active here any more (figured it's pointless and I don't like it much anyway) and I'm sorry this will be a bit depressing. See, that's me. A month ago everything was going, if not smoothly, at least well. I finished a book at about 50k words (this is my ninth so far), and, because I don't edit right away but let it simmer, I hopped to the next project. The characters made sense, they did things, for a while. Then the whole project just crashed and burned... like the short stories I have up on KDP. I'm ok with this. It didn't work out, cool. It has some 40k words, but those can be sacrificed. It's an exercise, it didn't work out, plus, I can make a wholly different story out of a part of it. It's not a big deal.

Except it is.

My short story sales are... (dejected sound from low to high). I can't seem to edit the first book I ever wrote properly, and that's a series of 5... which I get back to to agonize over every year or so. I'll "fix it" but get stuck... quit that again, and start something new. This is all fine, all right, but dude, it is so painful. I wrack my mind, heart, soul, and every once in a while, there will be a solution, but it's not right. It felt so pure, writing it and editing it, and anything I do now, because in the five years since I wrote it I've grown up, realized how bad it was, feels so dirty.

But let's get back to the point of this rant, if we can find one.

I feel like I suck and my whole life is pointless. That day job I talked about? Worst job ever. My life? Worst life ever. My writing? ... I think you get it.

Conclusion? I know this'll be over soon and then my life will be fine again. But to everyone who feels the same, this might be relevant. Whatever you're feeling now, what's happened, it won't stay. Life will move on, it'll fix itself. You'll move on with it. And perhaps, you'll even find a plug for this hole in your writing.

Have a good day