Falling in love again

Anyone who knows me well, knows I am notorious for changing my mind, not making up my mind, not having a mind... Basically, I am indecisive. It once took me twenty minutes to decide what to have for breakfast, and then I went ahead and had what I always have: cereal. Exciting.

Character concepts. Will be
worth millions one day.
Probably.

You know a few posts ago when I decided I wasn't going to push my newly completed story for publishing? Yeah strike that. I've only properly edited two chapters but it's given me hope. Actually, the character concept art I did last week gave me hope, editing the chapters gave me feelings. Feelings like: I think I remember why I wanted to write this story.

Readers, I do believe I'm falling in love with my story again. It helps that I'm breathing new life into the characters. I've explored a bit more of one of the MC's family life which sets up some of her reasoning for leaving home and disobeying her parents. Also, it gives a more rounded view of who she is before the shit gets serious in the story, which is good for pacing reasons.

I've got other things planned as well, like maybe pursuing the romance I had in mind, setting up a little foreshadowing for the sequel I haven't planned yet, reinforcing the characters' relationships with each other and - oh yeah - writing an ending that doesn't suck.

I'm actually looking forward to it now.

Please stop

In preparation of my third year of university, I have been doing some summer reading. Since I am studying Literature, we're advised to begin the reading process as early on as possible. I like to imagine a wild scramble for books as soon as they release the year's book list. Pages and money and students flying in all directions while I calmly log on to my various websites and order all I need, chuckling to myself with all the malice of a villain.

Anyway, my deviousness aside, reading ahead during summer is a really good strategy so when classes start up again, the books don't pile up in a to-be-read-THIS-week backlog of stress. Normally we'd be expected to read a novel a week, plus a chapter of theory, a couple of short stories and maybe some poems. And that's just coming from my experience; I'm sure there are students on my course but not doing the same modules as me who had to read a lot more last year. I'm thinking Moby Dick more.

I have yet to meet a person who even
vaguely enjoyed reading this book.

This year, my last year, I'll be reading two detective novels a week, a novella (I'm guessing. The books are pretty thin so far) and-

Well. Nothing. The modules I chose are detective fiction (Sherlock Holmes, here I come!), surrealism and creative writing. I think I've already mentioned this before but it's getting harder and harder to keep up with what tumbles out of my fingertips. Sorry if I am repeating myself.


"But Terri, what does any of that have to do with the title of this blog post?"

Good question, Voice in My Head. And the answer is this: two of the books I have read in advance I already dislike. One of them I couldn't bring myself to finish. Both of them felt like a physical struggle to drag my eyes across the sentences while understanding what they were saying. What made them so difficult to read was that they emulated everything I hate about books. On the plus side, it's given me a check list of things I definitely want to avoid in my own writing.

244/One of those mornings

It was going to be one of those rainy mornings
When the sky is cloaked in cloud
And the sun refused to rise
But rather, appeared above without attracting notice
Glowing dimly from behind the shroud of foggy air.

It was going to be one of those chilly mornings
A surprise for the summer months
After weeks of gentle warming
It was cold enough for blankets
And a mug of something burning and sweet.

It was going to be one of those hated mornings
You against humanity's idiots
Did not a single on of them own a functioning brain?
It was difficult to imagine it was so
When everyone acted like dopes.

It was going to be one of those sorry mornings
You wished you could take it all back
But life didn't give second chances
Leaving you stuck with your anger
Expecting to rot.

Multiple identities

Oh. I missed a week without even realising it had passed! I'm just that much of an air-head.

What have I been up to lately? Well, I've started gathering proper notes for my dissertation on Angela Carter. I turned 20 without much fanfare (think a salad at Nando's, playing Mario Kart Wii, Jenga and a "compliment circle"). I went to Loncon 3, the 72nd World Science Fiction Convention - incorrectly introduced to me by the Sensei as a writer's convention...

Which isn't to say that I didn't have a good time. The two of us had a good ol' wander around the ExCeL centre, gawking at art and shoving our business cards at people like some lame interpretation of Batman and Robin. She kept calling me "Baitman" so I guess that makes her... [insert clever comeback here].

New skills

Editing. It's... It's hard.

Okay it's not hard hard, but it does require a bit more effort than writing does, because editing means concentrating and not dreaming. It means structuring and not just bullet-pointing. It means I no longer have a social life.

That escalated quickly. And also isn't true. If I didn't have a social life would I be going to Berlin in a few hours?

What I'm saying is I managed to finish that WIP I may have mentioned in a few past posts. I'm not going to link to them because I've come to the point where I realised this is NOT going to be the story I publish. Again. Sigh. The concept is just too grand for my brain at this stage right now. In a few years when I'm a bit more wordly wise, maybe I can go back to it and make it publishable. For now, I'm happy to use the completed manuscript for editing practice.

And boy, do I need the practice. Of all the millions of stories I've written over the years (see: five), not once have I gone back to any of them and given them a major makeover with my editing wand. So I'm new to the editing gig. And it's difficult. Especially those pesky plot holes.

Quarter life crisis

In a week and a half I'll enter my twenties. Two decades of life. What. The. Hell.

How could age just sneak up on me like this? It's just rude, that's what it is. Unforgivably rude. Becoming 20 won't be like turning 16 for me: I'm not about to pack up my toys and pretend I'm an adult. Being 20 won't award me any new responsibilities.

At 13 I was a teenager for the first time. Yay! At 14 I was officially in charge of buckling my own seat belt and I could have been held for 24 months for a criminal offence (hypothetically speaking, of course).

At 15 I could totally go to the cinema and watch films rated 15. I did this. A lot. I felt so badass (I was deceived; all the films were rubbish). At 16 I could apply for legal aid, choose my own doctor, order my own passport, join the army, play the lottery, get married (with parental consent), leave school (I had already finished school by the time I was 16 so, you know, not really a useful law for a summer babe), drink wine, beer or cider in a pub or restaurant (with a meal - if I was with an adult) and so much more.