A message.

I occasionally revisit my blog when I need to look up a date or some other detail from my past. It's convenient to have chronicled every major life event from my adolescence, though to be honest, a lot of it makes me cringe.

Unfortunately, scrolling down the page is like strolling through a graveyard where many of my friends are buried. That's the double-edged sword of the internet: you have access to so many lovely, amazing people, but they can so easily slip away like semen in the shower and there's nothing you can do about it.

I'm thankful that a lot of the people I met through this blog are still some of my best friends, or even grew closer to me after I quit blogging.

Some of you dip in and out of my life, just to say hi or let me know how you're going, and I'm glad to have that contact. My life is better for knowing you people.

There are people whom I didn't know that well but that I cared about, whose blogs I read and commented on, or shared emails with, just to say that I was there for you. I remember you all more than you might think.

There are others that I used to speak to almost every day, who helped me through a terrible time in my life and whom I genuinely loved for that and whom I loved as people, but that I haven't spoken to in years ... though it feels like an eternity. There's a hole in my heart for you bastards.

It's a hard life being gay/bi/trans. We've all had to deal with a lot of shit, shit that we shouldn't have to, but have to nonetheless ... Sometimes life's just a royal cunt and deals you a poker hand full of jokers. I lost contact with some of you when times were toughest for you, while others just vanished without reason. I worry about you. I hope that you are well.

If any of you read this, now, or years after this is posted, even if we only spoke once, whether things are fantastic or fucked, know that I would love to hear from you. My email is the same now as it was for the life of this blog: paperkirbypnk at hotmail.com. You can also leave a comment on this post for me to read without publishing.

Writing. Chapter 2.

I’m happy to say that soon after my last blog post, I finished my story plan, and started writing my novel. Named it Saviour.

I spent the last 47 days working on that thing, and in that time wrote 11 chapters, 42,251 words, 234,482 tikky-takky keyboard characters (a lot more considering all the backspacing I did). Still, it wasn’t finished. Very far from it.

There are some sections I am very proud of, some I hate. There were moments of pleasure when I came up with a clever description, or threw in something devious and fun that gave my juice to work with, and one part where the words got me so emotional that I cried for my protagonist.

But the amount of work involved… So huuuuuge. My story plan was so big, and I didn’t understand the amount of word-work that would translate into when it came to writing. Such a monstrous endeavour. Barring extensive rewriting and replanning, it would probably amount to a trilogy’s worth of content. And its acts wouldn’t work that way.

The stress was relative to its size. The pressure, often crippling.

Creating worlds, religions, characters. I had to do so much research. Medieval farming methods, practice of taoism and managing its paradoxes, ye olde type clothing, materials, occupations, farming, blacksmithing, hunting, etc etc.

And every decision needed to be the right one, because it’s all well and good to say it’s a first draft and nothing should be set in stone, but if I design something in some way, and in 20 chapters’ time it conflicts with a crucial event, the amount of rewriting that would require is terrifying. I’m back at uni soon. Getting a job after that. Impossible.

And even as I wrote it, I knew that I was good, but not good enough. Not publishable good enough. Editing usually fixes that, but that would take longer than writing the thing, and writing it was going to take me an eternity of hellish stress on its own.

Last night, I came to the conclusion that I can’t do this story any more.

Last night I knew it was time to give this one up, put it on the shelf and let it gather dust.

And last night, I started something new. Not even intending it to be a story. Just took a random idea from a random place and ran with it.

No purpose. No stress.

Just writing, letting my mind take me wherever it wanted to take me.

No second-guessing.

No pressure.

And it was the best fucking thing I’ve ever written.

Rough around the edges, sure. But it was a pleasure to write, and a pleasure to read. That’s what writing should be, that’s what it needs to be, for me, if it’s going to survive while I have other commitments taking up my time.

As if I’m going to want to sit down in my spare time and face a page of words that make me despise myself (because I’m not good enough to do the grand ideas in my head justice) and fret about the gargantuan amount of shit I'll have to do in the future to fix it up, when I’m already stressed about exams and essays and lab reports/work?

I’m not hating on myself. I am an amateur writer, after all. Of course I’m not able to write a huge novel from the get-go. That’s a huge undertaking even for a pro.

I am fully at peace with this. I don’t regret the work that I put into Saviour. If nothing else, it served as a furnace for tempering my craft. I learnt so much about structure and grammar during this, critically reading to find out how authors I respected found ways around the problems that I was facing, and incorporating that into my own work. I learnt skills about how to give subtle, unobtrusive back-story, incidental character description to avoid boring chunks, practiced finding the right words to give a sentence the impact that I desired.

It made me a far better writer than I was before, and that’s exactly what I should be focused on right now.

I needed to take the wrong path before I could figure out what the right one was.

Right now, that's Scumbag. I've taken a vastly different approach to storytelling than I did for Saviour. First-person rather than third-person subjective, present tense rather than past. It’s got swearing, attitude, a despicable protagonist. Lets me be more emotive, more exciting.

So with Saviour set aside, I approach the future more optimistically, and much more excitedly. I’m going to write want I want to write, whatever that is. If this new story doesn’t work out, and I'm not even aiming for it to be a story, I’ll set it aside too, and start anew with another random idea, because being a writer is my dream, and I know I'll never give up. 

It'll be much easier to keep this kind of thing up while I have other commitments, and really, that's all that I'm worried about for now.