A continuation of the post previously published & a major update on my novel. Taking a break isn’t giving up, is it?
(I’m complaining again, so turn back now. Or stay to chat; whatever works.)
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Consistency is a fickle thing, so I’m taking whatever badge of accomplishment I can get. Good golly, 25,000 is a big number. Expect a writer-to-writer encouragement at the end and another post in conjunction to this one.
Drafted: 3/20/2024
We’ve come this far.
Thank you to my over-half-a-decade laptop for not giving out on me, Google Docs for not crashing, and NaNo for stressing me with my deadlines by simply existing.
To the slumps and bouts with doubting everything, you can eat my dust while you rot.
There are days and weeks when you feel like a machine, chugging through 4,908 words in 15 days, which is the best run in my book, bestowing upon myself generous extra points since it was the holidays. Then comes the subsequent period when you forget all about your draft because . . . life. And school. And extracurriculars. And committee work.
Sometimes, you get discouraged, comparing yourself to people who’ve “made it”βwho finished their drafts in 60 days or less, who have been writing for years, and who can juggle three drafts and other responsibilities like a champ. Those who know what they’re doing lightyears better than you.
Who are lightyears better than you.
Oops, wait a second. Wrong post. Self-deprecation is scheduled for 30 minutes from now.
Ahem, sorry about that. There’s a but meant there. Let’s try that again.
Who are lightyears better than you, but, as my Pinterest board of writing quotes says . . .
“The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.”
Terry Pratchett
“You fail only if you stop writing.”
Rad Bradbury
“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Margaret Atwood
You can be sure a heartbroken me pinned those to her board after an emotional drop from thinking her writing was flawless to rereading what she wrote. Why do I mention that a lot? I never learn my lesson.
But if you’re a writer, don’t you, too? Don’t you keep writing even when you don’t believe anything you say has value? Don’t you keep writing even when it seems impossible to get anywhere with it?
As far as I know, we all go through these mental obstacles (thanks, Pinterest!). If you feel alone or discouraged, maybe remember not every short story out there is Pulitzer-prize worthy. Not every piece will become critically acclaimed.
And whatever small step you take toward completing your goal is still one step closer to THE END. If anyone hasn’t told you yet, congratulations. You’ve reached whatever point you’re in on your writing journey without becoming bald from constant hair-pulling. (I hope.)
Ultimately, the world needs more writers. We’ve stuck with this masochistic road this long, so why stop now, right?
Future-but-pretty-much-present me here. This post is pretty outdated since I made this decision recently that, well. . . Eh, we’ll talk about that later. (Later as in, 30 minutes from now.)
If I was too vague, the “hitting 25k” part was for my Swan Lake word count. I wanted to celebrate 20k at first but somehow postponed this post long enough to reach 25k before releasing this. This is nearly a month later than its original draft on March 20 last month and then again with the new milestone on March 31, but who’s keeping track? Ha. Haha.
Now, excuse me, I must make more content for you all.
I’ve returned with Part 2! The ramblings are a little niche, and that’s because I’m barfing a monthβs worth of pent-up frustration onto this post. If you’re willing to hear a stubborn, creatively blocked writer complain for 6 minutes, welcome.
My January was packed, to begin with, but insert my brain taking twice as long to process what’s in front of me because I’m mentally stuck in my draft, and you have a lovely little disaster.
With the encouraging reception of Pt. 1 of my Swan Lake tirades, here’s the second part for you, fellas!
1/4/2024
I’m stressed. SL has so much potential and could be spectacular if I pull it off.
*distressed swan honks*
Nah, scrap that. Let’s opt for Plan B.
1/31/2024
I’m doing a ballet variation from Swan Lake, and in the class where I started learning it, my teacher told me my character was performing for the guests in the courtyard, and I had to acknowledge the Queen and prince at the start to pay my respects.
It was like a lightbulb dinged over my head.
The timing was immaculate; I’d come to the class stuck on a chapter for SL, but my dance gave me a creative shift in course, served to me on a silver platter. (Is God saying something?!)
Scene: Siegfried follows an inkling, which should lead to a primary plot point, but the suspense falls flat. He was practically ambling around with no strong enough motivation.
What if I switched up the location from the ballroom to the courtyard, where all guests of different ranks were gathered, plopping them smack-dab in the middle of dangerβupping the stakes and potential loss? It was perfect!
2/1/2024
I’ve reached a milestone: showing a whopping total of three people my messy first draft. Three!
Throwing the advice of “Never show anyone your first draft” to the wind, I’ve earned an “I LOVE IT” and an “I LIKE IT” from the same person, a “DUDE 18K MY DUDE” from another, and an enthused “SWAN LAKE, SWAN LAKE, SWAN LAKE” chant from the first to have heard the title A Swan Lake Retelling (aka “that writer friend”). And get thisβone of them read and reread it, which flatters me to no end, but she did so in an hour or less when I spent months slaving away to hit the 18k mark.
So, you know, whatever.
I’m actually not 100% sure why I shared it when I’m . . . *counts finger* not even 1/3 of the way finished if my estimate is correct, but I needed an ego boost. And when you have kind writer friends who’ll tell you what you want to hear, it’s the perfect equation!
2/3/2024
Oh, to be young and think that 321 words in 20 minutes wasn’t a good run. Now, I can hardly reach 200 in 15 minutes. Because you know what? I’m stubborn.
I’m fully aware that the more efficient, rewarding path is plotting or plantsing, but my brain refuses to cooperate and insists on winging it. Every. Single. Writing session.
I’ve been forwarded articles on how to deal with this by generous people who share my plight, but do I listen? No!
I shouldn’t worry, though. If anything, I should learn that trial and error and a “what’s the worst that could happen?” attitude can bite back. Procrastination, in the long run, is not worth it. I’ve got to get that through my thick skull.
One day.
My NaNo profile says SL’s reached 18,793 words, but the Google Doc file where I’m writing the novel says it’s at 19,141 words. We’re believing the Doc, and that’s not just for my ego. Okay? Okay.
The above list consisted of my NaNo stats in the first series of ramblings, but since I haven’t maintained a streak recently nor regularly updated my stats, I don’t have the same updates to offer. Oopsie.
But I do feel better about this. There was a time when I was bound to my stats and focused less on the writing part of writing. This is healthier, right?
2/6/2024
(sitch: having to incorporate a thingamajig in the story that you know nothing about)
I currently have five tabs openβa Quora, two Google searches, an image, and some other websiteβall dedicated to crossbow research. I’d have more if I could, but I’m afraid my 8-year-old laptop couldn’t handle it.
So, apparently, you position the weapon on your shoulder when aiming. Unlike the traditional bow and arrow, the crossbow’s string doesn’t need to be drawn back, which means the user doesn’t need to exert as much effort. In practical translation, my flimsy-armed peeps with a passion for bowhunting, this one’s for you!
(I’ve opened three more tabs here.) An arbalest/crossbow was made of wood and later substituted with metal, making it much more fearsome, and consisted of a bolt, sear, and trigger. In its original version, there was a stirrup that the crossbowman put his foot through to stabilize the weapon while he put the bow in.
Do you know what I’m talking about? I sure don’t.
πΉ Pew pew. πΉ Pew pew pew.πΉ
Ugh, why did I spend time playing with PinyPons and Barbies as a child when I could have been finding out about crossbowsβ
*smacks bloody fingers on random keys in frustration* aekakjdsafhkldhafkakjsdowuiqsjhsakhwoui
(Don’t try that at home. I summoned an app I’ve never opened when I did that.)
Why, yes, I used a lyric for an actual line of dialogue in my draft. Laziness? Well, I like to call it “reused creativity.” (Copyright? Never heard of him.)
Ha.
Yes, I have lost the will to show anyone else my first draft.
What have I become? Who is this person who listens to classical music by already deceased composers? And of her own volition?!
This is why I’ve been labeled a grandma in various friend groups.
But we don’t gatekeep, so here’s some Rimsky-Korsakov for you.
You’re welcome.
This was less relatable than Pt. 1 since it’s just me on the brink of good ol’ sanity. No uplifting ending. No encouraging message this time.
And if you’re wondering why I mentioned “bloody fingers” in the 10th ramblings, that’s because I’d punctured myself with a needle while sewing my pointe shoes before writing that. Five times, on different fingers. But the grind never stops! Huzzah! π€Ίβ
Someone restrain me.
What’s one major roadblock you’re facing with your story? Let’s hear it!
(Why is this post 1,116 words if I don’t have the strength to add 150 to my Doc? π)
Popping back in with a late daily prompt. My well of ideas is bone-dry, so forgive me. π
What’s your dream job?
Hmm, I have been thinking about this recently.
My answer is a full-time fiction author. Shocking, isn’t it?
Then again, dreaming and taking initiative are two things altogether, and just thinking about the work to get there makes me want to curl up into a ball and fall asleep until December 2024.
But I’ll hold my horses and focus on putting one foot ahead of the other. And finishing school.
Anyway, with my family background and the job-related normality in my country, I expect writing will become a side job or a hobby when I grow older, paired with a career in the office. Or medicine, perhaps? I have no idea, and I’m eagerly waiting to see where God will open doors of opportunity.
But I must write something brief to let you all know I’m alive while not getting burned out with starting a post but never pushing through to posting it. Repeatedly.
I know I disappointed you, but it’s better than nothing, right? <:D
How have you all been?
For those who don’t know, Swan Lakeβwhich I might call SL or A Swan Lake Retellingβis the romantasy novel I’ve been working on. It follows Siegfried and Odette as they navigate through an arranged marriage and a rocky past. But circumstance isn’t the only thing out of them; it seems a vengeful outcast wants more than just freedom . . .
Narrated by a rambling, elusive sorceror. A story of love, magic, and . . . well, swans & lakes.
Drafted and Forgotten: 12/22/2023
Yep, Swan Lake. That WIP I started earlier this year and didn’t take seriously at first. I am now working to complete it to say I wrote a novel once in my lifetime.
Boy, did all those articles I read do nothing to prepare me for the absolute joy and horror of writing the first draft. 11 chapters in, I’ve executed virtually zero out of a thousand things I aim to convey. The high of typing the words on the keyboard; the low of accidentally rereading your brain barf and finding a million and one plot holes. The bursts you get after imagining what its polished version would look like. The slumps where you can’t get more than 300 words on the page in one sittingβit’s different when you actually experience it.
In short, the journey’s been wild, you guys.
I’ve wanted to share glimpses of the bumpy ride for a while, but they didn’t come out enough for the regular length of a blog post each, and I didn’t think you’d like reading two sentences passed up as a post.
But I delivered! I scrounged up a few to reach a reasonable length, so I hope you enjoy it.
The frustration of knowing who your characters are to the T and dying to show your audience how lovable or horrible they are when you’re not yet at the scene where there’s the reader’s determining that “Oh, yeah, I definitely like/hate him/her” hits hard.
I created a NaNo account to track my progress and force myself to reach deadlines to form some semblance of achievement. The most recent deadline I’ve been working on is hitting the 30K mark by December 31, which was a foolish decision. It’s the Christmas season, and I can’tβcannotβlose my streak. I have relatives from abroad coming over, impromptu trips, school deadlines, and what was I thinking?!
But it wasn’t too terrible an idea because yesterday I came home at 11PM after going to a theme park where I realized my athleticism needs a lot of work (but I’ll deal with that later; right now, I need to shut myself in a room and just writeβ) and attending a family dinner get-together. I was dead tired but slogged away for 20 minutes and got 321 words onto the page, so yay. That’s 321 words closer to The End. *fist punches air weakly*
NaNo Stats as of December 24 (in the website’s words)
The NaNo site has got to be perky and overuse its exclamation points while it reminds me of how much the opposite of on-time I am with my novel, huh? Isn’t that fun?
My profile: https://nanowrimo.org/participants/brebs
I don’t recall when I realized Swan Lake would essentially be a romance fantasy story if I played my cards right, but I did some time ago. I was this close to abandoning it. π€ A tiny pinch. But I pep-talked myself out of it and discovered my aversion to romance was a front. Those romance novels I’ve been reading did something, after all.
Oh, but writing a romance is a whole different story. I don’t know how I feel about that.
Fantasy is tiring to write. Thank goodness I’m only learning the ropes because I’ll turn over in my grave before releasing this less than a decade after I finish the draft and improve myself as a writer. And the improvement must make you guys gasp and wonder if it’s even me.
I’m serious. I think.
It’s imperfect. So much so that I hardly even glance at the words as I type them because I have to get it over with while I’m still in the fEeLz.
Writing is messy. I once woke up believing I’d finished writing a chapter, only to discover I did . . . but in my head.
Internal pain. Suffering. Tears I shed in my imagination.
RIP to that chapter because I’m avoiding getting it done at all possible costs for no justifiable reason.
I’m bound to that streak. It’s Duolingo all over again. (Plot twist! After I lost my 52-day streak, he captured me, and I’ve been writing from his basement ever since. I can hear his flippers waddling in threat above me. SOS!)
The pain of knowing those who meet your children, or, er, I mean, characters, might not love them as much as you do is unbearable. π€§ I’ve nursed these people into being, you heartless creatures. What more dost thou require?!
Looking back at previous chapters, I noticed that my writing style changed. (That’s looking back, but not reading through it since my ego has endured enough already. Thank you very much.)
The (tedious? lengthy?) journey to finalize this reads like a fictitious documentation of my growth as a writer, which makes it painful to even skim through, but nevertheless. I remember updating my Docs right after getting discouraged from a ballet class and working on it cheered me right up.
Maybe even if I don’t finish this by my set time, I’ll leave with something I worked hard onβfinished or unfinished, polished or unpolished.
But I’ve come too far to even try giving up. And I have an issue with giving up, so in your face, procrastination!
And after that venting, this is still pretty short. Man, I should write down my weird ramblings when they come.
Let me know if I should do a part two with those and some others coz your friendly blogger here has much work to do this ho-ho-holiday season. π
PS I’ve been out of practice, and you’ve probably noticed. Oopsie. Sorry if this flowed more chunkily than my other posts. I’m working to release better and more consistent content, so don’t you worry, my fine fellows.
PPS It’s giving Tumblr, not gonna lie.
A filler post between my assumptions and a review on “Better than the Movies” by Lynn Painter.
(Please tell me if I did the story widget right and save me the embarrassment.)
Gosh-dingy-dangit, you guys. What has this book done to me?
I was wrecked. I caught myself smiling and shifting in my seat from pure delight. Romance drunkennessβwhat it does to people. Goodness me.
I-
I might need a second to process. Varying emotions and all.
*turns on Wes & Liz’s soundtrack*
Also, this is the first book I tracked my progress with on Goodreads, and believe me, I felt like a granny, clicking and pressingβ”Why did the button turn yellow?”βas I was. If some member clicked on my profile and saw how weird my reading activity looked for that book…I wouldn’t know either way, so it doesn’t matter.
The question mark in the title is because I’m not settled on if I’ll make a review, so wait and see, my patient readers. Wait and see.
Wes and his You Belong With Me vibes. βπ (“So what if it’s popular? It matches!” -me explaining to my diehard swiftie friend, who thinks only liking Taylorβs well-known songs makes you fAkE ((but Iβm one to talkβI got the Fearless lyrics wrong after claiming it was my favorite song, so Β―\_(γ)_/Β―)))
I disappeared! I know; I’m sorry! But, believe me, you would’ve too after a three day camp, making so many connections, Messenger and Discord crashing with the plethora of pings, and getting sick. Which, by the way, is exactly what happened.
written: 8/18/2023~
finished: today~ :’D
Shhh, no, that was not an unannounced hiatus.
Wassup, peeps! I write this with a throbbing shoulder, an itchy throat, and burning eyes. Why? Because I put this off for a while. Why? Unimportant. Moving on.
OH MY GOODNESS, YOU GUYS. I survived three whole days of social interaction. With HUMANS. How? God’s providence. Let’s give Him a clap offering, y’all.
The event: a high school camping trip. The name’s trippy, considering there were cell phones and Wi-Fi. Also, we didn’t set up our tents and morph into stinky, cranky gorillas who smell like lake water. (“Where else were we supposed to take a bath, huh?!”)
The location wasβoops! I almost revealed the specifics of where I live. Haha, nice try! All I’ll say is it was a recreation center with many tops. Spinning tops, not blouses. That’s all you’re getting from me.
Before I forget, let’s get into the details.
The time: 4:30 a.m.
Butterflies. Butterflies nervously fluttered in my tummy. I’ve been craving social interaction, but getting it was too much. I felt too horrified to go, but I was more terrified of being late. Guess who dragged my patootie out of the house? Good ol’ Mom. (Shoutout to Mom! <3)
After emotionally preparing for this, she would not let me sit this out. Nuh-uh. The payments had been dealt with, the bags were packed the day before, the sister was woken, and the transportation arrangements were made. There was no backing out of this one.
A little over 6 o’clock.
The meet-up: church. I was my awkward self. Half self-conscious, half-unabashed. If you think that balances things out, you are WRONG. There was no balance. None whatsoever.
There were so many PEOPLE, 96.67% of whom my sister knew. It was incredibly overwhelming. I wanted to curl up into a ball. Back at home. Studying. Or sleeping. I was usually sleeping at that hour, would you believe it?
I stood guard over the luggage (we were advised not to bring those, and instead a duffle or a backpack, but oh, well) since no one else seemed to be. Sister dearest was out making arrangements. How shameful. She was busy as a bee while I helplessly stood in the drizzling rain, weirdly leaning on some box donations.
If you couldn’t tell, she was a higher-up. I was a participant.
*whisper* But nepotism. *whisper*
7 o’clock something.
Boarding time.
Don’t die.
Don’t die.
Don’t die. Pretty please.
The other participants came flooding in. I didn’t know what bus I was supposed to be on. I could count the number of buses on my fingers, though. One, two, three, four. That was fun…if I had thought of it. What I did think of was not moving at all and just listening to whatever Mother beckoned. “Breanna, go here.” “Breanna, go there.” “Breanna, listen to your sister.” “Breanna, ask her first.”
I eventually ended up on Bus 1. The first few seconds of peaceful chaos were torture. I sat quietly because that’s what a good girl would do. Then I saw someone.
Someone I recognized.
It was a miracle!
I approached her, and she later told me my “eyes twinkled” as I confirmed her name and invited her to sit with me. Mind you, I hadn’t known her. I had seen her in a Zoom breakout prior in preparation for the camp.
She was most definitely extroverted. Thank the heavens. Within two minutes, we were the loudest pair on the bus that seated forty people or more. (There were not forty people, but it had the capacity for them.)
Five hours or more flew by in a snap. Of course, we were slightly drained by the first and only stopover, but mostly, the conversations did not run dry. In addition to that were bus games held by the other students in authority. I didn’t know them and still don’t, but God might let me in due time.
Arrivalβtime not logged.
Lunchβthe word made my mouth water. Why hadn’t I bought anything at the gas stop? Oh, right. I had money, but I was underage and afraid of misusing it, not unlike the one-talented dude in that one parable of Jesus.
(I bought something by Day 2; don’t worry.)
The fatigue never really went away. There was a Welcoming Program, a Special Program, getting comfy in our rooms with our roommates, and the first of a four-part Bible Program. I was so ready to hit the sack.
A race. Wow. They were holding a race. Imagine the type of figurative fist pump I gave the air. An underwhelming one, that’s what. My underprepared patootie had a camp kitβeach kid was given oneβbut hadn’t anticipated such a swift transition.
It had started. We were doing it. So, all throughout, I lugged a backpack chock-full of half the things I brought to a relatively straining sports event.
It was fun, honestly, and not that bad at all. But I was on the same team as a crazily talkative roommate, and she witnessed my not-so-pleasant side. I was cranky. I was sleep-deprived. I was at fault. I know. I apologized after, but…
Dinner first! My cabin leader engaged in small talk, and I cannot tell her how much I appreciated how she made us feel included. Plus, she had the same name as my sister, which was confuddling.
Our cabin room had an icebreaker gameβtwo truths, one lie. And my, oh my. Thirteen-year-olds sure liked dating. I wasn’t one of them, being unkissed and hardly talking to guys. I made friends with them (though some I vibed with more within the coming days), but that was draining. Goodness, me. Tea. Tea everywhere.
I was ready to hit the sack. So ready. Born ready.
“Congratulations, campers! Next on our list is a one-hour and ten-minute Open Mic night, where we homeschoolers showcase our incredible talent!”
(That’s the time in the flyer, but in reality, it came later and was prolonged.)
Hnnnngh.
Do you know how talented homeschoolers are?
EXTREMELY.
This was going to be a long night.
And you can’t go on saying I was selfish. Half my roomies backed out thirty minutes shy of the end, me included. I hadn’t showered. Is this what being a rogue teen felt like? Sleeping at midnight, partying in the late hours? If so, I wanted nothing of it.
Healthline, my love, er, my most trusted health source, said, not ad verbatim, “Sleeping with wet hair is bery bad.” That advice was thrown out the window coz when my newly washed head slammed on my pillow, I was as good as knocked out.
That’s when I knew I was an introvert. Eh, ambivert. Whatever.
And guess what? There were two more days just like that. No, they were more eventful. And I would have made a separate post about them, but I’m WordPress-ed out; thank you very much.
My cabin mates have been texting their hearts out at 100+ messages/per minute. Is that average speed? I have no clue. I am very uncultured in Gen Z lingo. Fr.
A Christian Kid's Journal 