#go too tired to write last night

[finxwrites]

you KNOW I'm asking for more dark prince Sizhui, beloved son of my heart and also of the Burial Mounds.

p.s. re: tags I think you should continue posting random snippets rather than in order. It creates more of an effect like clips in a movie trailer, you know?

that's an extremely charming image, I love that, ok I will keep posting random snippets!

here is a snippet for you:

Jin Ling’s uncle was the greatest living expert on fighting demonic cultivators. Jin Ling knew without having ever quite been told that this was something his uncle hated, but felt obligated to maintain. What Jin Ling didn’t know was why exactly he felt this obligation, though he had a number of very good guesses.

He’d tried asking his mother, more than once, why Jiang Cheng spent so much time doing things that made him so angry. Whenever he did, she would just give him a small, tight smile, the kind he knew concealed a great well of old, old anger, and say something about duty. (Except one time, just after Jin Ling had turned ten, when his mother and his uncle had been fighting—on that day, Jin Ling’s mother had snarled with rare sarcasm, “Such a generous inheritance our mother left behind for her children.”)

[qilingxiong]

.

[filet-o-feelings]

Me: I want to write, but I have no ideas

The 20+ wips and prompts in my docs: 🙄

[palimpsessed]

Me when I’m having a good writing day:

[pink-lemonadefairy]

🌻 ₊˚⊹ ࿔ 🌳

[pynkhues]

Please post the reunion fic!! I don't want to rush you, obviously, but I'm so eager to finally read it! Hope the class is great. :)

(x)

The class was intense, but good, anon, thank you!! And yes! I'm just proofreading now, but feel pretty on track to finally post the reunion fic. It's somehow ended up being 26k words, hahah. 🙈

Have a little excerpt while you wait:

-

Claudia.

The thought closes his throat now.

Foolish, he thinks, he’d only just been remembering her, but that was Europe, that was after, and this feels - - different. To try to imagine her as a girl, because his daughter had been too old for games like that, even at 14 when Louis had brought her home. Felt them silly, preferred even then to play tea and sympathy with her dolls or jump rope or play music or write for endless evenings in her diaries. A girl when they’d made her, yes, but a childhood he should’ve been a part of already somewhere behind her. Years missed out on even then, of first steps and words and stories (had he ever even gotten to carry her in his arms beyond the night he’d carried her home?), his daughter and his sister always second to the stranger, just as Lestat had said she was that night he’d made her for him, dragged from a house Louis had as good as burned down himself.

The feeling then, dark, bitter, always there but somehow, suddenly, bottomless in its depth. It loosens the grip of childhood and whispers in the ear of his father guilt, for he was never mother or maker or the Black angel she’d called him that night, but the thief of death, saved her from a fire just so a century later she could - -

No.

Louis exhales a roughened breath, shakes his head, tries to knock the thought out of himself as he finds his feet again, shuffling from the outdoor living section of the store to the promise of green. A cart of plants first, then another, then what feels like a forest of them, hundreds of ferns and figs and pots of climbing vines, plants brought in from the gardening section, protected in this concrete cell from the wilds of the hurricane outside, and for a moment, it almost brings him something like peace. A distraction from tonight’s own odyssey of recollection, unravelling in the hallowed halls of his head.

He touches a rubber leafed peperomia, a shaggy stemmed monkey-tail cactus, feels the frail slip of sunshine in a marigold petal, and it doesn’t surprise him, exactly, to find his thoughts straying to Armand’s tenderly cultivated magnolia tree, the roots left to creep beneath the stones of Louis’ only place of solace. Years of deception counted in inches grown, in new branches, in every deciduous season.

It sparks - - something, Louis thinks, inhaling deeper, tasting the pollen of the flowers here on his tongue, smelling the mixing fragrances like the perfume his mother once wore, and he turns, thinks to lose himself in it for a while, only to stop in his path to temporary oblivion. There, among the parlor palms, stands Lestat, his robe loose again and hanging, his shoulders a little hunched, his hair curling wet at the back of his neck, and something in Louis jumps. A little Claudia where his heart should be, skipping rope in the courtyard of his chest, and he tries not to think of the way everything except him seems to slip away to nothing as Louis slowly closes the distance between them again. Lestat ever the will-o'-the-wisp to Louis’ tired and lonely traveler.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I don't have a lot of energy these days [because of The Horrors] so I'm looking at my day and my priorities and trying to plan how I'm going to spend what energy I have, because I do need to be able to rest and relax but there are also things that need doing and that is a careful balance for me.

I managed to [mostly] clean the kitchen last night so I've kicked it out of the priority list until next weekend. Unfortunately the living room, bathroom, bedroom, and my office all need cleaning too. I think of the priorities, my office and the bedroom are the most important to me, so I'll probably push the living room and bathroom until at least Friday.

There's also the laundry. I don't have any clean clothes and as we're moving into winter I need to be more rigid about getting that done because days where the clothes can be dried on the line will be more limited. So I definitely need to wash an outfit or two and hang them up in the next hour.

That's already a really busy day, so I'll probably cut it there. But it's definitely going to still leave me a lot of work this week. Half my cleaning, at least one more round of laundry, settling dog food for the next couple of weeks, planting the fall/winter greens, doing some set up work on my computer, work on some writing projects, cleaning out the fridge, and patching some worn clothes. My work week isn't insane atm, but it is definitely limiting. Right now I have 6+4+0+4+2+5+5= 25 non work/non-survival needs (sleep, food, shower, etc) hours available each week. I need to figure out a regukar distribution of these that means everything is getting done and I still have an hour a day to myself as often as possible. I think it's probably not realistic to give myself more than an hour a day for free time/fun, which is a bit unfortunate because I've found in the past that my floor tends to be getting 2-3hrs of free time most days because of how I deal with transition and decision-making.

25-7 [1hr per day] is 18 hrs, so I just need to decide where and how to distribute those in order to keep pace with things.

Lets say the garden needs 3hrs per week, the laundry needs 4 hours (specifically 2 sets of 2 morning/early afternoon hours), the cleaning needs an hour a day to get through a maintenance clean of the house, and 3 hours once a week to work down any deep cleaning that's built up. Which is....already three more hours than I actually have each week. So I guess I'll make a plan to work in the garden for 20-40min of 4 of my free hours each week.

It really doesn't leave me any wiggle room. Only about 4 hours a week that isn't explicitly allotted to something that needs doing, which means there will probably me a lot of weeks where I only get an hour or so at best across the whole thing for free time. I guess I've had a hard time accepting that at this point, having actual time for myself or a time-intensive project is only available if I've taken a day off work. I love my job, but it's ... not comfortable to realize that it's the only love in my life I actually have time for anymore.

I think that's probably why I end up here so much. It's this mindless little way of zoning out into my own head, dissociating away from the exhaustion, for a few minutes at a time. I keep thinking I want to use this space differently, make it more if the things I enjoy. But I think what I really want is just to actually have the time and energy to do things I love that take work. I keep crying a few times every day and I couldn't figure out why, but like

I dunno

Why **wouldn't** I cry a little every day? It's the closest I'm getting to actual emotional release or relaxation in my life. We'd probably all cry. Heck. A lot of us probably DO, capitalism being what it is.

I guess I'm starting to wonder why I'm doing what I'm doing. What is there left for me to sacrifice to this life? What is actually serving me about not just letting myself go up like a fireball and take my surroundings with me? What in the ever loving fuck am I fighting this hard for?

All I ever want, all I want now, is to be able to live. To really, actually live. How does wanting to live bring you this close to killing yourself, whether on accident or on purpose? What am I actually doing that is LIVING and what am I doing that is FACILITATION of living? It can't all be facilitation, or I'm not actually facilitating fuck all.

I'm 30 goddamn years old and I need to figure out what it looks like to actually love my life. I fundamentally refuse to zombify myself like this for everyone else around me forever.

[amoripomoea]

i have work 6 days in a row this week and i'm so mad about it (see just how mad in my paragraph's worth of tags!)

[damiemontclair]

Is it ridiculous to think maybe this whole hospital thing and related business has mildly traumatised me? Is it ridiculous that I want to write about it in excruciating detail, just get the experience out on paper, on my blog, somewhere? It feels dumb but I want to write fic about it. I think it'd fix me.

[revvethasmythh]

the necessity of me rewriting the final scene I finished last night vs my fervent desire to just move on and write this new chapter: FIGHT

[girlthativealwaysbeen]

my sister called me and kept asking excitedly that what's happening in my life and

[bacon-neko]

Nano 2023 Day 30

last day last paragraph

She took a cup, loose leaves swirling in the steaming water as they finished steeping and handed it to the godling, hanging onto the rim for a second, worried the sudden heat might shock him into dropping it. Without hesitation, Keraunos took it and raised it to his nose, letting the steam cling to his skin as he inhaled the scent.

[batri-jopa]

[pegasusdrawnchariots]

the eternal question: is scheduling w friends as an adult That Hard or am I just bad at it

[mirrortouchedsea]

tried to outline something the other day and it went so bad it put me in a writing slump. so that's great

[tvrningout-a]

pspsps lemme send you some memes later when i’m tuckered out 💜