#i think i've used up like. 7? 8? ten draws over the course of this event and not a SINGLE rate-up unit. beyond that even | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

andswarwrites · 2 years ago

Text

Day 10

I've written about my mental health in bursts and starts over the years since I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but I’d like to start from the beginning and tell the story in its entirety, from the label "crazy" and how it affected me as a youth, to my roller coaster ride of highs and lows in my twenties, to my psychoses, my diagnosis, my therapy, and ultimately this period of stability I now cherish. It's going to be a four-part-er I think, starting, as I said, with Part One: Stacey is Bipolar (a teenager with "mood swings")

Both of my parents are blonde and blue-eyed, so both of my siblings and I are blonde with blue eyes too. Our family has heard a lot of blonde jokes. Blonde is supposedly synonymous with airhead. When someone would start telling blonde jokes, I would join in, because I wanted to show that I wasn't bothered by this brand of humor. I learned at a young age that taking offense and getting upset is not as efficient as staying calm, and laughing at yourself along with people.

As a kid my playmate of choice was my best friend, but when we moved I only saw her from time to time, and my new neighbor was a little bit younger than me, and we didn't always get along. Since I was homeschooled, and we lived in the country, I didn't experience playgrounds and bus rides the way my daughter did. From hearing of her experiences, I don't feel I missed out on much. I volunteered at my N-'s school library and I must say if I had attended primary school, I think I would have liked the library best.

I attended a little English school in Baie Comeau for Grades 7 and 8. It had all grades, from Kindergarten to Grade 11. At Recess, the littlest kids would traipse through the halls, and would bestow hugs on the High Schoolers. I thought High School was rough, but honestly, that school was a kiddy pool compared to the schools I would attend in Grade 9. I think my parents were wise to enroll me in that school. My teachers told them I went around in a daze for the first three months.

I'd say my closest friend at that school was a girl who was one grade ahead of me. Since certain grades didn't have enough students to fill a classroom (this was a tiny school), our classroom held two or even three grades. My friend was thoughtful, quiet, calm, and I gravitated toward her. She's the one who told me I had mood swings. Apparently, this was normal teenager behavior. In Grade 9, I changed schools three times, and by the end of the year I was fed up and asked to be homeschooled again.

My mom didn't like it when people called me crazy. I think they meant I was bubbly, hyper and impulsive. And I could be. I could also sit for hours with my nose stuck in a book. When I was alone, I drew, I read, I wrote. When I was in social groups I didn't know how to act. I had a strange sense of never fitting in, and I didn't know why. There must be something wrong with me, I decided, but I didn't want to let on that that was how I felt. It was when I felt like I had no friends that I started long distance correspondence with two sisters. We would send one another bricks of doodles, drawings and of course, eight to ten page letters.

One of the most profound things my psychiatrist told me while he was in the process of diagnosing me, was that bipolar disorder has nothing to do with personality. Who I am as a person, who I always have been, is not tainted by my mental disorder. All those times I identified as "crazy", as a defense mechanism because others used that label on me, it wasn't true. At some point during my teenage years, I began to have "ups" and "downs". I don't remember them, though, because my parents provided me with enough structure and support that I was able to remain relatively stable.

You see, bipolar disorder can make you manic or depressed. You can either burst with energy and live on a "high", or you can crash and drag yourself around in a "low". My highs weren't as apparent to my mom as my lows were, so she worried that I struggled with depression. But then the low would pass, and she would be reassured. I didn't clue in until my twenties that something was up, and even then I didn't seek professional help. It wasn't because I didn't want to, it was because I didn't know how to go about consulting.

It's funny, I guess a mental disorder actually does classify me as "crazy", but I no longer use that label to identify myself. When I was a teenager, I developed the habit of putting myself down as a defensive strategy, because I thought if I did it first, that would empty the arsenal of everyone else. I was hyper focused on my flaws and failings, so I thought everyone else was too. It took me a while to learn that no one is perfect, we all mess up, we all need to be forgiven, we all need to forgive.

If I can love others even when they're not perfect, why would I be the exception to that rule? Why would I need to be perfect to be lovable? Chasing perfection is unhealthy. As a teen, I think my mental health was crushed under the weight of seeking to be perfect far more than it was affected by my bipolar disorder. But my symptoms of bipolar disorder were going to worsen, until crisis point. Like I said, my parents provided me with a lot of structure and support. They kept me consistent, they helped me meet my goals. But what would I do when I left home? I'll tell that story tomorrow.

#bipolar disorder #mental health #personal

2 notes · View notes

scotianostra · 2 years ago

Text

On April 10th 1988 Sandy Lyle became the first Scottish golfer to win the US Masters tournament.

It was lucky 7 for Sandy in his previous six attempts his best score was 3 under par in 1986 tied for 9th place behind the “Great White Shark” Greg Norman. In my opinion I don’t think he got the credit he deserved two years before when he won The Open Sandwich, England.

Sandy Lyle made his 37th appearance in the Masters this week, where he celebrated the 30th anniversary of his historic success at Augusta National. Sandy went into the tournament in peak form in 1988 after winning the Greater Greensboro Open the previous week. I remember a friend put money on him winning the masters so I took more of a notice than normal, I think he was 33/1 to take the Green Jacket.

Sandy led from the second round and in the final round the title looked in the bag when he led by three after 10 holes on the Sunday, but he came unstuck a bogey at the 11th and a double bogey at the next, Mark Calcavecchia took the lead at the 13th and the Scot had to dig deep to remain in contention, he shot three successive pars then a birdie at hole 16 to draw level. At the 18th we had given up hope of him winning when he hit a bunker but Sandy hit a brilliant shot from there and we were cheering as the ball landed on the green past the flag but started rolling back to within ten feet of the hole. He then drained the 10-foot birdie putt to claim victory and raised his arms in the air to celebrate before dancing a little jig and embracing his caddie, I think we woke the neighbours as we shouted and cheered him.

I even remember the next year, tradition has it that the reigning champion chooses the Champions Dinner, which takes place each year on Tuesday night before teeing off the championship on Thursday, I don’t know how he got round the ban on it, but Sandy, donned the Kilt and chose Haggis as the starter that night, Lyle told the Augusta Chronicle.

"The older guys, like [Jack] Nicklaus, had been to Scotland and knew what haggis was. But the newer ones, guys like Larry Mize, they weren’t too sure about that.”

I dug up another mention of Sandy’ meal from the CNN web page in which they describe haggis…..

“ – a dish of sheep innards minced with oatmeal and spices – not to everyone’s taste. It doesn’t sound very nice in the first place,” the 1988 winner told CNN. “It’s a lot of barley, spices, blood, slightly sort of off cuts,” added Lyle, who admitted most of his fellow diners “just pushed it around their plate.” As Larry Mize put it:

“Well I guess I’ve had the dinner every year except Sandy Lyle’s year, I did not have the haggis, that was unique the haggis!

"Thank God it wasn’t the main course otherwise it would have been a disaster,” said Lyle in his defence.

Sandy, now 66, plays on the Seniors circuit nowadays, but as a former champion is entitled to an invitation to play The Masters each year, his best finish since his win has been tied 20th in 2009. This year he didn’t make the cut with a +12 after the first two rounds.

England didn’t have long to claim their first victory as Nick Faldo won the following year, as seen in the third pic., another tradition being the last years winner presents the winner with the customary green jacket.

Sandy said last year that this year would be his last Masters and he didn't have the best of tournaments.

Lyle 's farewell tour of the famous Augusta National course, did something he has never managed before at the age of 65. Sandy broke his first club at his final appearance at the Masters and joked: "And it wasn't even over my knee."

The former champion suffered a shocking start to his penultimate round here when he blocked his opening drive into trees – and then snapped his 8-iron on a root hitting a left-handed shot which struck another branch and a cameraman. Lyle, still scrambled a bogey on his way to nine-over par 81 in his 42nd appearance here.

The Scot said: "It's the first one I've broken here. Taken 40 years to do it, but it's happened. First hole, and it wasn't even over my knee! I nearly always pulled it off the 1st hole, and this time I actually hit the other shape.

At his final 18th green a day later Masters organisers were slated when they suspended play as fans gathered at the green to see the Scot attempt a 12 foot putt to finish his Masters career.

Despite protests from Kokrak and the other player in the group Talor Gooch – not to mention spectators who chanted “let them putt” – officials instructed Lyle to mark his ball.

Next day when the horn sounded at 8 a.m. to signal the start of play and open the course to spectators Lyle took out a ceremonial golden putter a replica of the one he used in 1988, made for the occasion and two-putted for a double-bogey completing his final competitive round in front playing partners Jason Kokrak, Talor Gooch, their caddies and a few maintenance crew and officials. Robbed of the rousing sendoff accorded former champions.

Sandy commented afterwards

“I’ve had most of the night to think about it, I know that, I’ve had a few drinks, as well, through the night so it was a little bit cloudy this morning. It’s a shame we didn’t get the chance to finish yesterday, but that’s just the way it is. The rules are the rules. I needed about another 30 seconds for a chance to hit the putt.

“The emotions are pretty high. As you look back at it, it’s gone very quick since ‘88, but it’s never let me down. You really appreciate how big the Masters is. The memories and the way you’re treated as a past champion. I look forward to coming back and playing the Par 3 Course, and playing off the members’ tees will be quite nice.”

#scotland #scottish #anglo scottish #golfer #champion #us masters #history #sporting history

5 notes · View notes

river-bottom-nightmare · 4 years ago

Note

Here's the headcanon-ficlet-thing I promised! Actually, sorry, it's only HALF of my idea. This thing got MUCH longer than I intended and I've decided it would be easier to just chop this whole thing in two. If I ever send another headcanon, it'll either be much shorter than this or I just won't use anon. Anyways, the death of Dick's parents had just been so SUDDEN and I started thinking, "What if Dick had some separation anxiety when he was younger that just... Never really got resolved? His parents were gone, just like that, and Bruce literally risks his life every day. That couldn't have helped my made up conflict either, I imagine." Hope you enjoy! (1/13)

When Dick first arrived at the manor, he'd just been so GLOOMY. Even after Tony Zucco's arrest, he moped around the living spaces and never seemed happy with how spacious the manor's rooms were. A handful of times, Bruce and Alfred had caught him crying in the emptier wings by himself, but they had never really been sure what to do with the kid other than feel guilty. Sometimes (rarely), Dick would seek one of them out for a hug or SOME form of comfort, but it never seemed to be enough to truly make him feel better. It was no secret that Alfred and Bruce were not the most affectionate people in the world, and Dick had come from a very loving place. It was just another new thing to adjust to in his already new, unfamiliar life. Then Dick wanted to be Robin, full time, and neither Bruce nor Alfred could really say 'no.' Dick still wasn't happy- not for a while- but eventually, his mood started to improve. (2/13)

Maybe that was why no one initially found the boy's habit of waiting by the manor doors alarming. It was one of the places he visited more frequently, and Alfred originally assumed it was because he liked hanging on that specific entrance's chandelier more than the others. However, as the weeks passed, it became obvious that it was just a place Dick liked to hang out when he was waiting for Bruce to return from work or patrol. When it began nearing six thirty, the time Bruce's work hours ended, Dick would set up his homework or drawing paper on the floor and work just to the side of the doors as he waited for them to open. Sometimes he'd even hold a handstand or stretch for however long it took Bruce to come home that day. At first, Alfred didn't know what to make of it. But, watching the way Dick's face lit up every time Bruce knocked at the door, the old butler figured the small habit couldn't do any harm no matter how strange it was. He was just happy the boy wasn't still brooding. (3/13)

Bruce also noticed how Dick always seemed to be waiting for him after work, but ultimately didn't find anything concerning about the observation. Sure, it was a little strange to have such a large reminder that he was an actual guardian now, but he reasoned with himself that Dick would grow out of it after a certain point. He decided to just let the boy be and life carried on. Besides, he wasn't Dick's only person of support; Bruce had caught Dick watching Alfred work in the kitchen on a number of occasions with a concentrated look on his face. Without a doubt, the boy was finally starting to adapt to the manor's way of life. (In all honesty, Bruce had probably been too busy being relieved over the old butler's existence to judge whether or not any of his new ward's behaviors could be considered alarming.) (4/13)

As Dick grew more and more relaxed overtime, neither Bruce nor Alfred put much thought into his other developing habits. For instance, as Robin, Dick always made sure to check in with a quick "Are you still there, Batman?" over the comms everytime the line went quiet for more than ten minutes. Bruce would occasionally warn him not to call in when they were on stealth missions, but Dick never quite seemed comfortable with leaving the line COMPLETELY dead whenever they left each other's sight. On those missions, he'd sometimes blow softly into his comm unit, and Bruce would have to make some subtle noise back so as not to completely worry the kid. Dick even seemed to develop certain behaviors around charity events and galas; for example, he would always hug Bruce's pant leg at the beginning of the events and would only let go once he was made to socialize. Despite the fact that it soon became apparent the kid was far from shy, the habit always took place without fail, to Bruce's perplexed amusement. Maybe the kid just hated Gotham's elites? (5/13)

More and more little habits flew under the radar as everyone still seemed to be adjusting to the new lifestyle. Occasionally Bruce and Alfred would pick up on something seeming a little off, but at the same time, Dick finally looked happy. Really, a few weird displays of affection here and there were FAR from their concern so long as Dick's days of endless distraught were over. And so, once Dick finally- and TRULY- settled into the manor as his new home, a bunch of odd behaviors just seemed to be swept under the carpet and ignored. On the unavoidable nights where Bruce got injured in the field, there was no missing how the habits seemed to rise in intensity, but by then... They became the everyday normal and were never addressed. (6/13)

(The Justice League found Robin's behavior more bemusing than anything. Dick was still in the habit of obsessively checking the comms when Batman, on a rare occasion, asked for backup. "Check in, Batman?" "Still scaling the perimeter. We might not catch any activity tonight past a few petty thefts." "Alrighty. And, uh, Superman! Status update!" "Nothing going on up here either, Robin." "Okay!" Ten minutes passed and the boy's voice crackled back to life on the comms once more. "Is everyone still okay?" After that one particular patrol, Clark had sent Bruce a questioning look. "He's nine. Of course he's worried." Clark didn't push it- or anyone else for that matter.) (7/13)

It wasn't until Dick turned sixteen and started looking to be more independent that his behavior finally set off a few alarm bells. His check-ins had turned more snippy over the years when Bruce and him got into fights, but they never really stopped. The arms clinging to Bruce's pant legs at galas were instead replaced by a friendly hand on Bruce's shoulder, yet Dick's presence had never really left his side- only growing more flighty and uncertain as he got older. When Dick did his homework, by then in his last year or two of highschool, it was no longer on the floor but instead in the dining room closest to the manor's entrance- still started at around five or six just like when Dick first arrived at the manor, and still fit to Bruce's work schedule. It occurred to Alfred that a few of Dick's behaviorisms probably should have been checked out a while ago. (8/13)

"When you were Master Richard's age, you were barely home. It's normal for teenagers to want a bit of distance and alone time, but Master Bruce, he only stays after school for club activities. The rest of his time is either spent partoling around the city or helping YOU. I'm worried whether or not his behavior is healthy." Bruce had contimplated these words before giving his own thoughts. At the time, he and Dick's working relationship as Batman and Robin was becoming a bit more strained, but he still KNEW Dick. "I'm not sure, Alfred. He says he's happy with the friends he has, and he's always been relatively well behaved... Could it be that this is just routine for him?" Alfred disagreed and so the discussion continued. However, any plans they made to adress the situation were cut short when Dick got shot in the shoulder. (9/13)

Bruce tried not to feel guilty about firing Dick and then kicking him out of the manor. A little space would be good for the boy, right? For as long he could remember, Dick had always been just around the corner. It was safer this way. He ignored Alfred's angry, dissapointed gaze and Clark's furious demands to explain what the hell he'd been thinking. Batman didn't need a Robin, and Dick would be fine without Bruce. (Bruce would be fine without Dick.) Later, on patrol, there was a second where the comm crackled to life. Before anything could happen it got shut off again, and before Bruce knew it, Dick's check-ins were gone. Batman didn't need Robin. (10/13)

There was no missing Dick's sudden change. With the Titans, Dick's mother henning got turned up to an eleven. Dick was always somewhere in the tower helping someone, and no one could miss the way he was practicaly always asking if anyone needed anything. Missions and patrols ran mostly the same, but it was much more often that Dick could be found staying up late at night, going through evidence on cases he was working on. His friends did their best to be understanding, but there was no hiding the fact that Dick needed help. Real help. They urged him to talk about what was wrong, but even Dick seemed to be at a loss for what he was going through. "I mean, I got kicked out! What else is there to say?" He yelled one day. Roy tried to reason with him. "But there's MORE to it than-" "There isn't." "Dick, you've been acting off for months." "And I'll be FINE in a few more! I'm always fine. Stop worrying." (11/13)

Eventually, they did. After a few more missions, it was as if nothing ever happened. Dick worked as he normally would and he started running off to do his own things rather than hover around other people's projects. He still gave off a sense of brokeness but by then there wasn't much that anyone could do. There had been one week in particular, though, that things just seemed to... Shift. Dick had just discovered that Bruce adopted another kid in the newspapers and there were sightings of another Robin. For a second, he seemed furious, and they all remembered feeling VERY concerned for what the guy might do. For four days straight it was if he was too angry to talk. On the fifth day, Dick disappeared. He wasn't seen again until the next morning. "Dick, are you alright?" Something visibly settled in him and just like that, Dick was fine again. Still overbearing, but fine. (12/13)

Okay! That's all I have so far since I don't want to spam your inbox with any more text blocks for one idea. You probably noticed that this first part just goes over more HOW Dick behaved when he was younger. The second part to this will focus more on everyone realizing that Dick had some repressed trauma going on, and the consequences it's had on him for never adressing said trauma. (Also Bruce, you shouldn't have kicked your teenage son out of the house. That didn't help.) Some of Dick's coping mechanisms when it comes to dealing with Bruce will probably also be questioned, but with the time away from Bruce, don't worry- Dick will be more obviously independent. He knew he wasn't in the best place. I'll send you the second part whenever I get done with it, which shouldn't take too long. Thanks for being excited to read my head canon and ideas! (13/13)

hey babe. this is,,,,,,oh my god. i love it so much. well actually i hated it because it was full of angst and it made me feel emotions and AGH. but also i loved it and god i can’t wait for the next part. you have NO IDEA how much i need the next part.

also, can i just say? the fic portion itself (2-12) is 1.7k words long. with a little editing, this could be a full fledged fic you can post on ao3. you absolutely don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, that’s just an idea i’m throwing out there.

dick with separation anxiety sounds so so plausible, because that abrupt shift from living in a circus to wayne manor of all places must have been QUITE the shift. i really loved how you touched on all these different habits and quirks dick had growing up, and how those bled over into different relationships in his life. and i can’t wait to see how you resolve it.

and i have one more thing for you. this isn’t really the same idea but it’s got somewhat similar elements: i read a fic a while back about dick being touch starved. it seemed up your alley, and anyone else who liked reading this incredible drabble, i think you’ll enjoy reading it! touch starved by envysparkler.

#dick grayson #nightwing #dc #dick grayson headcanon #nightwing headcanon #dc headcanon #dick grayson fic #nightwing fic #dc fic

54 notes · View notes

tentacle-stylograph · 2 years ago

Text

(picture from here but by Holly Main)

okay, therapy homework. over the next 13 days (12 now), try to have at least ten days where i do at least one "self-love" thing and record what it is

shark picture 'cause i'm hoping i'll find a roll of stickers to mark the days i succeed, and those stickers have some sharks with party hats

T 1 Nov: successfully told myself to stop talking to myself so badly

W 2 Nov: was doing a character voice in my car and eventually said affirmations to myself as that character, as if he were talking to me

H 3 Nov: worked on fanart pic!! only did about 20 or 25 mins when i wanted to do 35, but i distracted myself hugely beforehand and also forgot / failed to put on any "am i doing what i want" timers

F 4 Nov: didn't take physical notes during speaker event tonight!! really, really pushed myself longer than i should have in my illustration class, so i needed the break.

second part to above: didn't take great memory palace "notes," but i'm not beating myself up about it. i told myself before the event, "hey, it's okay to not take notes on everything. sometimes it's okay to just LIVE what's happening. even if you remember very little from tonight, that's still okay."

A 5 Nov: talked to my brother about difficulties i've had communicating with him (but thanks to a friend who i asked for advice, and of course part of her advice was "if there's a real problem it's important to discuss what it is and how it can get better."

S 6 Nov: call with friend to help me with homework + DID SOME OF THE SCARY ZBRUSH STUFF + went out to the nearby Pokestop a few times when it was orange (Gimmighoul event thing?)

M 7 Nov: MORNING EXERCISES. I DID MY MORNING EXERCISES ON MY OWN YEEEEAAAAAAAHHHH

T 8 Nov: GOING TO VOTE even though i didn't have every section checked out; i just didn't vote on everything

W 9 Nov: cleared my computer desktop. I'D BEEN WANTING TO FOR LITERALLY MONTHS -- THERE WERE SCREENSHOTS FROM AT LEAST SEPTEMBER AND THERE WERE OVER 100 ICONS -- so this was nice. took a while, but nice

H 10 Nov: fINALLY read some more of a digital One Piece zine i have! :D a good time. i took a bit to choose between my fanart project and the zine, but i settled on the zine 'cause (1) it'd be faster to get off my desktop and i like the organization and (2) i got a copy of the zine for a friend and it's nice to be able to talk about it together, if that's of interest

F 11 Nov:

A 12 Nov: not pushing stepdad's wheelchair whole time even tho i would have preferred to, in a way. but it would have been bad for my hands, and i would have been doing so mainly out of guilt. (it helped that he himself mentioned my hands without my prompting)

S 13 Nov:

M 14 Nov: typing up and queueing some posts before bedtime

something i've discovered with this exercise (already, on day one and two): i don't (always) consider my reblogging and Pokemon Go as self-care. they're more incidental / distractions / my workout a lot of the time.

'course if i'm using them as a break or 100% for fun they can be considered such, but i don't really feel like, in themselves, they are such. they can even be used as self-sabotage, e.g. procrastination (will, i knew that last part, but i didn't connect that to self-care/self-love before)

-> 2 Nov: i'd HOPED to work on a drawing after doing some school things, but i got distracted reblogging for so long that it was too late for that drawing. i remembered the positive self-talk, though, and, even though it wasn't planned and i didn't think that much of it at the time, it certainly was self-love, so it's fair to count it

#thing to do

1 note · View note

impromptu-manifesto · 8 years ago

Link

what-I’ve-learned after five years and 20 novels.

1. Writing Advice Is Bullshit And Largely The Product Of Survivorship Bias

Writing advice is bullshit. That’s not to say it’s not useful — as I’ve said in the past, bullshit can also fertilize. But writing advice should always, always, always be read through the lens of, “This is what worked for me, maybe it’ll work for you.” Problem is, a lot of writers treat this stuff as HOLY GOSPEL, as if they’re the ARCHONS OF AN ANCIENT AUTHORIAL ORDER emerging from the fog of history to give you SEKRIT TROOTHS. This shit isn’t baking muffins. You can’t just say, “Put it in the oven at 350 and 20 minutes later, yumminess will emerge.” Writing as a career is an unholy tangle of threads, from how you publish, to your style, to your process, to when you write, to how often you write, to what precious liquor you quaff to celebrate a book release. None of us get here via the same route. As I an fond of saying: we all burn the map afterward. And none of us know what the fuck we’re actually doing, not really. I sure don’t. Even the list below is just me… spouting off. They’re lessons that apply to me, not to you. Maybe to you, it’s gold. Maybe it’s a sack of angry raccoons, I dunno. The only writing advice you can count on is: you gotta write, and you gotta finish what you’re writing. Everything else is variable. Everything else must be swirled around the mouth to determine whether it tastes like honey or it tastes like shit.

2. Learn First To Say Yes, Then To Say No

This is a hard one to learn, and one I’m still endeavoring to put into practice. Early in your career, you seek opportunity like a truffle-addicted pig. Later in your career, those opportunities will come to you — they’ll stick to your ass like burrs. Earlier, every opportunity is legitimately that: an opportunity. But later on, you start to see that not every opportunity is equal. You need to start being judicious about your time and your energy, because this thing we do is work and you only have so much of it you can give out to the world. Inevitably, people want a piece of you. Not to be mean. It’s usually (though not always) coming from a good place. Just the same, you say yes early in your career, but then you gotta start practicing that big word: NO. HELL NO. FUCK NO. Can’t do it, won’t do it, don’t wanna do it. Practice it in the mirror. Shake your fist. Scowl and sneer. Urinate aggressively. I’m urinating aggressively right now. Like a territorial bear.

3. The Muse Doesn’t Hunt You, You Hunt The Muse

Waiting for inspiration is a fool’s game. You hunt it. You summon it. Writing is an act of laying traps for the Muse. Writing does not follow inspiration. It goes the other direction. You become inspired through the act of writing, of telling stories. Just sitting down and doing the work lays bait. It’s an alluring trail Reese’s Pieces meant to draw the extraterrestrial Muse into your house.

4. Ideas Are Easy

For a long time I thought ideas were everything. I thought them precious pearls, when the reality is, they’re just driveway gravel. I got a hundred ideas whipping around my head every day, and the majority of them are sounds and noises — grunts in the dark, a gibber, a wail. I used to write them all down. I’d hoard them like a crow hiding colorful strips of ribbon in its nest. Now, I let them go. I shove them back out the door with not a moment’s interest. Then I wait. If those little bastards come back, if they sneak in through the vents like John McClane, if they creep in through the boltholes like a mouse — well, okay then. That’s an idea that wants to haunt me. That’s an idea whose grunts and gibbers might turn into a song. They’re all still driveway gravel, but maybe once in a while one of those pieces of flinty limestone has some quartz buried in there — something crystalline, with depth, with shine, something worth looking at. At the end of the day, though, no idea is worth anything but the work you give it. You still gotta polish that stone. You still gotta write it all down and make it shine.

5. Find Your Damn Process — Then Challenge It

I often tell a story about how it took me five years to write — or rather, figure out how to write — Blackbirds, and that journey involves me learning I needed to outline my books before I write them. Some folks take that lesson as me telling them: “You have to outline.” But that’s not it. I have to outline. I don’t know what the fuck you need to do; you have to figure that out. You have a process. So go find it. Maybe that means writing 2k every day, reliably. Maybe it means writing 15,000 words every other weekend. Maybe it means you write in coffee shops, or in the crawlspace under your house. Maybe it means you eat a handful of bees before you begin. I dunno. That’s on you to figure it out, and while it’s important to figure out what you write and why you write, it’s also incredibly necessary to figure out how you write. You may think how you write is the way others have told you it must be, but that doesn’t make it true. Also important: when your process isn’t working, you need to evolve it. Your process isn’t one thing forever just as you aren’t one person forever. Challenge it. Change it. See the river and go with it.

6. No One Book Is The Same As The Next

Every book for me has been different than the last. Not just in content — I mean, that’s obvious. I’m writing different books, yeah, duh. I mean, how I write each book is different every time. Some come faster, others slower. Every outline I do is different than the last — some are just tentpoles, others are cuckoopants flow-charts like the nutball wall of a conspiracy theorist, others still are hastily-scrawled manifestos on ragged bits of notebook paper. The books are chimeras. They shift and change. They’re different beasts that demand different food. And that’s okay.

7. Do Not (Over)Prioritize Money

I have made decisions in this career based purely on money, and turns out, that was not always the best way. Don’t get me wrong, I like money. I need money because oh shit we live in a capitalist society and I have this thing called a “mortgage” for this box called a “house” and I don’t want to have to live in the “woods” like a “bear.” And if there’s the choice between taking LOTS OF MONEY and NO MONEY — yeah, take the cash. But I’ve had a couple situations where… I wish I’d maybe gone a different way. Where I looked at an overall strategy instead of a dollar sign. This career has to be more than just the dollar signs.

8. Publishing Is A Long Con Demanding A Long Strategy

Have a one-year-plan, a five-year-plan, a ten-year-plan. Keep it flexible, but always be casting your eyes not just to the book you’re writing but to your career down the line. If you wanna do this thing — not just put a book on a shelf but put your writing pants on for the duration of a whole damn career! — then you can’t just be looking down at your feet. This is a long game with many moves against an invisible opponent. Where do you want to be? Who are you as a writer? This is also about what you can control versus what you can influence. You can control what you write. You always have that. For everything else, you have varying degrees of influence. You’ll never control awards. You’ll never control the audience. But you look ahead anyway, and you say, how do I get to where I want to go? If you want to be writing comics, or thrillers, or sexy Gremlins fan-fic, then plot that course. Plot multiple ways of getting there. Talk it out with agents and editors. Diversify your path. Then it’s like what Dory says in Finding Nemo: JUST KEEP KILLING YOUR FOES AND EATING THEIR FLESH AS SACRAMENT wait I’m pretty sure that’s not right. But it’s close enough, I guess. P.S. “writing pants” are metaphorical as writers do not wear pants because pants are a tool of the oppressor.

9. You Can’t Do It Alone (And Yes, That Means Selling And Promoting)

Writing is not a solitary career. That is a myth — worse, like the starving artist myth, it is a romantic one that is valuable to everyone but the fucking writer. We are given this meritocratic lone-wolf ronin-ninja claptrap about how it’s all up to you, you wily pioneer, you’re out there on the frontier of the Weird and Wordy West, just you and your shooters against the world. And you’re routinely told how you can do it all yourself. Self-publishing schemers want you to think you should do everything from designing your own covers to editing your own books. Tricksy traditional publishers — and yep, this includes some of the Bigguns — want you to think you can sell and promote the book all by your lonesome, too. And you can, provided your entire scheme and strategy is just the words GOOD FUCKING LUCK written on a crummy index card. Sorry, you need help. You need agents and editors. You need copy-editors and designers. You need marketers and promoters. A traditional publisher may want to convince you that you can do it yourself, but you can move 10s, maybe 100s of books by yourself — and they need you to move 1000s. You need other writers, too. We’re good for each other when we try to be. This is a community. We’re all stowaways and impostors. Don’t feel alone, and don’t be alone.

10. Cover Your Ass, Keep Your Rights

Read your contracts and keep your rights. Own the work. You will make money not just from selling the book the first time, but also selling foreign rights and other licensing opportunities. You give them away to a publisher, know that you’re giving them to a non-invested, not-necessarily-capable party. Be smart. Be strategic.

11. Give The Proper Amount Of Fucks

This is a point I make again and again, and it’s one that was really important for me as a writer — I learned to care less. I figured out that I needed fewer fucks in my fuck basket. This serves a lot of purposes. First, it gives you confidence — because if you’re not so concerned with what everybody else thinks, you start to command your own work more comfortably and assertively. Second, it makes sure you’re not trying to chase a market or not trying to mimic someone else’s idea of what your book should look like. It’s yours alone and if your attitude is a little bit punk-rock, a little bit middle-finger, you find yourself more willing to write the book you need to write rather than the book you think other people want. At the end of the day, even if the book doesn’t work — you know you did what you wanted with it. And you can do it again with the next one and the one after that. Note: you still have to care. Your fuckgarden cannot be fallow. But when you learn to moderate how many fucks you’re willing to give to this, you find a measure of freedom somewhere between PROFESSIONAL CLAUSTROPHOBIA and CHAOS REIGNS.

12. The Opposite Of ‘Kill Your Darlings’ Is ‘Know Which Hill To Die On’

Early on you learn to kill your darlings. Your work has these precious, preening peacocks who strut about for their own pomp and circumstance. These darlings are like chairs you can’t sit on, food you can’t eat — they’re just there to look pretty and take up space. So, you kill them. You learn to kill them. You get good at killing them. And then, one day, you realize maybe you got too good at it. Maybe you went too far. You started to think of everything as expendable, everything as negotiable. But it isn’t. It can’t be. I learned this writing Star Wars: yes, those books are not purely mine. They belong to the galaxy, not to me. Just the same? It’s my name on those books. If they fail, they fail on my watch. If there’s something in there you don’t like, it doesn’t matter if it’s something Mickey Mouse his-own-damn-self demanded I put in there: it lands on my doorstep. That’s when I saw the other side of the brutally execute your peacocks argument: some peacocks stay. Some peacocks are yours, and you put them there because that’s where you want them. Maybe they add something specific, maybe you’re just an asshole who demands that one lone peacock warbling and showing its stuff. But you own that. You have to see when there are battles to lose, and when there are wars to win. There are always hills to die on. It can’t be all of them. You want to die on every hill, then you’re dead for no reason and the book will suffer. But some things are yours and you have to know which ones to fight for, and why. You have to know why they matter and then you have to be prepared to burn the book to ash in order to let it stay.

13. Don’t Give Plot The Keys To The Story Car: Let The Characters Drive

You and me, we make our own decisions, mostly. We have autonomy and agency and that’s what makes life interesting. It’s also what makes stories interesting. Characters are everything, and I’ll tell you, for me this revelation is what helps a book begin but even better, is what helps a book grow and push on through the middle to a satisfying end. When you design a book from the top-down, beginning with plot, you are creating a structure that you have to force everything into. But that’s not interesting. The small story is what’s interesting, not the big story. And the small story is always about character. Even the biggest pop culture touchstones are about character: Die Hard works because it’s about McClane’s marriage. A New Hope works because we understand Luke’s desire to get off-planet. Buffy works because we see a character who wants to be a normal teen girl but who can’t. You can tell when a story feels like it has a plot and it’s just cramming characters into it, like it’s a traveler who swears they can fucking hammer their big-ass suitcase into the overhead compartment. Look at it this way: if you can replace all the characters in your story with objects, you done fucked up. If the plot keeps chugging on even if the protagonist is a toaster or a literal cinderblock, that’s a good sign that external plot has taken over the organic narrative. Characters are not architecture — they’re architects. They build plot. So let them build.

14. Originality Is Fucking Overrated

We worry about being original but fuck being original. No one element is truly original. What’s original is in the arrangement, and what’s original in that arrangement is you. You, the author, are the single, singular unique aspect of the work.

15. Sometimes Writing Days Are Not Days In Which You Write

This one’s fucking hard for me. I grew up with a father who instilled in me a hard-nose, ass-to-the-grindstone attitude — wait, you’re not supposed to press your ass against grindstones, are you? Actually, pressing your nose to a grindstone sounds bad, too, because I’m pretty sure that’s how you lose your nose. Maybe that’s how my father lost his pinky finger. Hm. Whatever. Point is, I grew up with a WORK YOUR ASS OFF attitude, and that’s mostly paid off, and it’s not entirely inaccurate that the work is the work is the work. What I missed though, was that sometimes the work wasn’t always just the work. Some days, yeah, writing is digging ditches. Other days, it’s designing UNICORN BONDAGE DUNGEONS OUT OF THIN AIR, and that requires more than just sticking a shovel into loamy earth and moving soil around. Sometimes it means thinking. It means moving around. It means experiencing life. See, that’s one of the hangups I have — one of the chiefmost pieces of advice you get about being a writer is that the two essential components are READING and WRITING. Yes, those are essential. They’re just not the only ones. You gotta live. You have to experience things. You have to travel and talk to people and examine everything and live both inside your head and outside of it. And that means that sometimes this gig leaves you with days that aren’t about reading and aren’t about writing — they’re about a third thing, a nebulous and unprotected thing that feels unproductive but that is necessary just the same. (But you still have to do the damn work. You can’t live in that interstitial space forever. You have to come back from the adventure with lessons and magic beans for the village. Or at least lessons on how to properly hog-tie a unicorn for sexy times.)

16. Don’t Be A Jerk, Because You’re Not That Important

For the most part, this industry is filled with amazing people who want to be here because they want to be here. Because they love it. It’s not so fruitful or lucrative an industry that people are attracted to it for the money, so that means you get a lot of people who are here just because they fucking dig it the most, baby, and that’s rad. Still — still. You get jerks. Because all of life has jerks. Jerks permeate. Ant colonies probably have jerks. I’m sure at any given time, any ant colony has a bare minimum of 13% jerks. So, you get them here, too. Some can’t help it. Others can. For those who can: don’t be a jerk. We’re watching. And the industry has a long memory. It’s not to say it’ll end your career. Plenty of jerks have done well for themselves. But it’s not worth it. The people here are awesome, so be awesome in return. Help more than you hurt. Try to give back. Make friends. Don’t be a fucking asshole, asshole.

17. Every Book Is A New Day

Last book didn’t sell as well as you wanted? Or it didn’t land with a publisher? Or you didn’t like it? That’s the way the pages turn. We all fail, and the only time the failure sticks is when you stop learning from it. But remember: there’s always the next book. This doesn’t need to end with one. Your career never needs to end with one. Keep going. Keep writing. I view my life as a series of books written and unwritten and that excites the hell out of me. In some cases I’m making a pile out of my failures, and sometimes I’m making a ladder out of my successes. Either way: every book is a new chance, a new day, a new path.

18. Every Book Is Just As Scary As The Last

And yeah, every book is just as scary as the last. Scary when you’re writing it, scary when you’re editing it, scary when you’re releasing it. It never gets easier. It sometimes gets harder, in that sense that Jenga is easy when you pull the first piece out, and a whole lot fucking scarier when you go to pull the 21st piece out…

19. Your Audience Is Wide…

Inclusiveness in fiction is not about political correctness but rather about ensuring that book is a big tent ready to accommodate and reflect those who may read it. Stories work when we can see ourselves in them. So let a lot of people see themselves in yours.

20. …But Also, Your Heart Matters The Most

This was another lesson that was hard for me to come to — the fact that at the end of the day, I’m accountable to me. I write for me. At least, I write that first draft for me. Once upon a time I thought I needed to write it for you: the market, the editor, the audience, the whoever. But in the story, in the book, I need to make peace with me, first. I need to take what’s going on inside my heart and my head and I need to mash them into a gelatinous, seminal, blood-pulp paste and brew ink from that hellacious emotional-intellectual slurry. And from that inkwell, I write. I write the story from my blood and my gray matter. I write the story I need to see. I tell the story I have to tell, obsessively and anxiously.

21. A Writing Career Has An RPG-Like Progression

You start out some n00b punk sling-shotting rats in a tavern cellar, and then one day you level up and you go out into the world and you think it’s easy from here. You get new skills. You get new loot like shoes that help you jump really far or a feathered hat that calls birds to come dress you or regurgitate into your mouth or whatever. You get a new weapon: THE FANGBLOOD ELFSLAYER DRAGONSDONG BLADE. Then you go out into the new realm, into an uncharted land, and you find that your problems just have bigger teeth now. The rats are giants. The giants become dragons. The slaying must continue. As you get better, so too do your problems get better at being problems. As a writer, I find they’re all good problems to have — it’s just, it doesn’t really get easier, it just gets more complicated. You must make choices. Harder, trickier choices. What I’m saying is, it starts as a Bethesda RPG, then it becomes a goddamn Bioware one, oh shit.

22. It’s Also A Little Bit Jazz

It’s RPG, but it’s also improvisational jazz. It’s a riff here, a fill-in there, it’s syncopation and swing. Every paragraph, every page, every story, every book, even the whole damn career — it’s about rhythm, and changing rhythm, and it’s about composing the tune as you play it. You plan what you can, but the rest is experimentation. Sometimes it’s got that orgy-like component: you don’t know what’s going to happen, but you do know it’s time to take your pants off.

23. Storytelling Is The Art, Writing Is The Craft

Writing matters. It has rules. It can be artful or utilitarian, it can be languid or merciless. But it’s just the vehicle. We keep coming back to the authors we love — Atwood to Gaiman, King to Morrison — not merely because of the quality of their prose but because their stories are engaging. It’s the stories that matter. The art lives in the story. It’s the hardest and most essential part — you can write beautifully, but if the story there doesn’t sing, fuck you. The opposite is also (usually) true: the writing can be execrable, but as long as the story grips us by the nipples, we’ll buy the ticket and take the ride — and we’ll beg you for more when we’re done.

24. You Know A Whole Lot Less Than You Know, And That’s A Good Thing

Nobody knows what the fuck is going on. I’m convinced of that. We’re all just collaboratively guessing. And that’s a good thing. This isn’t math. You can’t plug numbers into X and Y and get a steady result. Every day of a writing career is exploring a new planet. All the truths you hold are likely half-truths or even cleverly-costumed lies. Embrace that. Every day I know less than I knew before, and I find that oddly and eerily liberating. It means I don’t have all the answers and neither do you. It means we’re all just drunkenly careening and caroming our way up the publishing mountain. Not just up the mountain — but we’re also navigating peaks and valleys, because the middle of a writing career involves the mitigation of cliffs. You always know one is coming: a year from now, maybe three, because at some point your contracts end and your deadlines are vapor and it’ll be time to write a story anew. And that requires reinvention big or small every time. New questions haunt us. New problems, too. We’re all navigating this weird, goofy-ass path over uncertain topography. And we’re doing it together. And did I mention we’re drunk? OMG we’re soooo fucking drunk. DRUNK ON THE CREATIVE SPIRIT. DRUNK ON STORY. DRUNK ON PROBABLY ALSO GIN IF YOU’RE ME. THAT’S ONE TRUTH THAT’S SELF-EVIDENT: DRINK MORE GIN. IT GIVES YOU WRITER SUPERPOWERS. ALSO EXPLAINS WHY I DON’T WEAR PANTS. WHERE AM I. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE. DON’T DRINK MY GIN. *punches you*

25. Some Writers Have It, Some Don’t

Some writers have what it takes and others don’t. No, I don’t know what separates one from the other. I could make some guesses and I’d be right sometimes, wrong other times.

One thing I know: it isn’t talent. Talent may or may not exist as a character trait, but those with it will fail if they don’t put in the work, trampled beneath the talentless mobs who do put in the time and the effort.

Writing as a career takes a certain kind of obsessiveness and stubbornness, I think: the willingness to put a tin pail on your head as you run full-speed into a wall, hoping to knock it down. Again and again. Until the wall falls or you do. Sometimes I think maybe that the thing that separates those who have it from those who don’t is simply those who decide, “Fuck it, I’m a writer,” and then they do the thing. They choose to have it, to count themselves among that number rather than those who don’t. But I have no idea. I don’t know what the hell is going on. And neither to do you. What I know is this:

writers write, so go write. Finish what you start.

The rest is negotiable.

0 notes