Most Popular Tags

Hooray for Boobies & Other Fat Lady Tales

✏ 38 year old cis female ✏ Fat ✏ Married ✏ Crazy Cat Lady ✏ Opinionated ✏ Swear-ey ✏ All caps silliness ✏ occasional pretendy writer ✏ LJ immigrant ✏ Journaling since 2006 ✏ Ex chatroom /forum role player ✏ Now on Tumblr ✏
elf_fu: (Default)
I am celebrating July, the month of my birth, by writing a short story between 55-1000 words everyday for the entire month.

Every time I sit down to write I don't.

Every night I stew on this novel that's not ever happening because I am not writing. Anything. Oh, I write some great Google+ posts maybe and some funny facebook status blurbs. But I'm not writing.

Watching Fiona Skye take off and work hard has been an inspiration. Watching Ferrett work hard has been an inspiration. Watching any author I adore work hard has been inspiring, but what have I done with that inspiration?

One of Neil Gaiman's tumblr posts kicked me in the face with truth and justice. It basically said: how are you going to become a good writer if you don't write? Just write. Write. 350 words a day at least. Even if they are 350 of the worst words in the universe. Just do it. Make art.

I've been writing words for a character for 10+ years in a chat room with friends without tire, basically. How can I NOT be writing stories?

So--that's where I've been and where I will be this month. Struggling to write 55-1000 words a day for 30 days because NANOWRIMO isn't enough punishment, right?

And then I made this: Behold a Pink Robot & Other Fat Lady tales.

They're probably horrible words. They need work. I need work when it comes to this thing called writing. But I'm doin' it.

It's generally said that if you do something for 30 days, it becomes a habit. Let's hope so!

Bus Stops

Feb. 10th, 2013 11:37 pm
elf_fu: (Default)
There's a girl on the corner of my bus stop. She has black hair. It reminds me (the hair) of Wednesday from the Addams family hair, or dark nights when its cold and the sky is covered in clouds we can't see hair. It reminds me of the things I write about her hair on a paper with a bic pen. The sort of dreams that I cannot speak because speaking is a lion's roar and all that I have is the squeak of a baby.

I get off work and she gets off work and we stand, huddled in the shelter when it rains because winter rain is miserable fucking cold. Her eyes are blue. Black hair and blue eyes aren't something I think happen naturally a lot. But her hair is black enough to be natural (so I think) so maybe I'm wrong. I write stories about dark haired, bright eyed girls that save the knights and men who follow them and wear full pieces of armor instead of that barely-there-porn suits media tries to sell to us.

I can see her exhale and inhale, unsteady and shivering with the cold while rain half-freezes to the outside of the bus stop.

Today is the day, I think.
Today, I will turn to her and smile.
I will turn to her, see her sad and far away eyes, and maybe be the one--the one stranger that offers her a smile that hopes for nothing more than one returned.

She clears her throat.
I shift my weight from boot to boot.

I swallow, finding the letters of the words to the sounds that I want to make to go with the smile and--

The bus comes. The rain falls faster and harder, chilling everyone to the bone.

"Fuck," is all she says as the bus rolls to a stop and steps around me to run toward the door swinging open.

Numb (and not just from the cold, I follow.)

It's too bright in the bus and the cold to heat make my face and fingers hurt-tingle. I don't look to where Wednesday Addams girl has gone ahead of me but slip into my seat; a deflated ballon.

I do this all the time. Life arranges its checker pieces before me in such obivious, masterful ways it takes a blind man or a deaf man not to hear and see the clicks of the game moving for them. There's a story in my heart about a dark haired girl, and even if that story is simple it needs to come out. It starts with nothing but a simple world.

Everything in this world started with a simple, solitary word. A book. A poem. A rule. A government. A law. A marriage. A heartbreak. A disaster.

But because I could not say a word to her, I could not start any of these things. And if I cannot say these things, I may never be able to start any of these things. What point is there in a beautiful life without a glorious disaster every once in a while to remind yourself that at least...at least you did it. At least you did something for once.

But I didn't.
And I have to wonder.

How many on the bus with me have never sung in the car out loud for fear of being heard. How many have never said hello for fear of good bye. How many will never smile in fear of being shied away from?

How long will I stand, freezing and cold at bu stops, wondering about everything that should have been?
elf_fu: (Default)

Not exactly a tough start, but it was a bit of a struggle to get it down. I had been thinking of a new start/prologue to this book I have been agonizing over the last few years.


I started after midnight EST/EDT my time to be officialy official, but it took me until now (3:30 AM) to get this far. 


Still, it is a thing. It was writing. And a good start. I should sleep and write more tomorrow. 


elf_fu: (FFFFFFUUUU)
Within 30 minutes of my first, real no foolin' play session back at The Red Dragon Inn earlier this month I:
  • Had a character read my characters mind without permission.
  • Read something I had put in actions and use that in their RP in a very, very, very god-mode-y way.
  • Watched thought sniping abound (from a player that does nothing but thought-snipe since The Dawn of Time Anyway)
  • Been filled in that the Bat-shit insane is still bat shit and insane. And in some cases, worse.


WOW GUYS, I MISSED YOU, TOO.

Where are all my sane people at? Tell me you haven't been chased away :(

IN OTHER BETTER NEWS:

Check out the new post on 2phatgeeks:The Beautiful, Calming sounds of a crazy fat man. Now for your phone!
elf_fu: (Last Unicorn)
Written from my paper & Pen Diary, July 21st, 2012

I have all of these

words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words and stories in my head.

I never write them. Instead I think about them and all the places they could go--I think about worlds half formed, populated with thousands of people. I think of histories, long, dusty tomes with paragraph upon paragraph of a rich mythology to become a backbone for a story Eddings, Martin, and maybe even Jordan might haven liked.

I think about words.
I never write them.

I stare at my monitor or my ceiling and I dream about being. About being the hero, about being the villan, about being the god, about being the magic. I dream about fantastic places and fantastic people doing fantastic things with fantastic powers while I sit and age in a bucket of mediocre, watching fifty shades of sparkly vampire misspelled fan fiction rake in millions.

And then I think I don't know enough about living to make it real. To make it all real enough. I don't live enough to make the words real.

To make the stories live.

Profile

elf_fu: (Default)
elf_fu

May 2017

S M T W T F S
  123456
78910111213
14151617181920
2122232425 2627
28293031