As per my previous post, I finished the last little bit of typing. I'd feel accomplished if I'd stopped handwriting this story at an ending point, but I just arbitrarily stopped and decided now was time to type up what I had, so I have some fraction of a story typed up in which I have no ending and no clue how much longer it's going to be, and that just seems like a little bit of a waste of time this Friday when I could have been watching Netflix and eating Nutella.
I've fallen out of love with being a writer.
From grade six physics, blocks that sit on a table have potential energy, because they can fall to the floor. But once the blocks fall, hitting the floor, the potential energy is gone. Five years ago I was a block on the table. Now I'm on the floor and I am just spent. I am reading my faerie story to Tesfa and I just don't like it. I don't like what I've done. All that time and this is it. What a waste.
I don't know what to do next.
To be fair, three were scheduled book review posts, so they were written when I actually finished those books. This is the only one actually written today, March 7, 2017. Although I have a migraine so who knows, perhaps I'm reading the date wrong.
But ... ... (it requires two sets of ellipses for adequate suspense): FAERIE STORY!
I have written all the way to the end. For a limited time only, as always, here it is, both as PDF and ePub. I make very little claim for the ePub because I took my LaTeX file and I think it went through something like htLaTeX or LaTeXht or something, that gave me an HTML file, then I ran that through a Calibre converter to an ePub and I looked it over and it seemed acceptable, but maybe it isn't. But it doesn't matter because I have a completed version of my middle grade novel: How To See The Faeries.
LINKS REMOVED: Contact me for access.
I'm pretty pleased with myself, but also really unsure. Maybe my story is awful. Maybe it isn't. The point is I actually completed something. Good for me.
But seriously, my head feels like it's going to explode, so if those links don't work, let me know so I can fix them.
We are rapidly spiraling towards the end. One weekend only! New stuff starts on page 122.
(It is shared via Google Drive this time since we have a new computer and I haven't copied my archaic WS-FTP LE program over from my laptop yet. So if Google Drive doesn't work, then someone please let me know and I'll figure out a work-around.)
Have not been sleeping well. May be going slightly sleep-deprived crazy.
I tell myself stories to fall asleep. I started when I was pregnant. I broke for a bit, a few months this summer, but I'm back, telling myself stories I started once but never finished. Sometimes, after a month or two of head space, they float away, off to try their luck, I assume, with someone else who might write them down (if anyone does end up writing a story about The Trading Post in Norwood, Ontario, know that I'm the one who was offered that story and passed).
There's one story that starts in a feral front garden, with a wasp's nest and a pathway under the bushes. Some sort of bushes. I don't know their name. When we bought our house, Neil's mum had to come over and tell us the name of the plants in the garden.
You really don't know this one? she asked me.
It's mint. She picked it up and smelled it. Then she gave me some to smell. She was right; it was mint. I guess I should have snuffled around on the ground, smelling all the leaves before she arrived, but no one told me you're supposed to do that when you buy a house. That was not in any of the promotional mortgage materials the bank gave us.
So I don't know the bushes. I named the characters, two of the three so far. Sarah, and then another name, because I realized that since naming them a few weeks ago, I've forgotten one of the names. It was common, could be masculinized, but for a girl. Stuck in my head right now is Teddy, but what is that short for? Theodora? That's not too common. Was the child's name Charlotte (Charlie?) Louise (Lou?) The name was perfect. Why didn't I write it down.
The story's lost now even though I might call the child Edith (Ed to Ted to Teddy almost makes sense).
I drank a lot of coffee this morning. My heat goes like super-bass.
All my stories are again out. Let the rejections trickle in. I hate submitting. This one wants page numbers, this one wants my address at the top left of all pages, this one wants no identifying marks, this one wants docx, this one pdf. The bureaucracy of writing was also not in the promotional writing materials that anyone ever gave me.
Coffee heart pounds and collapses. My chest is hollow, concave. Sleepy meghan dissolves.
The last twenty-or-so pages I've been editing, I simply cannot cannot cannot look at them anymore. Normally, when I talk about clawing my eyes out, it is because I have a migraine and I feel that clawing my eyes out would not only be a distraction, but less painful. But I want to claw my eyes out rather than keep reading these same twenty-four pages.
I remember when I loved my faerie story, but now I'm like the Belle and Sebastian song and I don't love anyone.
So the next section is here. It starts on 98 in the file. I also redid the chapter numbering but that affects no one really.
Limited time, as always, the Ship of Theseus that my faerie story has become: yoink! I'll post the next bit in a little while, so if you missed this part, you're going to have to wait until then.