Underneath my yellow skin

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My goals for 2026, part two

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I’m back to muse more about the new year. We are in the first day proper, and I want to talk more about my three big goals. Here is my post from yesterday, which mostly focused on my writing. I want to add another step to reach my writing goal. I usually spend most of my time at my desktop, but I write at my laptop. I need to make the commitment to change computers before it’s time to go to bed. So, I’m going to say for now that I’m going to go to my laptop at midnight. That will give me more than an hour to write before going to bed.

Again, I want to give myself as much cushion as possible so that I will actually meet my goals. I want to set myself up for success, which is not something I usually do. Most of the time, I set myself up to fail by setting impossible goals. Not because I think I can do them, but because I feel I need to go big or go home.

To refine the writing goal: It has to be a solid hour of writing. I have had a hard time not stopping and starting, which didn’t used to be a flaw of mine. I had many, but I could write for hours without stopping. I don’t want to blame my medical crisis, but it’s possible that it’s responsible. Even though I’m not really affected in my daily life, I did have a stroke. That probably knocked something loose in my brain.

Let’s talk more about Bagua. Right now, I’m working on the left side of the Swimming Dragon Form (hands only). I am about halfway through, and it’s been mostly easy going. There have been a few postures that have fucked with my brain, but for the most part, I’ve been able to teach it to myself fairly painlessly.

I should be able to finish it in a week or two. Then, I will get started on the Bagua Deer Horn Knives Form. I just watched the video for it again, and I’m excited. I also watched my teacher’s teacher’s Karambit Form video. I had previously taught myself about a third of the form (thinking I was nearly done), and I want to pick it up again, too. It’s not canon Taiji, I don’t think, but I’m sure my teacher’s teacher made it so.

Do I think both are doable in one year? Yes. Am  I going to commit to it? No. Again, I’m trying to make my goals as attainable as possible. So, the official goal is to teach myself the Bagua Deer Horn Knives Form with the stretch goal of teaching myself the Karambit Form. Or, let me be more realistic. To re-teach myself the part I know. As I was watching the video, I noticed the places where I had got it wrong.

I love knives and swords. Probably to an unhealthy degree. For now, they are all practice swords and knives, meaning either dulled steel (my sword and saber), practice steel (flexible) (double sabers), practice steel part two (deer horn knives), or rubber (karambit).


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My goals for 2026

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It’s now 2026, which is surreal. Time seems to go faster every year, but that’s especially true of 2025. It went by in a blink of an eye, and now we’re in 20266. It seems impossible, but it’s true. I floated through 2025, not doing much of anything. I want to do more in 2026, but I need to be realistic. I am not a ‘do ten things a day person’, no matter how much I want to be one. Also, I am not going to go to bed before 4 a.m. Let me just admit it. In fact, it’s 4 a.m. now, and I’m just starting this post.

I have several poals I want to meet in the new year, but there are three major ones that I have at the top of my list. I’ll go through those first and then maybe tackle the others if I have time (and the will). These are not in any particular order.

1. I will write the first draft ofmy novemoir.

Yes, I’m still insiting on calling my writing project that as a mash-up of novel and memoir. I want to write the rough draft, which will be roughly 200+ pages. Probably more, but I’m making a safe estimate.

Let me break that down even further.

A. I will write an hour a day.

In the past, I have said that I will write 2,000 words a day. That was not a problem for the most part back before my medical crisis. I wrote 2,000 words every day for the better part of several years. Maybe a decade? I’m not sure, but it’s many years.

Ever since my medical crisis, though, I’ve been struggling. In the past, I have had novels galore in my brain, and I easily wrote the rough drafts like they were no big thing. For the life of me, I cannot get this one done. But, more to the point, I have not dedicated myself to doing it. It’s partly because I have not had to work for it in the past that I’m not good at steadily applying myself to something.

I want to make my goals reasonable so that I can actually attain them. This is the one that is the hardest, so I’m setting small goals.

B. If I can do A for a month, then I’ll move it to 2 hours.

This seems like a good mid-goal because it’s very doable. I can write 2,000 words in 2 to 3 hours if I’m steadily writing. If I can do one hour a day for January, then I’l lmove to two hours a day. By the way, I’m counting until I go to bed taht night as that day. So this would still be the last day in December in my mental files until I actually go to bed.


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Totally realistic goals for 2026

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I’ve switched from idealistic goals to realistic goals, but who knows when I may switch back? My brain is jumpy right now so I’m interested in seeing what road it’s going to traipse down. I don’t know any more than other people do, which is the exciting part. I can start with the intention to go in one direction, and then, a thousand words later, I’ve done a one-eighty without even knowing it.

I don’t have a problem with that. It’s how my brain works, and who am I to say no to that? It’s taken me many decades, but I’ve finally made my peace to how meandering (and verbose) my brain is. In my twenties, I used to be embarrassed by it. I would apologize that it took me so long to say anything, and my posts were legendary for their length. Now, I know it’s partly because of my neurospiciness that I can’t say anything in a brief manner.

It took me a long time to figure out it’s because I see things as a complete whole and not as their pieces or their parts. I had trouble in school when a teacher or a group wanted to focus on one topic without seeing the way other topics interacted with it. For example, I took a Feminism in Philosophy class in college. All of it was very tilted towards the Western world. I asked about how feminism differed in different countries/ethnicities/cultures, and my teacher said that she didn’t have time to talk about that.

I didn’t say anything, but in my mind, I was thinking, “You mean, you won’t make time for it.” Also, I was thinking, “Some of us don’t have the  luxury to separate out issues like race and gender.”

This was before the days of nominal intersectionality, and it wasn’t even a glimmer of an idea in anyone’s mind. It was frustrating because it’s not like I coudl say, “Hey, let me put being Asian away and not be treated any differently because of it so I can focus on my gender” and have anyone take me seriously.

It was really frustrating to me, and the introduction of intesectionality didn’t really change anything because it was lip service more often than not. Also, no one cared about Asian people, anyway.

My point in mentioning that is my mentality is reflected in my writing. I can’t write about things in isolation because everything is connected in my mind. I found out this was a symptom of certain neurodivergent conditions. I can’t tell you what a relief it is that my mind is not broken–just wired differently. No, it doesn’t change the fact that I have to mask to be acceptable in normal people gatherings, but at least I know it’s not (completely) me.


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November is novels all the way down (part seven)

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In the last post, I wrote about diversity and how it’s not a dirty word. I also wrote about how it’s a part of me and not an affectation. I will say that it’s deliberate in that I choose to make the majority of my characters minorities. So, yes, in that case I’m doing it on purpose. I am not doing it at anyone in particular, but if I upset certain people in the meantime, well, that will please me greatly.

Some people are worth pissing off is what I’m saying. Yes, we need to be civil in general to work as a society, but when people break that social contract by being bigoted assholes, I am no longer beholden by that social contractor to those people.

There are going to be three main characters, and nary a cishetwhiteman among them. I will admit it amuses me to see how far I can go without having one as a main character. I have three or four other characters in mind (not fleshed out yet), and none of them are CHWM, either (figure it out).

I have a snapy beginning to my novel. The first few pages have been written–in my mind. This is how I write, by the way. I write in my brain before I write for real. That’s my way of planning/scheduling/outlining. I do a big brain dump as I’m musing things over in my mind. Then, I write in my mind for a few weeks. Then, I start the actual writing, and it’s like a brain dump agai, but in a more orderly fashion.

Before my medical crisis, my writing regime was pretty uniform. I wrote 2,000 words a day like clockwork in the fashion I outlined above. I edited as I wrote, though I tried not to do that. I rarely had a writer’s block, and I could finish a novel in a few months.

When I used to do NaNoWriMo, I had no problem meeting the word count. Why did I start doing it? Just to get back in the habit of writing again. I set my own goal of 2,000 words a day, and I was able to do that with ease. One year, I did 5,000 words a day–that was exponentially more difficult. In the later years of doing it, I started breaking the rules. I edited a novel one year. I wrote a novel and the the beginning of a sequel another year. I started on a day other than the first of November in yet another year. Before November, I mean.


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Noveling all November long (part six)

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I’m back to write about writing one more time. In the last post, I veered into ranting about the state of the world right now and how anti-inclusive it currently is (especially in America). I have been fighting this fight for thirty goddamn years, and I’m so tired. I did not realize that electing a black man would create a backlash this severe, but here we are.

I haven’t felt this hopeless in years. Politically, I mean. I don’t know if we as a country can recover from the shit that is happening right now. More to the point,  I don’t know if we should. We are not really a country–we are a conglomeration of fifty small nations. A resentful conglomeration.

There is no compromise, by the way. You’re either for inclusivity or you’re not. If you’re the latter, then you’re part of the problem. If you can’t even tolerate people who are different than you, then we have no ground that is common.

Back in the day, many minorities didn’t ilke the word tolerate. They wanted to be accepted as they were. Which, yes, ideally, that would happen. You can’t legislate that, though. You can’t mandate how people feel (though, lord knows,the curret admiistration is trying to do so), but you can dictate how they act. I don’t care if people accept me or not, but goddamn it, they can at least be civil–even if it’s just by a thread.

I include all this in my writing because it’s a part of me. It’s the fabric of my life, and it’s not an affectation. This is what the alt-right doesn’t get–we are not being who we are to spite them: that’s just an added benefit! I’m not agender, queer, and Asian AT them–it’s just who I am. My life experience, and, indeed, my very being, include all those aspects of myself.

The fact that I died (twice!) and came back to life (twice!) has deeply affected me as well. I learned things from that experience that I could not have learned any other way. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can share with many people because it’s so out there. I want to include it in my novel, though, beacuse it’s just that unusual. Will people believe me? Probably not, but that bothers me not.

In my first few attempts at a novel after my medical crisis, I really tried to set it in the hospital. It was such a wild experience; I still haven’t completely digested it yet. At some point, I realized that everything I thought happened while I was in the hospital didn’t. Well, to be more precise, most of what I thought happened did not.

I was as high as a motherfucking kite, and I was delusional/hallucinating the whole time. Some of the things that I thought happened did actually happen, but not in the way I thought. For example, I was so impressed that there were so many people of color on my team. I live in Minnesota, which means the vast majority of people are white. My experience in the hospital was that everyone but a few people were non-white–specifically, they were Asian.


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November means novel time! (Part three)

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I’m back to write more about the novel I want to write this November. I tend not to make goals unless I am firm about meeting them because I don’t need to feel bad about anything more than I already do.

I have the strong desire to write a novel this November. Or rather, to write a novel in general, and I’m using November as a springboard for it.

Here’s what I want to include in it (in a general way). I want it to be funny. I tend to write humorously in a way that borders on darkly sarcastic. I am not good with descriptions, so I rely heavily on dialogue (which I am good at). I’m also good at characterization and giving people personalities.

I was a psych major in college, and I have had a life-long interest in the subject. I am really good at reading people, uncannily so. I often know more about people than they know about themselves, but I learned in my twenties to keep that shit to myself.

It’s interesting how freaked out people get when I say something about them that they didn’t know they were revealing. I’ve been in forums where people insist that nobody can do that. Or that empaths aren’t real. Or that it’s always a bad thing when someone says they’re an empath.

It’s like anything else in that if someone insists they’re something or pride themselves on it, yes, it’s a problem. Like the ‘nice’ guy who endlessly talks about how nice he is really isn’t. Or rather, he mistakes basic decency as something he should get kudos for. One should just not identify too strongly with any one thing about themselves.

Each person is the cumulation of many things–not just made up of one thing. That one thing can go in a flash, too, so it’s best not to get too comfortable with it. Like my brother insist that he’s pure logic. He’s not. Yes, he’s more logical than not, but there are ways in which he lets his emotions influence his thoughts and behavior. I’m not saying this is a bad thing! I’m just saying that if someone can’t/won’t see those aspects of themselves, it’s really easy to get scammed.

I can tell within ten minutes of talking to someone so many things about them. When my brother first started dating again, he would tell me about his dates and want me to give him an analysis of each one. He used to joke about having me eat at the table next to theirs so I could do an on-the-spot analysis. I declined (he was only joking, anyway), but I mention it to point out that I have a gift for reading people. It’s not a gift i want, and I would give it away if I could, but here we are.


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November can still be novel-writing month

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For quite some time, Novemember has been novel-writing month for me. I have done NaNoWriMo for over a decade, and in the latter years of doing it, I became a NaNoRebel instead because I was bored with the original premise (writing 50,000 words in the month). I’ll be honest–I can easily write 50,000 words in a month. I used to write two-thousand words a night every night, which took me roughly three hours or less.

Two years ago (I think it was), NaNoWriMo was accused of not doing enough when a moderator was purportedly grooming children in the teen forums and luring them to fetish websites. NaNoWriMo organizers/leaders did not react well at all, and they dragged their feet on doing anything concrete about it.

Last year, they made some very ill-formed remarks in support of AI for disabled writers/writers with disabilities (they were widely condemned by said community), and they were called out for their ableism. They shut down the last day of March this year (2025).

I felt no remorse to see them go. In addition to their reacting badly in these two major situations, I had just outgrown them. I did not see any reason to not start a novel before the first of November or not to edit or to count my words. I am grateful that they got me in a groove back when I was doubting my ability as a writer, but I did not need them by the time they shut down.

I will say that I’ve had a big writer’s block since I had my medical crisis. I have tried to write since then, but it’s been a struggle. Not these posts, but writing, ah, let’s just call it fiction for now. It’s not strictly fiction, but that’s close enough.

The problem isn’t that I don’t have an idea–I have one. It’s changed  and shifted in the four years since my medical crisis, but the core is still there. The problem is that I write about thirty thousand words (or more), and they just lie flat on the page. They don’t dance and glimmer as they should; they just stubbornly sit there.

I have said many times that I consider myself the conduit for the characters I create. I’m not writing their dialogue and actions–they are. I have had characters simply refuse to do what I want them to do if it’s not what they want to do.

With my current project (well, current as in the one I want to work on, but I have not touched it since last November), I have been calling it ‘everything and the kitchen sink’ in my head. Why? Because I want it to be part memoir, part murder mystery, part romance, part comedy, part noir spoof, and part homage to Bloodborne. Oh, and all cohesive. Or not. I want it to work, but it doesn’t have to be cohesive, exactly.

I’ve always been weird. It’s only been relatively recently that I’ve figured out (with the help of a friend) some big reasons why. It’s not because my brain is broken, which is what I’ve thought for decades. Well, the mainstream and normies would probably consider it broken, but it’s that I’m neuroatypical.


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Looking for ways to make my life better

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I was talking in yesterday’s post about my writing. I would dearly love to be able to write fiction again, but it’s a struggle. The words still come fairly easily, but they are not catching fire like they used to. I have mentioned before how if my writing is going well, then there’s a sparkle to the words. A lightness that I can tangibly feel–and see. when it’s not going well, the words are flat and lifeless. Sometimes, I can find ways to spice it up, but oftentimes, I just have to trash it and start over.

I don’t know what to do with my writing, honestly. I know what I want to write. I know what I feel compelled to write. These are not the same thing, though I might be able to meld the two together.

I have to say that it’s time to sort my family shit out. It’s a bit crude to point out that my parents are in the last stage of their life/lives, but it’s true. And it’s wrought/fraught because of my father’s dementia. But, that’s not the only reason. There’s also the fact that my parents are broken people. They have been my whole life, and they’ve only gotten worse as the years have gone by.

I clearly remember having an argument with my mother about social justice issues. This was since my medical crisis. We’ve had plenty of arguments about all the ‘isms’ beforehand, but this was after, I think. My mother said she was a traditional/old-fashioned person and tried to justify it by saying she had been born in 1942.

This argument drives me batshit insane. It’s always given as an excuse for attitudes/beliefs that are frankly horrible. In addition, though, it’s the laziest, most contemptible excuse one can give. Yes, she was born over eighty years ago. But you know what? She was not cryogenically sealed for the ensuing eighty years, only to be defrosted in the last three years. She lived in America during the Civil Rights years. She saw the ERA movement in America, and got to witness marriage equality in both Taiwan and America. Well, she wasn’t here (America)when it happened, but she got to see it happen. She got to experience Taiwan elect its first female president (something America hasn’t managhed to do), and many more progressive things in her eighty years on this earth.


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More pensive thoughts this holiday

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It’s Black Friday, y’all. When did this become such a thing? I’ve never been a shopping kind of person, so I don’t understand why this is such a big deal to people. Then again, I also am not someone who is heavily influenced by marketing. I am not loyal to brands. I mean, if something works, I will stick to it–until it no longer works. Or until I find something better. To me, that’s how it should be. I don’t get putting one brand over another simply because of what the label says. Back when I drank pop, I was a Coke person (Caffeiene-free Diet Coke, then Diet Coke, then Coke Zero). I drank the last until they changed the formula. That tasted gross to me so I quit drinking it. Then I quit drinking pop completely. If I do have a pop, though, it’ll be a Diet Coke. I have heard that Coke Zero is back to the old formula, but I haven’t tried it in years.

It’s interesting because I’ve been on a bit of a shopping jag lately, but only for one specific thing–Giant Hoodies. They make huge hoodies that fit most people, and I had bought a few of them in the past. The reason being that the hoodies I had been buying recently were ‘unisex’, but did not fit my massive chest. I cannot buy women’s clothing because it’s usually fitted and will have problems with the shape of my body over all. I have broad shoulders and big biceps on top. I have thick thighs and calves on bottom. I’m just thick and very muscular all over. So, yeah. Fitted women’s clothing is a no-go. Also, what’s up with the capped sleeves? I hate them so much. I hate short sleeves in general, but especially the capped sleeves.

Unisex is usually better about shoulders and arms, but that’s because they are just men’s sizes under a different name. Which means boobage is not taken into consideration. Of course. Also, the sweatshirts that I had this issue with (way too tight across the chest) was with a British company–which I think matters sizing-wise. I’m guessing sizes are smaller over there than here in general. But also, I have just huge boobs. They’re HUGE. And I hate them being squished–which is why I gave up bras.

I also gave up on getting sweatshirts from this company. I’m not naming them because it’s not the company’s fault. Although, weirdly, their t-shirts don’t have the same issue. I live in hoodies in the the winter, and I love them. They are comfy and warm, and they feel like a gentle hug. In fact, they feel better than a hug to me.

I don’t know how I heard about Giant Hoodies, but I was skeptical upfront. Why? Because ‘most people’ usually doesn’t include me. All their hoodies were one-size fits most, and they are pretty pricey. I decided to try one out, and I was delighted with it. Shadow claimed it as his own, and I quickly ordered another one. They also have blankets that are supposed to be really soft and warm. I was skeptical, but I got one one sale, and it’s amazing. Seriously. I sleep with it every night, and it’s the best blanket I’ve ever used. I recently got another for free with the purchase of two more sweatshirts, which was a really great deal.


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More thoughts on NaNoWriMo

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I probably have brain damage. I want to state that outright because I think it has had an impact on how I write. Or not. I’ll get more into that, obviously. In yesterday’s post, I talked a bit about how I write. I don’t do what is commonly thought of as the right way to write. I don’t do it the first thing in the morning. I don’t do an outline (except in my head). I write a lot of garbage. That’s normal, but I write more of it because I’m so prolific. I edit as I go, which is a no-no as well.

This is the story of my life. I don’t do what I’m supposed to do just because I’m supposed to do it. It’s why I don’t identify as a woman any longer. It’s why I give a side eye to ‘but tradition’ or ‘but faaaaamily’. I have never understood why I should accept something is good just because society declares it as good. This is doubly so because as a minority, I have had to endure so many different kinds of isms across my life.

I am a weirdo, yes. This has put me on the fringe of society all my life. This has caused me no end of heartache, but it’s also been a strength. I have a bad tendency of being a people-pleaser–except when it comes to my writing. I mean, I do self-edit, but when it comes to how I write and the things I write about, I just don’t give a shit. I know that there is no way I can write about something that will have mass appeal. I just don’t have that in me. I am not a mass appeal person.  When I allow even a sliver of the real me to slip through, I get in trouble. I don’t like most of all pop culture, and I’ve learned to keep that opinion to myself.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not going to say I like Star Wars, for example. I don’t. I saw the first movie when I was eight or nine and absolutely hated it. I cannot tell you why, but I loathed it with every fiber of my being. I have seen the second movie (I’m talking the original trilogy), which I did not like either. That was the last Star Wars movie I’ve seen–oh, except for the horrid Christmas movie that Lucas tries to pretend never existed. I have no interest in the series, and I’m gobsmacked how fans just gobble down any shit Disney throws their way.


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