Underneath my yellow skin

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NaNoWriMo in full effect

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It’s the first day of November, and I started my NaNoWriMo project at midnight last night. Well, technically, I started before that, but since I did not record my first 2,000+ words until after midnight. It’s totally legit, shut up. I began with a little brainstorming, and I will do more of that throughout the month.

I decided to start with the mystery, Here’s the thing, though. Because it’s set in the hospital, it could be the start of the memoir as well with a few tweaks. Which then makes me think, why not combine both?

Here’s the thing with the memoir. I am not and never going to write a classic memoir because it’s not the way I roll. Plus, as I mentioned before, my life isn’t nearly interesting enough for that. In addition, my brain will not settle down enough to write anything in a straightforward, sequential way. Believe me, I have tried. Several times. I start out a piece telling myself sternly that I am going to write something that starts at Point A, goes directly to Point B, and does not stop at Point C or Point -Z in-between.

I can Start at Point A and be absolutely determined to go right to Point B without turning my head–hey, what’s that over there? Why, it’s Point C!

Believe me, it’s much better for me to be honest with myself. I can sit here and say that I’ll be sequential and tell everything in a nice, neat fashion–and it would be a bald-faced lie. I know it’s not true. I know that I’m messy and bendy and I will always prcefer footnotes over the main story. I have footnoted a footnote before, and I will do it again. Don’t think I won’t.

Here’s the thing about my project. I decided I wanted to do two separate things (a memoir and a murder mystery (sort of)), but now I’m thinking of smashing it together. But would that be possible or even wise?

Side note: I just Googled fictionalized memoir. There are some very strong feelings about this, but there is also a term for it–autofiction. Which, I’m not thrilled about, I don’t mind saying. Why? Because it sounds like I’m writing about a car. Which I’m not. Most emphatically not. Anyway, some people have Very Strong Feelings about fictionalized memoirs, meaning they are very against it. It’s not true to the feelings and the blah-di-blah blah blah. Or rather, it’s not being truthful, which is sacred in memoirs.

Which, come on. No one’s memory is 100% perfect, plus we all have our biases. It’s folly to think that a memoir would be 100% accurate or even 75%. If I were to go the route of writing a fictionalized memoir, I would be honest that it’s not completely real. It’s more about the vibes and the feelings. And me jsut musing about whatever I want to muse about.

This is how I am about, well, everything, really. I use something until it’s no longer useful to me (like a label). Then I let it go and move onto something else. Is this a part of my neurodivergent brain? Maybe? I’m not sure because I’ve never been any different. I don’t like labels (but not in the ‘no labels’ way), but I acknowledge that they’re useful as heuristics.


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NaNoWriMo down to the wire

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It’s Halloween, and we have snow. That is not what i’m here to talk about, but I’m excited about it, nonetheless. We were supposed to get a mix of rain/snow overnight, which morphed into 2-4 inches of snow (up to six inches for outer MN). I woke up to nothing, but then the heavy fat flakes started falling. I’d say there’s nearly an inch on the ground. Who knows how long it’ll last? I don’t really care; I’m just happy to have snow at all. It’s been weird, though, the weather, I mean. In the last week or so, it’s been 80 by day and 40 by night. I am not a fan of the wild weather swings and neither is my body.

But snow? I am a fan of that! I love snow. We had a huge blizzard on Halloween back in 1991. I was at college, on campus, and everything was shutdown. Our profs in Minneapolis could not make it down. We got over 2 feet of snow, and it was glorious. We’re not going to get anything close to that today/tonight, but any hint of snow pleases me.

I do feel for the kids trick or treating tonight. It does add to the vibes, but it’s probably not much fun to walk around in the snow. However, I don’t feel sorry enough to turn on the lights and hand out candy. Granted, it’s partly because I don’t have candy, but it’s mostly because I don’t like doing that.

I’m sitting in my house with the lights off and waiting for the night to end. It’s already dark at six-thirty, so the festivities are probably pretty much over. I did hear a bunch of kids about ten minutes ago so there’s that.

In yesterday’s post, I meandered all over, per usual. I talked about what I wanted to write for NaNoWriMo, kind of. It’s coming down to crunch time and I’m setting my goals as basic this year. 50,000 words. No creativity in that area because I have not written fiction for quite some time. I can do 2,000 words a day–or at least, I could before. Let’s see if I can do it again. My perfect writing time is around midnight, so that lines up as well. Meaning I can start at midnight and hopefully be done about three weeks in.

Now. Have I decided if I’m going to write the mystery (one book of the trilogy) or the memoir? Yes, I have, and the answer is yes. Yes to which? Both.


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NaNoWhatMo? WTF am I writing?

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I want to talk more about NaNoWriMo which starts in two days. Here is my post from yesterday about it. I want to get back into writing. I miss it a great deal. I mean, yes, I write a post a day, but before my medical crisis, I wrote a post a day plus 2,000 words of fiction. Every day. I would love to do that again. As I’ve mentioned, I did continue to write after my medical crisis, but it was shit. Now, I am hard on my writing no matter what. That’s not unusual for writers. We are (usually) our own worst enemies. In this case, however, the negativity I have towards my writing is valid. Of course I would say that, though. Nobody has a great assessment of their own anything, really. But to me, my writing as of late has been shit. Maybe I needed to push through it to get to the good stuff (which is often the case), but last year or the year before, I tried to write the second book (though I didn’t realize it would be the second book at the time) of my mystery trilogy. I wrote over 50,000 words, and the words never started to shimmer.

I mentioned this before as well that I don’t consider myself anything but a conduit for the words to flow through. I don’t feel like I was the creator of any of my novels, which may actually be the problem now. The words are not flowing through me. Before my medical crisis, I could sit down and write effortlessly for hours. After my medical crisis, I had a much harder time doing that. Yes, I could still write the 2,000 words a day, but it wasn’t nearly as effortless as before.

My goal this NaNoWriMo is…well, I’m not sure. Writing the 2,000 words a day, obviously. That’s my own personal goal because it’s what I used to do. It’s also to see if I can actually finish a novel as I did before. Or my memoir. Speaking of the latter, if I write it, it’s not going to be a straightforward memoir. As I’ve said a few times, my life is not interesting enough for a memoir. Except for the one situation that is unique and has never happened to anyone else.

The problem is, will anyone believe it? I almost can’t believe it myself. Yes, I’ll reference my brother’s CaringBridge journal in which he details what happened to me–but, wait. I’m not sure he mentions that I had two cardiac arrests and a stroke as that happened before he came into the picture. (And the non-Covid-related walking pneumonia which kicked it all off.) He told me about it when I woke up, but no one needs to believe that.


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Big brainstorming dump

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NaNoWriMo is fast approaching–where the hell has 2024 gone? Seriously. I know that this is a trope, but it’s also true. Every year does, indeed, go faster than the year before. Yes, I know this is not possible, but I am also not possible. So there! Oh, and here is the post from yesterday.

I know why it is, of course. It’s beacuse when you’re a kid, a year is a huge chunk of your life. When you’re five, it’s one-fifth of your years on this earth! I remembering waiting or Christmas (when I actually believed in Santa–which was up to eight or nine) and it took F-O-R-E-V-E-R. Now, a year is but a sharp inhale or maybe the following exhale.

I’m fifty…ah…three? Yes. Fifty-three. I’m never quite sure because I always add a year to my age at some point before I turn the next age. No idea why, really. In Taiwanese culture, you’re one at birth, so maybe that has something to do with it? It doesn’t help that I consider September 3rd to be my re-birthday. (In that case, I’m three.)

Anyway. This year has just flown by. I think in part because I have been grieving since February. Grieving is strange. It makes time both expand and contract. Sometimes at the same time. It seems like just yesterday that the tragedy happened. At the same time, it seems like forever ago. I have not been able to write (except here) since then–which I’m sure is part of the issue.

It’s nearly November. It’s because I’m thinking about NaNoWriMo that I’ve been musing about time in general. And because it’s been three years of bonus days of which I’m feeling I’m not taking proper advantage. Ugh. That was a terrible sentence. Let me phrase it better. I died (twice) on September 3rd, 2021. I was not supposed to come back, but come back, I did. Twice! Only to fall back into unconsciousness again. I was in a coma for a week, and my medical team told my brother to start thinknig about pulling the plug. Strongly advised.

And then I woke up. And while I was drugged out of my mind, I was able to do everything reasonably well. And was back home in a little over a week. No rehab. No physical therapy. Still drugged the fuck up, but functional. I could not read for the first few days I got home (blurred vision), but that went away fairly quickly.

Well I went far afield there, didn’t I? Let’s get back to brainstorming what I want to do for NaNoWriMo this year.


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Planning my next move

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It’s time. My brother has left me his little camera, and it’s time to get shooting. I have a hatred of pictures and videos, which has been lifelong.

Brief primer: I have been fat for most of my life–except for the two times I deal with anorexia (and bulimia the first time). Well, to go back a bit more, I was a chunky kid, but I wasn’t out-and-out fat. This is an important distinction because my mother put me on my first diet when I was seven and hated on my body since that moment. She never had anything positive to say about my body, and when I was so skinny I was passing out from lack of food, her only comment was that my waist was smaller than hers–and it was said with much envy. This is something that scarred me for most of my life. I had to actually institute a ban on her mentioning my weight because it was that bad. She protested that she was only concerned about my health, which the previous anecdote has proven incorrect. But more to the point, she only harped on it looks-wise, saying things like, “You have such a pretty face and would be beautiful if you lost weight.” When I pointed out to her that I was the only one in the family with low blood pressure, she ignored that.

It’s not a nice feeling to know that your mother thinks you’re a grotesque pig. Pigs are so cute, by the way! I love them. So let me rephrase it by saying my mother thought/thinks I’m grotesque.

Because of that, I have hated the way I look all my life. To be fair, it’s not just her; it’s society in general. America is not kind to fat people, especially women. It’s one way, sadly, that women bond–over dieting and counting calories and exercise. If you don’t participate in the discussion, then you are considered suspect.

I understand bonding through shared experiences. It’s one reason I identify more with women than other genders. But, on the other hand, after a lifetime of being told that I am not a woman because I don’t do anything that women like to do or act in a way that is congruent with how other women act, well, it’s difficult for me to feel warmly about it.


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