Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: writing

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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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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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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I’ll tell you what I want (what I really really want)

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We’re coming down to crunch time. Friday is the first day of November (!), which means the start of NaNoWriMo. As I’ve mentioned before, I have done it every year for over a decade. I never had a problem meeting the 50,000 words limit because I am verbose by nature. At that point, I was writing 2,000 words a day as a personal goal.

That dropped off about the same time as a personal tragedy befell me. I still don’t want to talk about that, but I’ll just say it shook up my life. I lost a lot of the passion I had for life, including my writing passion. To be fair, I hadn’t really recovered the latter since my medical crisis. Or rather, my ability to write fiction. I still don’t know if it’s brain damage from the stroke or what, but I’m struggling with it in a way that I have never struggled before.

I don’t want to get into that becuase this post is about brainstorming for what I want to do for NaNoWriMo. I do want to do something. I have three options. Well, three options with sub-options.

1. A mystery trilogy. I write mysteries. Or at least I did back before my medical crisis. I have an outline of a trilogy lurking in the back of my brain. The problem is that I want to start with book two. I can start with book two, yes, but would that make it book one? Or would it still be book two when I go back to book one? I can ask those questions here because I’m trying to decide what to do in NaNoWriMo so there are no stupid questions. Or something.

I like to do things my way even if it’s not the best way to do things. Being weird/different sparks joy in me. And, again, it’s not that I do it on purpose, but that my brain works that way. I am better then I don’t try to restrain the oddity and just let the creativity flow. The problem is that the masking I do is hard to shed. I can feel this very thin veil surrounding me when I write, admonishing me not to step outside the box too far.

The issue with the mystery trilogy is that I know the general shape of what I want to do with it, but I lose steam after twenty-five to thirty pages. I can’t make it sing the way it used to do. When something I’ve written is good, the words shimmer and lift off the page. I know that sounds like nonsense, but it’s true.


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Nanowhatmo? Part three

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I have more to say about NaNoWriMo and what I hope to accomplish with it. In yesterday’s post, I talked about my time in the hospital. In part because I wanted to talk about it, but also because I want to write about it. I have toyed with the idea of writing a memoir since my medical crisis.

Side note: In the RKG Discord, there was a spirited debate about whether déjà rêvé was real or not. I did not know what it was when “C” brought it up so I Googled. It’s similar to déjà vu in that it’s the feeling that what you’re experiencing is something you’ve dreamed before. C talked about how he’d experienced it all his life, and a few people immediately dismissed it as not possible and bunk. One in particular, “D” was quite rude about it as was her wont.

I see this happen so often. If someone can’t imagine something, then it can’t be true. I am the opposite because I am so deep in the weeds of being weird, I constantly have to accept that my lived truth is not everyone else’s. I mentioned this about empathy a few posts ago, by the way. People really, really, really don’t like any hint that they are not as empathetic and/or intelligent as other people.

In this case, I easily accepted what C said because I had similar things happen to me. Not in terms of dreaming, but because there are times I can predict what is going to happen. I don’t talk about it because I have nothing to back it up (though my mother firmly believed I could make things happen because I would call them out before they happened.

C made it clear that he would dream things and then they would happen later. D kept saying it wasn’t possible. Someone else insinuated that he (C) just thought it was happening. The way D was so absolute about her belief that it just could not possibly be true was fascinating when viewed from a distance. I know it’s not unusual, but I rarely see it in such a discrete/concrete fashion.

The reason I’m pointing this out is that what happened to me is not possible, either, apparently. Or at least I cannot find someone else it’s happened to. When I tell medical people what happened to me, I inevitably hear that I’m a miracle.

Here’s an example. After I left the hospital, I had a nurse come once a week to check up on me. One time, the nurse could not get the system they use to work. She asked me what happened to me, and I gave her the quick summary (walking non-COVID-related pneumonia, two sudden cardiac arrests, and a stroke). She typed it all in and then went on with the checklist. She quickly read out the symptoms/situations and said no, no, no, and then said heart surgery, yes. I was half-listening, but sat up when I heard that. I said I hadn’t had heart surgery, and she made me repeat that. I said I did not have heart surgery; I just had an angiogram (which turned out fine).


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Nanowhatmo? Part two

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I want to write more. I know that’s a very generic and broad statement to make, but it’s where I’m at right now.  I write my one post a day for this blog, but I have given up on my fiction writing completely.I am so frustrated that it’s not as effortless as it used to be. I did try for NaNoWriMo not last year but the year before. I got the 50,000 words done, but it just did not go where I wanted it to go.

I have a fairly detailed idea for a trilogy that I shaped and remodeled in the past few years. Every time I try to write it, though, it just comes out flat. When I write something good, the words sparkle and almost jump off the page. I like to say that I am not creating the stories, but am merely the conduit that allows the stories to flow.

In the last post, I wrote about the dysfunction in my family. How is that related to my writing? Well, if I want to write my memoir (which is one of my ideas), I have to delve into my family dysfunction because otherwise, the reader will not have the right context for when I talk about my medical crisis.

I firmly believe that things are interconnected. What happened to me in my childhood has an effect on how I reacted to my medical crisis. I don’t think this is controversial, but not everyone agrees with me. Or rather, not everyone sees it.

Side note: I just had a really big reminder in the RKG Discord as to how ‘normal’ people are really not into the idea that maybe someone else can have an experience that is outside what they believe is possible. And it reminded me that as accepting and welcoming as the community is in certain ways, in otther ways, they are just as limited as society in general. It’s one reason I rarely talk about my medical crisis to the gen pop. It sounds ludicrous when I say it out loud or type it out.

I am literally the only person I know who has gone through what I did. You know how people say that no one is unique (with individual experiences)? Well, it’s not true. I did so much research, and I could not find anyone else like me. I can’t tell you how many medical people have called me a miracle. In fact, when I was in the hospital, it was the first thing most people I ran into said when they heard my whole story.


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Nanowhatmo?

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I have done NaNoWriMo every year for over a decade. Except maybe 2021. I don’t think I did it that year, but I have a handy excuse*. That was a month-and-a-half after I got home from the hospital from a life-threatening medical situation. I think I can be excused for missing that year. I tried the next two years, but could not get the fiction to gel. I have all these great ideas, but the execution is not so good.

I want to emphasize that I consider it a fair trade-off for still being alive. I would like to be able to get back to fiction one day, but if I can’t, well, I can’t. (I will. I just have to find my way back to it.) Fortunately, I’ve been able to write posts with no problem. I have several ideas for posts in my head at all times. I do have ideas for what  Iwant to write, fiction-wise. I just can’t get it from idea to written words.

If I do NaNoWriMo this year, I think I might actually use it to get back on track. In the past years, I did not need the 50,000 word count because I wrote 2,000 words of fiction a day. I haven’t been able to do that in the last year or two. I know it’s because of the medical crisis, which is why I’m not beating myself up over it.

But.

However.

I would like to be able to write fiction again. I have an idea for a trilogy (I always do trilogies), and I think I want to tackle that for NaNoWriMo. However, I want to start with the second book. Or rather, the second story chronologically. I’m not sure that will work, though, because all the pieces need to be set up before I can jump into a story proper. In that case, it would make more sense to start with the first book, but that’s not what I want to do.

I wonder if I could write a novella as the intro, jump to the second book, then go back to the first. Oh, this would be a mystery trilogy, by the way. That’s what I used to write before my medical crisis. I also wrote standalones, but I preferred to write trilogies. Only trilogies because I have the belief that series should not be longer than seven, whether it’s TV, movies, games, or books.

But I digress.

I have two discrete ideas for NaNoWriMo. By the way, that is one of my linguistic pet peeves–mistaking discrete and discreet. Usually people using discrete when they mean discreet.


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