Week Two (Day Five)

Writing first: Cover designer has backed out due to personal reasons for myself and four others. No replacement is being offered so I’m looking for a new artist for The Last Prophet.

Wrote some for The Last Prophet and put some edits into Crop.

Looking into making a box set for trilogies.

Now, the hypergraphic/personal:

 

2ifb0b

 

See the above. No one is really in dress code, which I’m fine with, wear whatever. The office dress code will vary, etc. But because I was told there was a dress code, I purchased dress pants and black shoes.

Though, to be fair, my shoes needed to be replaced anyhow.

No one is in dress code, no one talked about dress code. There are ripped jeans, leggings, and bulky boyfriend-style sweaters daily in the class. Flip flops on the feet and old runners.

Again, I’m not complaining in the least. They can wear whatever they want. But I kind of look like a crazy person snuck into class.

My dictionary informed me snuck is not a word, but sneaked sounds so flipping weird. I think this is one of those things I need to defend to the end of my days.

Anyhow, I’m in dress pants and button up shirts. The shirts have been in my closet for years, they’re what I’m most comfortable in. I know, crazy person. The dress pants are new and the shoes were a kind of hold over until they told us the dress code.

I have hip and leg problems and the shoes didn’t offer proper support, so I bought new ones yesterday. Happy feet help the Bitter Betty feeling a little.

So, new shoes, same shirts as always, but still dress pants. I could go back to jeans, which I wear for work. But I’ve decided to keep the dress pants.

I like how they make my butt feel.

And it’s really the little things, right?

Had an altercation last night with someone who is in a position I was in for years. One which I fixed the area she deals with and re-trained everyone.

She spoke to me like I was a child, like I had damage the property of a client. Like I had walked around her desk, bent right over and licked her between the eyes. Peed in her wheaties, wrote my name in black marker across the side of her cat, or car.

Walked right out and slapped a client, literally, not figuratively or metaphorically.

She spoke to me in a way which she is not allowed to speak to me. Clients don’t get away with that tone of voice. My parents don’t.

The problem in question?

There were things overdue the day I worked in her area and the person who put them together made a mistake on every single one. The last time I worked in her area, the rule was that they had to be left, even if they went overdue because that person is not a stupid moron and has to fix their stupid fucking mistake.

Now, the last part of that sentence is implied by how she behaves toward us. That’s not how we’re supposed to talk to one another.

Or what we’re supposed to do.

My boss came in two hours before I was done and said that it had been changed around and to fix the mistakes. We discussed the problems and how long they would take. She agreed with me to leave the one I left.

By that time, I was mid-way through completing the item due the next day. Not yet overdue, but about to be.

The one that I didn’t do was a fix of a previous error made by someone in this person’s area. We weren’t waiting on anything to come in, all the components had been there for two weeks and they ignored it.

I have no sympathy for people who take fixes and then pass off the work, make the client wait two weeks for something that’s not their fault.  But it was also a complicated process that I knew I didn’t have the time to fix.

For that? I’m a God damned fucking moron.

My boss has told me not to argue with this person. It’s not worth it, I get what she’s saying, but at the same time, I’m not just going to stand there and listen to someone talk down to me.

Me.

I’m fuckin’ perfect at everything.

(That’s a joke)

I know my limits and my history and I know the appropriate way of doing things for my company. I am an experienced, rational, balanced body. If I weren’t a good body, I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in of working/school thirty-seven days straight, of covering for the boss on Sunday while she’s on vacation.

I am an able body and this person makes me feel like nothing I ever do is good enough, will ever be good enough, but she just keeps demanding and taking more and more.

I left the uh… discussion halfway through.

And immediately began bawling my eyes out because that last bit? That’s a trigger for me.

I give and I give and I give and this company just wants my blood and my bones and my soul itself and I’m not willing to give it up. People like the one I had the discussion with are products of their training, of their upbringings and someone will say that I need to be the bigger person and understand and console and just say I’ll do better.

But you know what never changes if that happens?

Her attitude, behaviour, the cloud of negativity and hatred that surrounds her.

I’m not a goddamned saint. I’m out to slay the dragon (metaphorically). I can be the white knight on the horse, but if the bitch keeps getting caught by dragons, keeps falling into traps… well…

I let her die.

Again, metaphorically.

I went to the break room, grabbed a kleenex, realized if she came in I’d be cornered and those types go right for the throat when you cry. Oh, and I go for the soft parts when they do, so I headed out and found what I thought was an empty room only to have another manager look at me and ask what was wrong… and for me to start bawling again.

I’m tired, I have nothing left to give, but still they demand more and nothing I do is good enough. I bawled my eyes out until I managed to force myself to stop and then I got mad.

The manager in question tried to joke with me as she left. Like everything is good now that she’s rubbed my face in someone else’s shit.

I am not okay. It is not okay to talk to someone like that.

But my feet didn’t hurt as much at the end of the day. I’m also not as tired as I have been the past couple of weeks. Almost energetic physically. Mentally, I’m okay. Emotionally, though?

I’m done, so done. Negative Nellies, Talk-down Tanyas, Bitter Betties and Whiny Wilmas need to leave me alone.

 

Week Two (Day Four)

I feel weirdly alert today. The little voice in my head suggested it’s because my valerian might not be valerian. Did an internet search, it’s not possible to remove the smell of Valerian entirely. So I opened a capsule… know what didn’t happen?

I was not mauled by cats.

Uh, so, I’m going to pick up some of the stuff I know is valerian and put it on my shelf, but I might not be taking it on my long days. Little worried that could be part of what’s causing the joint pain.

Need to pick up new shoes (again) but hopefully this time they have my shoes in black, like they have every other time I’ve gone in to buy shoes. Ah, well.

This is something like day twenty for me, of thirty-seven or so. I’m halfway through, so I’ve got that going for me, right?

Stomach is upset, nose can’t decide what it’s doing but I’m hanging onto that until I get full on sick. I’d rather be fending off a cold than full on cold. Joints hurt more today than yesterday besides my shoulder.

Last night I got out of the shower, looked down and said, “why do my feet bones hurt? What the fuck is wrong with my body?”

It wasn’t the ache of foot ache or bad shoes. Yeah, intimately familiar with that kind of pain. Unfortunately, it was an echoed ache from my hands, but in my feet. I knew, logically, that feet are basically malformed hands, but it didn’t quite dawn on me that the same joints that exist in my hands are in my feet until last night.

Yay… I say sarcastically.

Next week work is doing a strip-and-wax of the floors and guess who has to move all the stuff for it to happen? Me.

Yay… I say bitterly.

I was given one extra body to accomplish this task… which takes five people two full hours to do and cannot be done while the store is open. I don’t think my joints will magically be better, considering the fact that I am on my feet, moving and using my hands constantly between now and then.

My boss said she had given me someone else and you know, she could have not. I’m almost certain that was sarcasm, not a ‘threat’ in any manner as she and I have both been expected to do the same task with fewer bodies before. Having the body doesn’t change the fact that I have nothing extra to give and that kind of work needs a lot of extra and energy, pep and cheerleading because everyone is tired very quickly and they all think the company should just curl up under a rock and die already. It’s a lot to expect of people you’re paying minimum wage to.

Oh. Then there’s the week after. Yeah…

The next Wednesday, I do my driving test.

Yay… I say sarcastically/anxiously.

Oh, and the head honcho of the country for our company is visiting. At first, I shrugged and said whatever, I dun care. He won’t be there when…

Oh, wait. Fuck.

He’s visiting us last in the day and expects to arrive about the time I walk in with my grumpy, stupid face. After my driving test, which I’m trying to put into a frame of mind like I already have my license so I don’t stress as much, but can you imagine that meeting if I don’t get it?

Me. Thirty-three days in, just failed my driving test, have a bunch of homework to do because mid-terms are about to start, and he’s visiting, oh but I also hurt still from the strip-and-wax because that takes about a week for me to recover and it’ll have happened just shy of a week before?

Dear lord…

But, as I said. I’m more than halfway through my thirty-seven day straight. So, I’ve got that going for me.

Right?

Week Two (Day Three)

Oh, no.

I feel that manic thrum through my bones, like the clickety clack of keys is my very heartbeat.

Hypergraphia wouldn’t be a disorder if it didn’t interfere with your quality of life or hinder you in some way, I suppose.

I don’t have the time or energy for this nonsense. I noticed the change during keyboarding, which frankly I love. Sure, it tends to hurt my hands a bit to learn the new method, but she allows us to use headphones and to try to cut out the clacking and the anxiety it causes me, I play music in the background. I get to be in my separate little world for a little while. It’s almost like a break for me, so I hope she never asks about the music because I feel like I desperately need it and I know it’s only for one semester.

Anyhow… My wordcount changed from 40/wpm to 62wpm and The Last Prophet started cycling at the back of my mind, it’s on the backburner for additions and slight changes to things, but this was the sort of skittering I recognized as soon as my fingers started flying over the keyboards.

Dear Lord, I’m screwed.

There are a couple of options, of course. The first is to devote the time between school and work to writing. That could be cathartic but if one person at work comments on my speed, I’m liable to snarl at them and then say or do something else that is very nasty.

If interrupted during one of my episodes, I either grunt because I didn’t actually notice, or I start snarling because someone is trying to take my bone from me.

Because there’s a mania to it, my energy level feels like it’s gone up. But it’s also connected to my attention. Guess what I can’t pay attention to? Anything else.

And yet at the same time, it won’t leave me alone. I can’t just ignore the words that are trying to get out. That’s not how this works.

But, as I said. If hypergrapia didn’t interfere with your life or make things more difficult for you, they wouldn’t call it a disorder. It’d be a blessing or just another skill. Like being good at math or something.

I don’t have the time for this, but I am trying to redirect that manic energy into school and just staying on my feet. I almost feel alert for the first time in a week or so, which is both insane and beautiful at the same time.

Week Two (Day Two)

It took until I reached school for me to recognize that weird heaviness all over. My joints are aching, on top of more pain, and I’m already sick. Yesterday my nose started running after lunch so I could very well be sick and tired, and in more pain now.

I should have suspected when I had an internal argument with myself this morning over shoes and my backpack. I wore the backpack as I put on my shoes, normally I take the backpack off and kneel to put on my shoes, you know, like a normal person. The idea of kneeling made me whiny and the idea of taking off the backpack only to put it back on again made me call the inner voice who argued with me a very nasty name.

Normal people don’t have full on conversations with themselves, I realize, but I do. Especially when stressed or annoyed. Heck, the voice even helps me remember things, it’s like my personal Siri or Cortana.

Anyhow, I’m supposed to be imputing edits for Crop this morning but I think I need to do some self-care to get through this day. Then, when I get home, I need to medicate with a couple different things and go to bed early, hoping I’ll sleep the night through. At this point, it’s the only help I’ll have.

In a month, though, another option becomes legal. I wouldn’t have to take ibuprofen for the swelling, Valerian to keep me in a deep sleep, and St. John’s Wort to take away the brittle edge that pain puts me in. I can stop at a dispensary, buy a little something, have a puff (quite literally one puff) and then sleep the whole night away.

It’d even have the added benefit of replacing anything I take for anxiety or insomnia for about three days. Replacing such side effects as agitation (how exactly does an anti-anxiety helper cause agitation?), insomnia, and all sorts of medication conflicts with dry mouth, the munchies, and sleepiness.

All without breaking my brain, writing, or mood, so I’m super excited about that.

So, obviously, not working on Crop today. Instead, I ended up reading The Last Prophet on the trip to school. I think I want to expand on this a bit. I think the wrap up doesn’t have to end like a movie does, I think we can do wrap up in the book and not write a separate novella about Sweetheart. Well, not about her outcome. I think I need to add more about P.P. Marky.

A prophet who became a rapper and exists in the modern day, obviously conflicting with the title of the book. I kind of want to hug Marky, as his songs make it onto the radio and later on Abby recalls one and uses his prophecy to save them. Prophets aren’t supposed to be able to cross the thresholds of other prophets, so that could maybe be where her title comes in? I dunno.

I’m looking forward to expanding on this.

The cover artist contacted me a few days ago and I responded. She had been on vacation and then sick. Woops. I checked for a blog or news page, I must have missed it. Completely my fault that I didn’t give it another week, but it’s ingrained in me to follow up. A cover will eventually be in the works, when she is recovered and goes through her messages and puts me on the schedule.

The Last Prophet has distracted me from my pain today, and my frustration and emotions over the past couple of days. I’ve found myself opening the file between classes to read more. This is a good thing, especially for me.

The only trouble being, I requested a wrap with the cover artist. The e-book cover is free, I would pay for the wrap. But the poor woman needs to know about how many pages the book would be, and I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it and I might be able to add another 80k words to The Last Prophet. It’s going to be a beastie, but there are other things I want to add and explore and delve into. Everything is just a flash, and partway through I asked myself: why? Why is it a flash? Why can’t there be a couple of chapters extra? Why can’t David take lunch with Sweetheart so we learn about her, but also to show their relationship instead of having him just tell Richard? Why don’t we learn about Abby and her parents? Why does she just casually mention her father is dead, when there’s a magical force behind that?

Why doesn’t she call her mother when she awakens?

There are so many other things that need to go into this. And you know what? If it winds up being so freaking long, I can always break it into books like I do all the others. Let’s face it, if I took my trilogies, I could probably work them into one book quite cleanly, besides maybe Contracted because of the time jumps and changes between books.

I feel like I have the bones of The Last Prophet, basically. They’re good bones, they’ll work very well, but they don’t have as much flesh on them as I’d like. So, I’m going to take my time and do what I will with the book. I’m going to turn it into my vision instead of pushing the first copy out in the world.

I seem to be moving away from erotica and romance more, but my bio does say “whatever takes her fancy” and “when she finds a world she loves, she dabbles endlessly.”

Sure, The Last Prophet could go under its own pen name for high fantasy or something, but … no. This is me, this is how I write. I know there are people who insist an author must write only one genre, but that’s just not how I can work. It’s not how most of us work, and few seem to realize that. They hear about Stephen King switching from horror to the dark fantasy genre and they were scandalized and thought he was an exception to the rule.

I like to think of it as authors switch genres as much as readers do. Just because I love Robin Hobb, doesn’t mean I read her exclusively. Nor do I stick to her genre for reading. I also love Anne Bishop, Anne McCaffery, Anne Rice, and Stephen King when I’m in the mood. I’ve picked up single books from some weird scifi/fantasy hard boiled detective something before. I enjoyed it and put it down and never picked up another.

My writing is the same way. So, despite a four day debate about switching The Last Prophet to another pen name, I’ve decided to keep it under Aya DeAniege. And, yeah, it’s the same pen name that published erotica and plans to again. The same pen name that dabbles in vampires, witches, werewolves, and angels. Both in sexual and non-sexual context.

I suppose, with my love of the book, I should save up royalties and pay for an actual editor for this one. But at the length I’m looking at it would be $3-5000 to edit it.

If my writing paid that kind of money, I wouldn’t need a student loan, heck, I wouldn’t need a job. When I felt like this, I could take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine and a good book, then sleep the day away.

I have a vision for The Last Prophet, and it’s keeping me sane and just a little stable.

Now it’s just a matter of how to get what I want.

Week Two

Writing update first: the read edit of Crop is done, there’s just imputing (Really? imput-ing only has one t?)

Annnd I somehow just took a screenshot of my computer when I tried to hit the bracket. This is my brain now.

Putting edits into Crop are starting today or tomorrow. My beta has Harvest so once the edits for Crop are put in, I will be starting the read edit of that. I also need a day with a clear head to look at the cover of Harvest so I can figure out what’s going on there.

Waiting on a cover for Awakened which is actually being called The Last Prophet.

If I could stop hitting shift+I when I’m trying to italic, that’d be great.

I know where the keys are. Even drunk and sick, I can find the keys.

But last week when I said I’ve worked months in a row, I forgot to take into account that both school and work are basically customer service and dealing with people constantly. I could write, edit, market, and graphic design for months on end, working long hours the entire time, but that’s not so much dealing with people.

Working until October 7th might actually kill my brain.

Example: yesterday I took a pen and tried to put it in a breast pocket. Neither did I have a breast pocket, but I’ve never used one before.

Classes are about the same. I need to start my book project for Interpersonal Communication. Get it done as soon as possible.

Driving lessons are almost done. I find out today when my test is. One slight issue: it might happen during a Math test. Cue me swearing.

This week, I was definitely dead on my feet by Saturday. I just had nothing left to give, to the point that when my boss said, “I’m so tired, thank goodness I have tomorrow off,” it caused me to start crying uncontrollable two minutes later when I went on break. I’m that kind of tired.

I don’t think I could do this if I was living alone.

My aunt has a dishwasher (and I live with them) so I wound up asking if I could use it going forward.

With work Saturday morning and then a driving lesson that night, my plan had been to go home, have dinner, shower, do dishes, and have just enough time to make it to the lesson. Dishes don’t get done when I school and work, there’s no time in my day.

Well, when I was picked up Saturday, my aunt said, “by the way… I did your dishes.”

Sweet, baby Jesus.

I had enough time to take a little nap before the lesson. Sunday morning, I felt a bit more like myself. By the time I arrived at work, I was exhausted again. It drains me to know it’s just always there now. Forever and ever and ever…

If someone could gift me winning lottery numbers that would be great. I don’t want the grand prize. One of the lesser, but not piddly prizes would work too. Something four times my old salary would be perfect.

On Sunday. feeling a little more like myself, I looked over my options and started figuring out what I need to do to keep me sane for the next twenty or so days.

My current binge show can go on my tv instead of the computer. The couch is more comfortable, especially if I fall asleep. The cats like it too. They can all get up with me. And my laptop can play my game better than my desktop, so it’s an escape for me. I can also play upstairs on Mondays and Tuesdays so I can socialize a little and feel like I’m not just in the basement.

Then there’s the food. I put pork chops and sweet potatoes in the slow cooked with chicken broth and it smelled divine. Until I dished it out, then it smelled a bit like vomit. I think it’s the pork. It’s not bad or anything, I just always have this weird reaction to smelling pork.

So, don’t do that again.

I might buy a tough beef roast next and do that in the slow cooker then add beans and some other veggies right at the end. That should taste good.

I keep having to remind myself, there is more food. I’m not as broke as before. Especially since my food budget is still kind of the same but I don’t eat alone as much. So, if pork and sweet potato make me regret putting them in my mouth, I can freeze it all and pull one out once a week.

I did wind up opening a bottle of wine. A glass of wine and an hour of my game Saturday night very likely helped me rebalance for Sunday, but I actually opened the wine when I discovered I wouldn’t have Sunday off like I was supposed to.

Did you know wine can go bad if not drunk in a certain time? Yeah, Google says it’s not just a myth created by functioning alcoholics. So, I’ve got about half a bottle of wine that I’m not sure I would, or could, use in cooking.

During typing today, I forgot where the ‘C’ key was. Then my mind suggested the helpful: there is no ‘C’ key. I’d venture the need for more coffee, but I’m still in the middle of one.

Week One (Day Two)

The work schedule for next week has finally come out and I’m working Sunday (guess what I’m not supposed to be doing?) as soon as I saw it, I almost started crying. It’s not working for twenty-one to forty-eight days straight. I do that all the time.

It’s that I was made a promise.

My first and second days of class, I ate by myself. I actually sat there thinking, “I won’t bite you.” And no one sat with me. So Friday, I sat with the person who has got to be just about the person who has got to be just about the bubbliest person in the class. She was sitting with an older (than me) lady who is also in our class.

We got to talking a little about our backgrounds and I shared that I just so happen to have a grasp on everything we’re doing this semester and I feel confident about the classes.

Our group went up to eight… and filled the table.

The bubbly woman used to be a licensed nurse (in Canada we have licensed and registered nurses, licensed is higher) in an operating room, assisting (is that the right word?) with neurosurgery. Due to an accident she can no longer do that work, so she’s in the program to get as close to it as possible.

Freaking neurosurgery. And then there’s me over here with my, “oh, I wrote and published fifteen books, I’m special.” and she’s helped save lives.

She sort of helps the conversation along, so I kind of get help with my conversational skills (they are not great) and a bit of a distraction.

I’ve been honest about how I’m doing because if they need help, and I can help… I’ll help.

Soft skills are important.

I also said, after saying I have a grasp on this semester, that I looked ahead and will have a trouble next semester.

I might not. My only concern is medical terminologies but it’s possible I’ll eat that up like I do all new information.

TLDR: all my homework is done, so far, saw my schedule and got super frustrated. So, thanks for listening.

Lethargy

My get up and go got up and shot itself in the face: is how I describe how I’m feeling right now. I think it’s been a couple of weeks since I did any real work. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that all my motivation is gone. Not the external motivation, the internal fire that keeps me going and keeps me warm at night.

Not depressed… which is usually a cause of this behaviour. A little stressed but in the process of fixing that. A few life changes, what with school and driving courses and applying for a student loan.

Could be the student loan. Since I’m dragging my feet about applying.

I have this weird relationship with spending money I need to improve my situation but not wanting to because of how large the dollar amount is.

Or it could be because my birthday is coming up. Normally I get whiny and … well, wine-y.

So the “Alphas Book 1” hasn’t been written. I do have to start over and write from the beginning of the book but it’s a loss of a couple of pages and I like the new plot better.

Wherein there is no plot really. But it’s a nice show of how Alphas can and do act. So far I’ve just had them startled. Like a cat finding a cucumber laying behind it. And the Alphas shown have been bickering over land. Land, like that’s going to get them a gold star.

I mean, it could, there’s a new world order they’re working out. But typically owners of land rule for a decade or so then get eaten and forgotten about.

Actual Alphas, who are settled in stable land, don’t worry about the land or who owns it. Unless that person interferes with their studies or inventions, then the owner of the land dies horribly when the Alpha unleashes his companions on the Dom’s settlement and just sits back with a cold drink, watching the bloody chaos that follows.

I don’t know why I want to write about the companions going all stabby but it’s been a recurring fantasy of mine since I created the world and it hasn’t been linked to any real world problem. It’s probably a phenomenon in the world that I just want to explore, as I am a world builder.

Anyhow. Real alphas are a bit more like Blane when Alex was still alive. Alex (or a companion) would run their land, estate, raise the children right. The Alpha would take an active role but their mania would mean sometimes they are absentee fathers, which is where the companion comes in, stepping in to fill the role of father while the actual father is off and away.

So in Alphas Book 1 we come across Darien who is constantly checking his email. I really had to pry it out of him as to why it was important. He told me to take a flying leap, I threatened to have him broken for Rebecca’s (the only Mother so far) entertainment and that didn’t work. Then I threatened to sell his companions on the black market for dirty, unpleasant things and finally he relented.

He checks his email and phone throughout basically thinking things like, “nope, still a broke Alpha,” because he’s recently done a thing for his line of work, which I won’t spoil because it kind of ties in to the big ending. Darien isn’t necessarily young for an Alpha to break out into the world, twenty-seven or so. Which means he’s late to the party so to speak. He wasn’t in school all that time. He graduated at twenty with a doctorate (which is not unusual for an Alpha) and promptly and accidentally took on an underage companion.

With how Alphas break companions and create lifelong, unbreakable bonds with their new… ‘friends’ this is a very real problem in the world. Darien went to a party, Cody said he was of age and had a fake identification (obviously Darien couldn’t tell the difference) then found out the problem the next day.

Okay, so that’s a little world building for me because without that I might lose interest. Cody would be the first companion broken while underage who is acknowledged in the books but when you have jerks like Owen about, it’s likely happened in the past and I hope they were slaughtered slowly by their own companions.

Oh… that happened too. Wonder what the story was behind that.

Darien and the new kid Al are in talks with one another about how this will go. It seems they want a bunch of smut with the old companions in the first book, a bunch of smut with Al in the second book, and then maybe a third to wrap up the whole story with a bunch of smut all around and maybe with Blane.

Who probably walks in pissed off because this would be the sixth book, I think, that I have him called.

Why?

Oh, he knows why.

Which is also why he’s not protesting too loudly to me about it.

Of course, these would be novella lengths, not books. Or novellettes.

Obviously my words aren’t backed up, so I’m not burnt out. The ideas are still there and flowing like ever before.

No idea what’s wrong. But I have to head out for a course now, so I’ll have to try to solve this problem later.