Guess who's kicking goddamn hella fat-bottomed book ass?

ME ME ME ME ME

I don't know what that meant.

Or maybe I do.

My book is a big fat-bottomed ass. And I'm kicking it.

And big gorgeous fat-bottomed asses are a good thing. Just ask Freddie Mercury.

I have 20 days. TWENTY DAYS until I am done.

If all stays on schedule. Which it is. Sort of. Somewhat. I'm only a little behind. The smallest crack of panic, but I'm good. I am mostly really damn good. And that panic only comes from losing last week to EPIC ILLNESS. Ok. No. Not epic. Epic would be my eyeballs shot blood and my tongue turned into a unicorn and I woke up with a Quato. None of these things happened. BUT CRAP. Crap. Here's how it went down, Monday I had a headache. Tuesday it went to throat monkeys. Wednesday my skin hurt and fever death kill UGH. Onward, etc. It was a shitty week and I got nothing done. I didn't even watch TV. Well, I watched the new 3 Musketeers movie and - if you happened to wonder what the skeleton of Alexander Dumas was doing last Thursday - he was at my pad slamming his bones against my TV and spitefully whizzing on my DVD player. Long dead and completely dehydrated, it was but a sad powder he pissed onto the DVD, but still, I couldn't have agreed with him more. It sucked. Way to ef in the ear a badass story. Pff. Hollywood. Assholes.

Back to, I lost a week, but it's ok. I'm doing ok.

BUT 20 DAYS?

That's insane. I'm on schedule and I will have a completed novel.

20 DAYS?
oi.

And it's still being fun.

*

A strange thought trend that I have had to deal with lately goes like this:

1.  Oh my god, my novel is almost done.
2.  Oh my god, people are actually going to read it.
3.  Oh my god, WHAT IF I'M NOT AS BRILLIANT AS I THINK I AM?

Inevitably, I say to myself, "PFF, stop thinking about your readers and think about the story." and "PFFF! Not brilliant? NOT BRILLIANT? Of course you are!"

I know this novel isn't perfect. But I do think it is good. Damn good, and Sarah Winchester's backstory is something that hasn't been written about extensively, especially in fiction. Which, wow, yeah, this novel is historical fiction, but damn I am taking a lot of liberties in making up entire worlds of information.

But I came to the point with this novel where I was busted. I didn't believe in it anymore because I didn't believe in myself. I didn't believe I could finish it. I didn't believe anyone would want it if I did. Mainly, somewhere around 25 or 26, I just didn't know if I was a writer anymore. I wrote, but not often enough. I wasn't getting anything published. I was sick of working dead end jobs, joyful as they might be at used bookstores or otherwise, that made me no money. I thought I needed to "grow up." To get a "real" job. I got rid of some band shirts (BAD IDEA). I tried to buy "nice" clothes.

This was ridiculous. It wasn't true to me. I was trying to find a spot for myself in the Great Big World.

I was in a bad mojo cycle. Thinking bad. Writing bad. Doing bad. Or worse than doing bad, doing nothing. Creating nothing.

Here is what happens when I think I need to "grow up" or become a "professional" with "prospects"...I move to fucking Osaka with my boyfriend.

WTF?

I know. Running away to another country totally grown up, right?

Uh. Hmm.

I did find a "real" job. As an English teacher, but didn't end up getting to actually do it. I was in Japan 3 months. Found the job....and then didn't get the certificate of eligibility (first step in visa process) until months after I already had to return to the U.S. because my 3 month tourist visa was up. 

Here is the hilarious thing about this debacle, while in Japan, I job searched and wrote and watched pirated TV on the internet. That's all I did. Yes, yes, I also saw rad shit like this:




























 






















































and I went to bars the size of coffee tables and had a badass, albeit somewhat alienated lonely time in a foreign country....

but I wrote. A lot.

Because that's who I frikkin am. A writer. It's what I do. I finally nailed it into my head. I didn't question it anymore. I told myself, I am a writer. I want to do this. I am already doing this so I want to do it for real. I am going to work at it. Writing is not inspiration and romanticism. It is your ass in the chair and work.

Going to Japan is what got me back on track with writing. And then getting home from Japan and having four months wherein I scrounged everywhere for a job, from publishing houses to bars (see the common theme of books and liqour in my work history?), I got back on track with my novel.

In the three years since Japan, I worked a hella lot at two libraries, picked up a bar job and, very soon, will have finished a novel.

I came up with the mantra "No time for self doubt" and stuck to it. I also came to the conclusion that I would rather be a poor writer than a rich whatever-the-hell-professional.

Know what? Negative thinking gets shit done. Zilch. Nothing. Neither does running away from who you are, even if who you are doesn't immediately lead to money sacks and gold bricks.

Being happy isn't easy.
Being happy with my writing isn't always easy.
Life is work. Being happy is work. Writing is work.

And worrying what others think about you? That...that is some stupid shit. It just takes up brain space that would be better placed elsewhere. Like on the zillion or so short stories I wanna write in 20 DAYS when the novel is done.

*

Did I mention, MY NOVEL IS GOING TO BE  DONE IN 20 DAYS?

OH MY FRIKKIN STARS.

There will be the motherload of dance parties, only ever topped by the glitter bomb tastic dance fest that occurs when I sell the thing.

*

This held a lot more personal history than I usually put on this blog and I'm not sure it was all even coherent, but what the hell, I'm devil may care. I'mna leave it up. I got a novel to write. I can't be dickering around on LJ all day.

Later yo.