Hello, Blog. I Believe It Has Been A While ...

In other words, life climbed on top of me, pinned me to the ground, and forced me into unconscious submission. And my goodness, that sounded better in my head.

Anyways, with what I can only assume has been a 4-day-energy bender behind me, I'm almost ready to begin NaNo. Of course, I'm feeling a little ... distracted. I'm replaying Thursday night (Avenged Sevenfold/Stone Sour at Birmingham NIA) over and over in my head, and re-watching footage of the night on YouTube ... this is, of course, something that needs to stop before NaNo begins.

That said, the outlines are complete. All that is left to do is, 1. Make a book trailer, for fun, and 2. Write it. Unfortunately, my blog must feel a little ... left out. So I'm paying it a little attention, at least. I'm actually really pumped to start NaNoing already. Just another 3 hours or so to go, and I don't know if I can or will last out, but damn it, I'm going to try it. Even if it means I'll be borrowing money for cans of Relentless Energy Drink in the morning ... less than 7 and I'm still safe, aka. not likely to have a heart attack.

So, I'm thinking I need a small to-do-list, as I have had all this week. I'm sure there is something I need to do this Halloween night. I'm just not sure ... what ...

*Stares*

Wow. I think my outlines may actually be longer than my novel this year. My plot outline alone has nearly 10,000 words, and I've only written the first 22 chapters out of 30. I dread to look at my location notes and character sheets.

Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating when I say my outlines will be longer than my novel, seeing as I aim to write 200,000 words this year. But all the same ... this is more than I expected to write. Maybe I'm just being a little more ... obsessive ... about what is going into my outlines this year; I'm being a lot more meticulous about having details I know I will need to remember and write down. Maybe my outlines are just a little too wordy, but I don't ... understand them any other way. Rest assured none of this actually contributes in terms of word count to my novel - I have suggestions for what characters will say, but but actually what they will say. There's nothing I can physically list from my outlines into my novel but all the same ... *faints*

So why, then, do I just plain feel like I'm going overboard with this? I know I need it, so that I don't get completely lost, but ...

... So You're In Love Now? Oh. Great.

I love it when this happens; characters deciding, suddenly, that they're in love.

No, really. This time, at least, I love it. Because for me? it means I can milk it for all it is worth and THEN punish the couple. >D ... I mean, one of the characters didn't have a particularly pretty ending ahead of him, no matter which way you spin the situation. But now ... now, it just makes sense on SO many more levels! Now, he'll probably actually be missed.

Normally, however, not so great. I torture my characters, probably more than I should; they rarely end up with happy endings regardless, but this year ... I'm just feeling as though I'm being extra sadistic. Is this a good thing? Only November will tell, but somehow ... I don't know. I mean, these people don't live in a great place to begin with. The Universe hasn't blessed them with particularly fun lives, although they do make the best of what they have, I guess. All the same, these are the characters that will hate me once November rolls around, and when it's though? They'll hate me more. And when time comes for a sequel? Well ... don't even get me started.

I think I have issues ...

Oh, Right. Outlining. I Forgot About That.

o_o;

Yes. Yes I did ... which I'd hardly call putting myself at an advantage, now. I forget why I haven't actually been outlining. Partly, it might be the lack of access to the computer I've had - I say that, and mean that while I've been able to get on, I actually haven't been sitting down for marathon periods of time and just plain plotting. This, I think, comes from one stupid bodily requirement: sleep.

Being tired =/= no plotting and no plotting =/= hitting a wall during NaNo. I found this out the hard way my first NaNo. I had the 'tasks' for my main character up until chapter 5, at which point I hit the wall and stopped writing. For 10 days. I looked at my chart when I returned for NaNo '09, and there was this ... flat surface. 10 days worth of not updating. Not writing. Until then, I wasn't doing so badly (aside from the days where I'd written maybe 300 words). Last year, I had all my chapters planned out and subsequently did well for it, although I think, in retrospect, this was as much down to purple prose (and lots of it) as it was planning. It's not like the plot was the best thing I could have come up with ... I was just far too proud of it at the time ...

Anyways, yeah. This is turning into a ramble. :) so ... yeah. Uh, hooray for dreams, though? The really messed up, disturbing, why-did-I-even-dream-that? kind. Not that I thought it was disturbing at the time ... more a case of not being able to figure out what on earth was going on. :) all I could grasp was that it was in a city (good, I need that), and that someone was throwing couches and people out of the window, alongside trying to ... uh, eat faces, I think. o_o; thanks, Inglorious Basterds, for that scalp-cuting scene that probably inspired that part. Maybe I'll modify it a little before using it ...

Shameless Plugging

Just as I've linked to this blog on my 'life blog' (even though my life seems pretty boring at present), I'm linking to my 'life blog' here. It probably won't be updated much, or it might be, depending on whether or not I have anything particularly ... um, anything I find interesting to say. So:

http://www.toriivengeance.blogspot.com/

If you do feel the urge to have a looksee, I don't mind. :) I'm shamelessly plugging the thing after all.

Written In an Hour.

And it is untitled, too. I don't know. I have a free period that is far too large to be considered fair, and not much else to do. I probably should be outlining, but all my outlines are at home ... so ... I cannot be held responsible for any typing errors. I probably should fix it. But this is ... uh ... an unedited ... thing. Oh, right, yeah. No language, but some sexual references (namely just the word 'orgasm' and possibly the word 'sex'). Also, references to an eating disorder. It is ... well, I refer to it casually, or somewhat casually, if you have a problem with this feel free to send me a message, and I'll fully explain myself. :)

For a while, nobody says a thing. Nobody looks at each other, nobody even blinks. There is nothing to say. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened ten minutes ago, oblivion would have arrived already. For a while, nobody says a thing.

                I expected it. We waited for months, some of us for years, planning our time carefully, pretending to live each day as though we would die the next, although the date of our death had already been set centuries in advance. The truth of it was that, while we tried in earnest to live this way, we also failed at doing so. We prioritised the wrong things, obsessed over the wrong values, and never once did we look back and think about how what we were doing was so wrong.

                I expected it. I had waited for years. Reserved myself, kept myself back from the edge and spoke to nobody. Trying in earnest to keep myself as unnoticed as an abandoned child; the kind that nobody wants to look at, but can never quite ignore. The hatred never built. The lust did. Knowledge accompanied my detached façade, the inevitable kind that forces you to stare into the face of unavoidable truth, and ignore it entirely. I never wanted to hate myself for it, but I did.

                Seven years before the world ended, I stopped wanting to be a girl. Two and a half months before the world ended, I stopped being one. Drink came first. The years beforehand, the kind of naïve experiences that accompany the early teenage years – this is what my parents do, this is what I should do. I want to grow up early. I want to be someone different the moment I turn thirteen. This is what I will do because this is what adults do.

The burn comes later. When the discovery of weak, alcohol-imbued soda is no longer enough, the hard stuff suffices. When that will no longer do, you’re left in a perpetual state of wondering why you haven’t found something new and exciting already.

Smoke can make drinking more exciting. Inhaling, exhaling, lighting up seven times in less than an hour; dragging the smoke and traces of spirits down into your lungs, breathing it in, letting it infect you. The stuff goes straight to your head. You don’t need to drink too much to suddenly seem like the only stoic character in a room that is revolving. You don’t need to take that last shot to stumble around, blind, forgetting everything before remembering it moments later. Smoke drifts away, becomes something you can do every day, not just when you need that little extra excitement in your life.

Five years before the world ended, I fell in love. I never wanted to fall in love. I wanted to be a perpetual pillar of hatred and cynicism, I didn’t believe in anything that anyone else believed in. I wanted to be the one to crush frail human illusions of finally being accepted and settling into place as one of a number; one of the same, one of that lifestyle choice. I wanted to let the world know that it had burned me, and that the scars had remained. I failed.

Four years before the world ended, I started hating it again. Love was not love, hate was not hate, nothing made sense anymore. Suddenly, my emotions weren’t so linear; they had drifted closer to the surface and were threatening to destroy my skin. They were trying to tell me something, trying to tell me that I was wrong, that everything was wrong, that I had no idea. I had no idea. I knew everything. I had always known everything.

Three years before the world ended, I spent most nights alone. Two fingers pressed in on the back of my throat, massaging it until that familiar feeling came; gagging, finally, my vindication against the name calling. Finally, I had found something that allowed me my revenge. How could anyone mock me when I was no different to any of them? How could they attack my physical imperfections when there were none? This was my salvation, every substance I had consumed through the day coming back on me, not allowed in for any more than five minutes. How long did it take for the body to digest food again? Oh well. It didn’t matter. As long as it was in the sink, it was not digested.

Two and a half years before the world ended, I was not thin enough. Two years and five months before the world ended, I gave up on my future goal in favour of a new one that nobody could mock.

Two years before the world ended, we met each other. A relationship based on self-loathing and innate disgust of everything around us was what I had always dreamed of. Two years of cigarette burns and empty vodka bottles, depravity of no particular order, childish things done by two people with nothing better to do. We didn’t want to survive anything, waited and waited for what was to come; the supposed apocalypse was our idea of a festival. We could not wait for impending doom.

Two years before the world ended, we were throwing things against the walls, inanimate objects in a perfectly designed cesspool, beer cans and old toys, books with pages missing and shoes, all around, ready to be the next projectile. All this while entwined. All this while naked. All of this while bucking our hips together, not sure whether it was spurring us on, but sure that the best damn orgasm was coming. Fists against the floor, stamping feet, smirking, even grinning, never looking into each other’s eyes but loving every second. Our hatred of the world around us was expressed in the objects that hit the walls and shattered, or else ricocheted off into some forgotten corner. We may have cleared up afterwards.

Two years before the world ended, my final goal was complete.

A year before the world ended, I was nothing. In my eyes, I was nothing. In his eyes, he was nothing. To our so-called friends, we were bringing each other down; not hooked on drugs or anything particularly dangerous like that. Drinking ourselves to the verge of death every night, and then spending the days throwing things around the room while waiting for the best damn orgasm that was suddenly not so good anymore. He was bored of it. I wanted more from it. Grabbing too hard, hurting, biting, bleeding. Making me want to crawl away before slouching back into the room, ready to continue.

Six months before the world ended, I was angry.

Six months before the world ended, I wanted the end to come sooner. I wanted it now, not in six months; heat of the summer apocalypse, why could I not be granted this one last mercy? Winter … I did not want one last winter. I was ready. In the same room with the same person who made me happier than I had ever been in my life. Nobody else mattered. We were ready for it. They were not.

Five minutes before the world ended, we all sat in a circle. I could not tell if they wanted their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, grandparents. One last goodbye should have been enough.

Four minutes before the world ended, somebody started coughing. I cannot remember who it was. I didn’t look up from the ground, sure that the end would come from below. Last breath they would ever take. Almost the last breath. Wasted.

Three minutes before the world ended, he squeezed my hand, and I wanted to spit at him. A gesture of love before the final breath? No. Not right. Not fair.

Two minutes before the world ended, I told him it was over.

One minute before the world ended, I counted down from sixty in my head.

Ten seconds before the world ended, I smiled and took one last breath.

Ten minutes after the world has ended, and nobody says a thing. Nobody can bear to look at each other, because the false hope and fear never should have existed. We cannot think of anything to say. One of our number gets to his feet, brushes off his clothing, turns his back and leaves. Another does the same. A third, a fourth, who comments that she’ll see us on Monday. Numbers five, six, seven, and eight until we’re the only ones left left. The two of us, not looking at each other, not telling, quiet lips and bruised arms trembling.

                Fifteen minutes after the world has ended, he asks me if I meant it.

                Sixteen minutes after the world has ended, I tell him I did.

                Seventeen minutes after the world has ended, he brushes himself off and leaves.

                Eighteen minutes after the world has ended, I begin to wonder about the last seven years of my life. Every single one has been wasted in one way or another. I cannot think of a single event during these years that has made me a better person. Eight years before the world ended, I was normal. Eight years before the world ended, I was happy.

                Nineteen minutes after the world has ended, a new one begins.

Thank You, Characters.

And for once, I don't mean this sarcastically! My characters have finally decided to make life a little bit easier for me and divulge some of the plot. I don't think seven chapters of thirty is so bad ... of course, I need thirty out of thirty. But still. Early days.

And I realise that by saying early days I am actually damning myself. It is October 8th today, over a week into October, meaning that there are roughly three weeks until NaNo starts. I need to pull my finger out. I have more work than I anticipated for this project, but you know what? It's damn fun work to do. I enjoy doing it ... but plots have always been a little uphill for me. Other than that, I think I'm getting on okay; my characters know what they want and when they want it. I've come to realise I can't force situations upon them too much, because while in some they might comically flounder and probably give me a good thousand more words, usually, they'll just end up flat-out-refusing to do anything.

So, thank the lord, then, that Warhaven was already a fully formed (if partially unnamed) city five (nearly six, whoah) years ago. Thank the lord that Bryson has taken on a fair few incarnations, and so has Elaina, and maybe even Laciey, but we've all arrived at some kind of common ground which is the project that will commence this November.

What I am not thanking the lord for are the number of plot bunnies that seem to have made their way to my doorstep; the poor, fuzzy things (that, for some reason, I always imagine look a lot like dust bunnies) don't realise that I will probably only have time for one novel this November.

Apparently, I'm a Mary Sue. Evidence?

erados says:
MARY SUE VICTORIA STEWART?!


Torii Vengeance says:
... YOU USED MY FULL NAME!?


erados says:
THATS HOW MARY SUEISH YOU ARE


Torii Vengeance says:
EVEN MY NAME IS MARY SUEISH!?


erados says:
...Maybe. Do you have any unusual or uncommon middle-names? =_=


Torii Vengeance says:...
Victoria Jayne Felicity Zara Stewart.
... OMG.


erados says:
MARY SUE!


Torii Vengeance says:
I'M A MARY SUE. ;___;
AH. BUT.
FLAW.
Not everyone loves me.
Actually.
People hate me.


erados says:
YES
And THATS the kind of Marye sue you are!


Torii Vengeance says:
Like the little girl that stared at me on the escalator today, then burst into tears.
...
OMG.


erados says:
"Everyone hates me because can write better than them, and sing better than them, and look hotter than them"
SELF-PITY MARY SUE


Torii Vengeance says:
Best. Analogy. Of Mary Sue Vicky. Evar. xD
Omg.
I'm like.
Bella. ._.
HALP ME!


erados says:
GET AWAY FROM ME!!
I'm going to bed now anyway =P
And...
Speaking of which


Torii Vengeance says:
*curls up and dies in self-pity Mary Sue hole*
... v_v