I have five new habits I want to cultivate this year, and one of them is to engage in some creative endeavour every day. Yesterday, I did not. But typing these words now and re-establishing my connection with creative writing will count for today, I think.
It's crunch time for my PhD. Writing the last chapter, making edits to my chapters, has been particularly gruelling. The hardest part is getting over myself. I noticed that I have the largest "I'm not smart, and I have to work doubly hard compared to everyone else" chip on my shoulder, which is not how I want to approach life.
2020's nano saw the 4th book in the Ally series, and I actually did finish a very rough first draft this time! It's called Tokyoto, excerpt below. The name 100% represents the crazy Japanese vibe I rode for six days to finish this story.
Beside me, the husband finished his awesome Australian outback fantasy story, King's Quokka, and then started his own very first sequel, Queen's Quokka. Warning - there was a scene in King's Quokka that was so funny that I laughed until I vomited. So I'm not sure if his books are entirely safe to read...
Not sure when I will resurface again. Hopefully soon, given the habit I want to form this year. And I should be free from the shackles of study soon.
----
Except from Tokyoto
----
There is a fate worse than death, and that is the cold. It steals my screams, forbids my tears, and still I am denied my death. Snow swirls around me, a dazzling gateway to the world beyond that has claimed my betters. To them, death was not denied.
Inside me, the terrible voice. MY WILL THAT SHALL BE DONE.
Ahead of me, the terrible task.
She sits on the lip of the brimming well. It's the only thing not frozen. She wears a pained, confused expression. Her black hair drips in wet strands, trailing down to the water, choking the well. She looks up to see me, and shows me her wet hands. In one world, it's just water. In another world, it's blood. In this world, it is a bruised wine, the colour of the irremediable.
"It's not working," she say, lost.
My grip is tight, so tight that, despite the numbing cold, I can feel the unravelling braid on the grip of my sword digs into my palms.
I don't reply. Can't reply. In the place where my breaking heart should be, that terrible voice, the unyielding compulsion. IT SHALL BE DONE.
The sword feels weightless in my hand as I lift it above my head. My body executes a pure arch of steel.
Her body falls forward, pieces onto the snow.
I fall too. IT IS DONE. The compulsion leaves me.
The next breath I take is mine. Finally mine. It is bitterly cold and my lungs squeeze it back out in a choking sob.
My free hand reaches for her, though it suddenly feels impossible to move. Without the terrible force within me I am just a man. A mortal. Still, sometimes that is enough. My fingertips brush hers.
I close my eyes and wait for my promised demise.
It's crunch time for my PhD. Writing the last chapter, making edits to my chapters, has been particularly gruelling. The hardest part is getting over myself. I noticed that I have the largest "I'm not smart, and I have to work doubly hard compared to everyone else" chip on my shoulder, which is not how I want to approach life.
2020's nano saw the 4th book in the Ally series, and I actually did finish a very rough first draft this time! It's called Tokyoto, excerpt below. The name 100% represents the crazy Japanese vibe I rode for six days to finish this story.
Beside me, the husband finished his awesome Australian outback fantasy story, King's Quokka, and then started his own very first sequel, Queen's Quokka. Warning - there was a scene in King's Quokka that was so funny that I laughed until I vomited. So I'm not sure if his books are entirely safe to read...
Not sure when I will resurface again. Hopefully soon, given the habit I want to form this year. And I should be free from the shackles of study soon.
----
Except from Tokyoto
----
There is a fate worse than death, and that is the cold. It steals my screams, forbids my tears, and still I am denied my death. Snow swirls around me, a dazzling gateway to the world beyond that has claimed my betters. To them, death was not denied.
Inside me, the terrible voice. MY WILL THAT SHALL BE DONE.
Ahead of me, the terrible task.
She sits on the lip of the brimming well. It's the only thing not frozen. She wears a pained, confused expression. Her black hair drips in wet strands, trailing down to the water, choking the well. She looks up to see me, and shows me her wet hands. In one world, it's just water. In another world, it's blood. In this world, it is a bruised wine, the colour of the irremediable.
"It's not working," she say, lost.
My grip is tight, so tight that, despite the numbing cold, I can feel the unravelling braid on the grip of my sword digs into my palms.
I don't reply. Can't reply. In the place where my breaking heart should be, that terrible voice, the unyielding compulsion. IT SHALL BE DONE.
The sword feels weightless in my hand as I lift it above my head. My body executes a pure arch of steel.
Her body falls forward, pieces onto the snow.
I fall too. IT IS DONE. The compulsion leaves me.
The next breath I take is mine. Finally mine. It is bitterly cold and my lungs squeeze it back out in a choking sob.
My free hand reaches for her, though it suddenly feels impossible to move. Without the terrible force within me I am just a man. A mortal. Still, sometimes that is enough. My fingertips brush hers.
I close my eyes and wait for my promised demise.
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