Indie Life: Year End Wrap Up

It's December! Wow, is that crazy. I feel like time got confused at some point and is now moving at some strange, disjointed pace that only time understands.

Anyway, December seems like a great time to do a year end wrap up and see how far I've come this year! Yay, progress!

About a year ago I decided to self-publish. I wrote lots of posts about it, apparently. I discovered them when I went to check my archive to see if I could figure out when it was I decided to self-publish because past me did not mark a day on my calendar for it or anything. Damn it, past me. Don't you know I like to get strangely sentimental about things? (Dear past self: You will be reassured to know that I STILL LOVE CAPS LOCK AND EXCLAMATION MARKS!)

So last December I declared that I would self-publish Queen of Broken Hearts which I DID. I also said I would put it up in February, which I did not do. I published it in April, then King of Forgotten Clubs came out in September (after I said July...) Let's not connect the dots and find the pattern here, okay? Okay. (also, I put up two books under a pen name! But I guess those aren't relevant to this blog, so.) (Did I mention that we still use parentheses, past self?).

I also made a list last year about the reasons why I decided to self-publish. Let's see how they measured up to reality, shall we?

POINT ONE: My first reason was that I expected that self-publishing would make me more money than traditional publishing. Now, I can't say for sure because I haven't tried, but I estimate if I'd gone the traditional route I'd have made zero dollars by now because I'd still be querying. By going the self publishing route I've made $41.92. (I mean, until you deduct expenses and it turns negative. But let's all cover our eyes and pretend expenses don't exist, okay? ALL SMALL BUSINESS LOSE MONEY IN THE FIRST NINE MONTHS, OKAY?)

POINT TWO: I declared that the only opinions that mattered are the readers. And, yes, getting good reviews from people who have never met me has been pretty awesome. (I have two!) And, and, I got a fan email! That was fantastically epic and would not have happened otherwise.

POINT THREE: Getting to write whatever I want. Yeah, I should have realized that with my massive tendency to be distracted by shiny things this would lead to endless BUT I WANT TO WRITE ALL THE THINGS! Still, I definitely would not have been able to write a novella series with traditional publishing, so I WIN!

POINT FOUR: I can still pursue traditional publishing if I want. And at this stage? Eh. *shrug* Don't really want to.

Shockingly, I did meet the next part of the post and publish four books this year. Crazy. But I am not selling 125 copies of each one a month, so the math does not remotely work. Ah, youth.

But I think most importantly, self-publishing has given me a lot I never even expected. It's been fantastically fun. I have BOOKS. On the internet! And people can buy them! For people who know me, my writing went from being a theoretical thing I did when I wasn't around them to something they could point to and go, "oh, yeah, she writes books and they're right there."

Plus, covers are so much fun. I had fun working with a cover designer, and I'm having fun now working on my own covers. Yay, photoshop!

Also, I've met AWESOME people. I feel like I'm part of a community now of other people who are equally as crazy as me. When I think about it I just want to hug all the internet friends I've made and give them cookies. But I can't. Because we don't have a teleporter yet. So only my roommates can have the cookies (the hugs are all for my dog, because she can't have cookies).

I'm happy I decided to self-publish last year. And obviously by this time next year I'm going to be a millionaire, so I'd better get to work on that. Also, on inventing a teleporter. Because I think I made too many cookies.

And if there's anyone still reading this who is debating whether or not to self-publish, DO IT. It's super fun! All the cool kids are doing it! Think about how in a year you could be as awesome as I am! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. You'll even get to write awesome indie life posts! Join us! Joooiiinnn uuusss!

Not Dead Yet

Remember that time? When I updated my blog? Yeah, me neither.

Since last I posted I flailed at nanowrimo for a few weeks (17k! It's almost like 50k, right?) before accidentally taking a hiatus from writing. I've been blaming my lack of writing on being in the busy season at work and being stuck working Saturdays, of all things. But now I've managed to take all these days off, so I have no more excuses. I really need to get some writing done. *stares at blank document* Any minute now.

ANYWAY I do have a project I'm planning to launch soon I PINKY PROMISE. (And not like the time my mom took my phone and pinky promised to bring it back before I got off work then didn't. Not that I'm holding a grudge or anything.) The plan is to put it up on Wattpad one chapter at a time, that way I can stay far enough ahead of it. I'm thinking I'll start it in January so that I can take December to finish up a few things.

And maybe I'll make my New Years Resolution (Should that be capitalized? Is Years possessive? Oh well.) to update my blog weekly. And stop using parentheses.

King of Forgotten Clubs

The book is launched! Yay! I'm even doing a launch promotion where the book is free through the twenty-ninth. Act now and look for the spelling mistake I made in the book description before it updates away!

*gigglesnort*

Proof of exhaustion: I added a post to the wrong blog. Clicked over to check what it looked like and was all, why are my graphics loading funny? OH WAIT.

Indie Life: Falling Through

Yet another post about how I've messed up again. :)

What would really help would be to set realistic goals. The problem is, I've never been the realistic goal setting type. I prefer setting completely exorbitant goals, even though it always ends without me completing them.

The reasoning behind this is simple. If I set a realistic goal and fail to follow through, then I'll just be mad at myself. If I set an insane goal and fail to follow through, oh well. It was never that likely in the first place. See how effectively I've blocked goal guilt?

Now I just need to figure out how to actually get things done...

Challenged

It's August first and I'm supposed to start my challenge today but my edits are still not finished. *eats ice cream* So what I'm thinking I'm going to do is, I'll start on my first challenge story, and maybe switch back and forth between that and edits? *eats more ice cream* Except I don't want to be going back and forth between two such different stories without breathing space. So maybe I... spend a couple hours on each one and take a walk or something between them? *finishes entire thing of ice cream*

I know, I know, this is an "I spilled champagne on my cake!" problem. It's brilliant that I have two awesome writing projects and a day off to work on them. (Wait, make that three. I'm working on this serial? And I will say no more because I'm not launching it till January.)

Anyway, I should get started on these now if I'm going to get through anything today. I'll post more about my challenge on the fifth, since that's when I'm launching the Cool New Idea that I'm totally going to pull off with sheer willpower. It'll be cool. And probably end terribly. We'll see.

And then I had to wade in and throw a few punches.

So there's been a bit of a scuffle over romance novels lately. By that I mean, Tessa Dare tweeted some stuff about an article that I then read. Basically, people are in a tizzy over some intern's article because it says horribly mean things about romance novels. There's even a rebuttal that proports to defend romance novels but actually turns even meaner.

If you're curious, it's an old argument. The one that says high literature is good for you and romance novels are trash and if you read them you're an idiot. You know, the usual sort of insults. I could say some things here about how romance novels make me think, about the very real depths they have, about how that moment from The Heiress Effect where Jane says I am ablaze is on infinite repeat in my skull. I'm not even going to touch on the idiocry of the argument that woman are so addled with hormones that we can't tell reality and fantasy apart. But instead I've decided to say something simple.

Romance novels make me happy. Unbearably, volcano-ishly happy. There's nothing like that moment when you finish a great romance novel and it feels like your entire body is just glowing with how incredibly happy you are.

This, I think, is one of the reasons they are sneered at so often. Happiness tends to be seen as a lesser emotion. Sadness is percieved as wise and noble. There's a reason we talk about cynism as knowing more and happiness as ignorant. Happy is constantly portrayed as the least of the emotions, the dirtiest, the stupidest. You have to be some sort of idiot if you dare to be happy.

I call bullshit. Happiness is brilliant. Happiness matters. And the best thing about romance novels is that EVERYONE gets to be happy. Are you overweight? You get to live happily ever after! Is your nose kind of crooked? Happily ever after! Did you get knocked up and thrown out on the streets? There's a happily ever after for you too! YAY HAPPY!

Is it realistic? No, not particularly. But isn't it a lovely idea? Instead of adding more bleakness to the world, wouldn't you rather add a bit of light and fairy dust? (On second thought, scratch the fairy dust thing. Probably shouldn't be grinding up fairies for their sparkly properties.)

My point is, screw the people who sneer. Be happy. Be happy to your toenails. Be so happy you hum pop music as you shop for groceries. Be so happy you can't stop giggling at the joke in your head. Be so happy that sneering people glare at you in horrendous jealousy because they can't figure out how you manage it. And, as they mutter there goes another deranged idiot, sigh for them a little and think, there, but for the grace of romance novels, go I.

UWOs

I've recently discovered a strange phenomenon, and it's not just that spell check has to tell me how to spell phenomenon. See, I've been getting through the Forgotten Club edits at the rate of a glacier made of molasses. I fight, tooth and foot tooth (Have you read the onion article about the guy that can't describe hands? I'm still giggling about it.), every time I know I really need to sit down and work on these stupid edits. I clean the apartment, walk the dog, or, my favorite, go to sleep instead.

Which is weird because when I'm actually doing the edits I'm enjoying myself. So why do I hate them so much when I'm not working on them? Is there something wired into my brain that is trying to prevent me from doing enjoyable things? Is it because these edits are labeled in the 'work' section of my brain, and work must be avoided at all costs? I don't know, but I really need to sort it out because I've got to get these edits done before August first so I can start my new challenge.

I'll tell you all about my new challenge as soon as I get these edits done. I mean, I'm crazy excited about this challenge. Yup, I'm totally going to get to those edits now. Any minute... maybe after a nap.

(So I posted this then realized I never explained the title of the post? It means Unidentified Writing Objects. I know, I'm clever AND hilarious. And just brilliant at grammer and punctuation, obvs. Did you see how I put a question mark on something that isn't a question? That takes ADVANCED punctuation skills right there.)

Dear Denizens of The Internet,

I know it seems as if I have ceased to exist lately, but fear not! I have not accidentally stumbled through a worm hole or disapperated myself to Mars. I have merely discovered that there is a place beyond the internet called 'the physical realm' and it has been throwing problems at me as if they are exploding barrels and I am a small Italian plumber.

After embarking upon various and sundry adventures, my problems are beginning to wrap up and I will be returning to you shortly, dearest internet. I will not be bearing tales of the physical realm back to you, however, as the pixels cannot be trusted with secrets. I am not saying that illegal activity occurred, but I have paid my dog a retainer for legal services, just in case.

Yours in shenanigans,
Jennifer

Let Your Indie Flag Fly

I had great trouble deciding what to write about for this. I mean, picking one indie book? Impossible! So I’m thinking I’ll do a post for every day of indiependence week. That way I get to cover MORE BOOKS!

So, to begin, I’m going to talk about serials. I love serials.

I can read the entire installment over lunch break! It’s like a t.v. episode! The best ones update a lot! What else do you need? And, and, indies are leading the charge on these! There’s some trad pubs stumbling along in the indie’s unstoppable wake, but mostly it’s an indie movement.

The idea is that serials are good for cell phone reading. Like, you’re waiting in a long line so you read a serial. Convienient! How fitting for our current attention spans! (I don’t know about you, but mine’s, like, five seconds.)

So I guess I should highlight some actual serials. (And, umm, some of them are from Indelible authors because I’m not sure how I can leave them out? So SORRY I’M BREAKING THE RULES PLEASE FORGIVE ME.)

I’ve read through most of RaShelle Workman’s Blood and Snow serials. Quick and dramatic, great fun. I believe I found out about these through cool little text picture things she made. What are those things called anyway? With the book quotes on them? I adore them, but somehow have never tried to name them before now...

On my ‘to read’ pile is Susan Kaye Quinn’s Debt Collectors serials. I KNOW I haven’t gotten to reading them yet, I’ve been busy, okay? Found out about this one through her blog during an indie blog hop day.

I also want to read H.M. Ward’s serials, but they’re a bit pricey so I keep being all *debates* *wants* *debates* I predict giving in any day now. These are from the evil Amazon recommendation engine that won't stop making me want even more books I can't afford.

I’m not sure if it counts as indie, but I’ve started reading Kindle Worlds stories. I can already tell I’m going to be tearing through these things like potato chips (which I happen to be eating right now). Poor bank account. I forsee many lunch breaks spent in a favorite fan-fic in my future. I recommend Anita Clenney's Vampire Diaries serials. Intense and crazy, just like the show.

SO tomorrow I will talk about my debilitating love of regencies and all the delicious indieness thereof, and Wednesday will be all about NA. No idea what Thursday will be. An awesome surprise? Maybe a give away? Probably not, because I really am broke. But WE SHALL SEE. 

(Also I'm pretty sure I'm disqualified? Because I've followed none of the rules? OH WELL. (Double also, I really need to stop making statements into questions for no good reason. But adding question marks is really fun?))

In Which I Fail to Keep Track of Things

So I set up this free promo for my book a while ago? And then apparently I forgot about it? And I just remembered when I went to check my kdp data and was like, what's that random number over there in that column that never has numbers?

Turns out I've given away 169 free copies. CRAZY. I mean, I thought I might give away, like, two. The timing is sort of a mess because in my imagination I thought I'd be launching the sequel soon. I wasn't expecting the sequel to be an evil devourer of hearts and dreams. It is currently in edits. That I am taking forever on. Because apparently cleaning the bathroom is more interesting. I SWEAR I'll get this book out before the end of July somehow. Probably.

Anyway, I should write my indiependence day post before I forget about that, too. And maybe look into a way to add a new harddrive onto my brain. And then magically become productive and write ALL THE BOOKS.

Sigh. Guess I it's time to drag my non-magically enhanced brain through some edits. OH LOOK THE INTERNET.

UPDATE: Since I'm #36 in teen/romance/free (I'm so excited! I've never been #36 in anything before!) I made myself an award. I MEAN, I won an award that I definitely did not just make in photoshop because I'm an over excitable crazy person.

Getting Better

So I wrote my last post while I was sick and upset? So I thought maybe I should post something new so my feverish ramblings weren't at the top of the page now that I'm better? Except I'm still not actually sure I have a topic? So I've decided to write about something I've realized lately: never write for anyone else.

Sure, it's good to involve other people after the writing, and I still think the point of writing things down is so that other people can read them. But I now know that when I'm in the writing stage, I can only write for me. I can't think about how it needs to be good because I'm going to publish it. I can't think about what someone else will think of it. When I do that I freeze and I panic and I can't write a word.

I've been getting away from all the writing I feel obligated to do this past week, and it's reminded me of how much fun writing is. Somehow I think I forgot that for a little while. I let myself get bogged down in worries and fuss and I forgot to go harring off after an idiot idea just because I want to.

It's ridiculous how long it took me to figure out how writing and publishing obviously need to be separated in my brain. Write for me. Publish for everyone else. Duh.

So that's my no-longer-deliriously-ill bit of optimism for the day. If you're having trouble getting words on the page, forget everyone else. Write something terrible. Write something so abysmal it would demons weep. Write something that's utterly yours and don't worry about giving it away until it's finished.

Go write. I've got a horse to teach how to tap dance.

Indie Life: Muddling Through

So my head is aching and I don’t really want to write this and I have nothing to say. Plus I keep making typos so this is likely to come out as pure gibberish. I just keep typing words onto a screen hoping some idea will appear out of the ether before my brain explodes out of spite (why, head, why).

And that’s kind of been how I’ve been writing everything lately. I’m at that messy point of slump where all the enthusiasm is dead but I’m persisting anyway because I said I was going to do this, dammit. It’s not a great place to be, but I know if I keep at it long enough the enthusiasm will be waiting for me on the other end. I know this because I’ve been through it before.

It’s the same thing I went through when I used to go to bootcamp classes at the gym. Initial enthusiasm, how is this still going on slump, followed by a resurgance of enthusiasm as I cross the finish line. It happens every nano, too. Sometimes the slump wins and sometimes I win. I’ve decided I’m going to win this time because I’m getting too close to what I want to let the slump knock me out now.

I guess that’s all I have to say this time. I’m just muddling. It’ll work itself out, eventually.

Story I Still Shouldn't Be Writing: Part Two

Jonas is always watching me. The camera follows me as I fold the map into precise quarters and step out onto the street. My target is one hundred feet in front of me. My target is middle aged and grey haired. My target must not be thought of in these terms: two children, loving wife, alive. My target is already dead. I'm just assisting in the granting of peace.

The streets here are only for foot traffic. I slip through them like a ghost girl, like the hands of others could pass right through me. I watch my target's grey hair, keep an eye out for threats. I don't think he has security, but it's always good to be careful don't think don't think.

I take a breath, slide the pistol into my hand. I want to cause a commotion. I want to cause a commotion and get away. Jonas isn't sure I'll get away, but I will. 

I am better than Jonas. I still belong to Jonas. Don't think, don't think.

Two hundred feet. I am almost ready. An arm brushes mine. A boy slides into my sight. A boy with wicked eyes and clever smiles. A boy I killed two months ago.

He stands in front of me, the crowd of people breaking and combining around us. He can't be standing in front of me. He leans in. I can taste his breath. His cheek brushes against mine. "I have a secret," he whispers. 

"No." I shake my head. The boy is gone. The boy is melted into the crowd. No. The boy never existed. Couldn't have existed. The heat has gotten to me. I've gone too long without water. Dead boys don't talk. Dead boys aren't warm.

I need to focus, focus. The target is too far. I take a step forward. My knee gives out. 

I kill people and they stay dead. I kill people and they stay dead. What do I do if they don't stay dead?

Someone screams. Dirts coats my mouth.

"Collapsed," someone babbles in my ear, "she just collapsed!"

Is Jonas watching this? Jonas will not be happy. Boys with their throats torn out don't get back up. I can't find my gun.

***

Beeping drums insisistantly against my ear. I swat at it. Hit only air. 

"You're awake."

Jonas. 

I bolt up. Wires and tubes spiderwebbing my body pull me back down. "Where am I?"

"The hospital." Jonas' footsteps circle me. "You've made quite the mess."

"I can fix it." I gather my convinction into my voice. "I can fix it."

"It's too late for that." Jonas leans over me. I try not to look at his empty pale eyes, his high cheekbones, his endless lack of expression. The top button of his blue suit glints duly in the fluorescents  "Perhaps I moved you up too quickly."

"No." Tears threaten blur my sight. I blink them away. "I'm better than all of them. You know I'm better."

"I know you botched a job an amatuer could've managed."

I twist sterile sheets around my fingers. "I didn't account for the heat." I think I might be lying. Is it lying if you don't know?

"No second chances, Lila."

I cling irrationally to the name. Lila. Today I am Lila. Lila could be a girl with flowers in her hair and mischief in her eyes. I could be Lila.

"Your flight leaves tomorrow," Jonas says. "You're going back to Cleveland. Wait for me there."

I nod. He thinks he can punish me with waiting, but I am better than that. He'll see. 

Jonas walks away. I fiddle with the buttons near my fingers until I find one that pushes me farther up. The narrow doorway of my room hides the Jonas-containing world from me. For a moment I almost think I catch a glimpse of someone walking by. He smiles as he nods at me, but he's dead and therefore doesn't exist. I shake my head to toss the fantasies out. 

I don't have time to go mad. I have to get back to Cleveland. I have to make Jonas love me again.

In Which I Fail To Stick To One Story Again

Jonas won't be happy. I focus on the crunch of gravel under my feet crunch crunch crunch and let my mind fade out of existance. Twenty more miles until Cleveland. Miles to go before I sleep. I smile. 

Headlights flare in the dark. I turn my face before they blind me completely. For a moment no stop I wonder what they think of me don't don't a girl dressed in black on the side of the road at three in the morning. I wonder what they would do if I waved. 

I don't want to know what they'd do if I waved. I don't want to think anything at all. The car drives away. There's no one left to wonder at a lost girl on a dark night.

I fade out again. Crunch crunch crunch. I could almost dance to my own footsteps. The screeching of tires splits my darkness. I tilt my head to watch a pickup truck going the same direction as me jerk to a stop. A passenger door is flung open. A boy leans over from the driver's seat, blond hair illuminated by a light on his rearview mirror.

"Need a lift?" he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. 

He has wicked eyes. Dark eyes. Eyes a girl could lose herself in. I consider the way he smiles, like he has a secret, like his other hand is holding a gun. A nice girl would not get into this boy's passenger seat. A nice girl might even run.

I am not a nice girl. I am a girl who sews knives into her sleeves. I am a girl who is not afraid of guns. I am a girl who needs a lift.  I get in.

"What's your name?" he asks as I buckle my seatbelt.

I savor the way he says your name as if a name could be mine. "Sarah," I say. It's a name I might like to be mine. A steady name. A sure name. The kind of name you might write on notebooks and locker assignments. That's Sarah, someone might say, everyone likes Sarah.

"Trevor," he says.

I almost tell him that he's picked the wrong name. I would've picked something more sly for him, something with a wink, maybe Tyler or Jake. Trevor lacks subtelty. Trevor is a truck driver's name.

"Do you pick up stray girls often?" I ask. I try out twisting a strand of strawberry hair around my finger. I am trying to flirt, but not sure it's working. Flirting is something girls in movies do. Flirting is not for girls no stop who spend their Friday nights washing blood out of their best jeans.

"Depends," Trevor of the badly picked name says. "How often do you walk on the side of the road?"

I think he is flirting back. I try out a smile. "Only on nights when you're driving by." Only on nights when I get made and have to ditch my ride in Sarintino.

"If we go in any more circles they'll have to name a racetrack after us." 

Was that a joke? What if I laugh and it wasn't? I try out a low chuckle. Trevor smiles at me. My heart does something inexplicable. 

"Where you headed?" he asks.

This should have been the first question, the most important question, the question a boy would ask if he intended on taking a girl to her actual destination.

"Akron."

"Boring place for a pretty girl."

I shrug. 

We are stranded in silence. I curl my palm around the hilt of my knife. I'll need to steal the truck. I'll need to pick a place where I can easily dispose of the body. 

"Do you know what I think?" he says.

I forgot he's still alive.

"I think you have a secret." His face does something that might be described as beaming, if one was inclined to light metaphors.

I press my side against the door, judge our velocity and acceleration. I'll need to grab the steering wheel fast. The roads are lined with ditches, not an ideal set up for accidental swerving. But I am quick enough.

"And what would the secret be?" In point five seconds I'm going to drive this knife through your throat.

His eyes reflect the starlight. "I'm faster than you."

No. My arm is up, is swinging in a downward arch. I need force for the impact to be clean. He lets go of the steering wheel, or maybe he never held it. He is fast, too fast. His hand is around my wrist, his knees are steering us forward. My weight is too far into the swing, I'm sliding off the seat.

I think, for an instant, that he might be better than me.

I'm expecting the Glock in his other hand. I take back control of my fall. My wrist yanks back on his hand. I slam sideways into the seat. The bullet whispers past my midriff. Glass explodes behind me.

Better, I'm better.

My knee connects with his gun hand. He lets out a hiss. He holds onto the gun. He still has my wrist. He twists and pain shoots up my arm. Don't think about it, don't think. I lunge forward and bury my teeth in his throat. Finally, he screams. Finally, he drops the gun, primitive instincts kicking in as he pushes against me get it off get it off. 

The car is swerving, no time to think about the car.

I twist a fist in his hair. He falls back against the door. My knife is at his throat. His eyes flash starlight. With his foot off the gas the car slows to a roll.

"Got my secret wrong," I say.

He laughs. As if death could ever be funny. "That wasn't the secret."

I push my knife down. A little part of me that would badly like to be a girl named Sarah wants to let the wrongly named Trevor walk off into the night. And that is why I know I can't. Don't think, don't think. Girls like me don't have any use for starlight.

Because the Light

I’ll be honest. I just read this article and it’s left me full of feels. I’m not nearly as eloquent as Kameron Hurley, but I want to write it out and this is my space, anyway.

I am a small person who has spent a lot of time trying to become smaller. I learned early on that lashing out gets me nowhere, so I crumple inward instead. I’m a trick of folded paper, working my way down with the ambition of being microscopic.

I shove myself into corners, lockers, pockets. Some people are devastated because others make them small, but I made myself a point charge with no mass, hovering hopelessly in the empty space I left behind me.

I don’t know why. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I didn’t deserve all that space others seemed to so easily occupy. Maybe I just give in, like it’s my super power. Some super heroes are stone walls standing against the tidal wave, but I am cotton and snow and sand. I am packed down, packed away, forgotten at the bottoms of shoes.

I am contrary and unpleasant and I duck before you even raise a fist. Because I am afraid. Because I don’t understand the space I occupy in the world and how I’m supposed to decorate it with sparkly pink stars and scrub it clean with suds. Because I forget which part is me and which part is dirt and kick over the wrong bucket.

I’m not even sure what this has to do with that article anymore. I meant to write something about the nature of reality, about how I approach the world as a writer and fight against the cliché. About how when I feel things I don’t accept the easy description. How does this fear make you feel? And don’t say your heart is in your throat because it isn’t, that’s a thing you read, that’s a lie, how do you really feel?

And I know that fear makes me feel like glass, not the sturdy plastic kind, but the kind that ipod screens are made of, the kind that shatters from a three-inch fall. Fear is light and too much air. Fear is tectonic plates moving, ripping me apart.

Fear is wanting to delete this entire thing instead of posting it.

We are told, endlessly, to write what we are most afraid of. And we are not told what to do when we are just too afraid.

I don’t want anyone reading my words. I want to keep them small and in my head. I don't want anyone trying to pull me out and stretch my taffy flesh. And I know I need to, but it's painful and I'm none too fond of pain.

So I wrote this because I needed to explain it to myself, and maybe I'll delete it and maybe I won't. I've deleted about five different endings because none of them seemed to work, and now if I don't get to sleep I'll never get up in time for work tomorrow, so here's my last go at it.

Be what you are. And never let anyone tell you you're actually a cannibalistic llama.