It Might be Time for a Reboot

This is a writing blog. I haven’t written (much) in the past few years, so this blog has fallen by the wayside. And I’m about to pick it back up. It only makes sense that I don’t load a new pic for the post, since it’s a writing blog and not a mullet (Business in the front. Party in the back). I want it all to be a party, and bangs would just look emo.

I’ll start by greasing my rusty writing hinges; Hello, World! I’m ready to shaaare myself again!

The primary focus for this blog is professional updates on how I understand writing to be, in all its forms: literary and artistic reviews, updates on my work, and helpful hints along the way. I grew away from this professional blog due to (excuses) and now that I’m able to focus more on the often complex and changing needs of novel writing, I can also step back into this place.

Why? I quit my job. My last day is in a few days (Monday), and I’m returning to college to finish my degree. Yes, it’s several huge moves. Yes, it’s terrifying. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I might have had one tonight. WebMD? I’m looking at you. Never mind. It wasn’t a panic attack. It was cancer. Crap.

On the coattails of this professional blog, I’ll begin the reboot with an entirely personal post. Ups/downs, what I learned, how I am moving forward, and my goals.

Everything seems to be opening up to me at once. Like a great big hole cut in the clouds, a beam of sunlight saturates me. Given I took a float trip last weekend, I also have sunburns to correlate corroborate narrate? emphasize my current feeling. And a few blisters I noticed earlier tonight. Gross, no? A dog also bit me. Not the best day. Week.

First, I’ve been dating someone wonderful. It’s been a slow date, a slow movement, and I WOULD make a reference to parallel this relationship to a perfectly slow-smoked pork shoulder, but since she’s a vegetarian, I’ll pass. Seems disrespectful somehow. And slow-roasted eggplant really doesn’t have the same emphatic effect. Yet is delicious. So! She currently lives very far away, but she’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Anyone who reads this and knows what “perfect” means, also knows how scary a perfect person (for me) can be. I’m not scared of being disillusioned. I am scared of messing up. I am scared of complacency. I am scared of Nelly’s lyrics of, “you were always so easy to love. I guess loving you wasn’t enough.”

She is waiting in the wing.

It’s like you’re sitting at the far edge of the audience, front row stage left, watching a play you’re in love with. You read the book, know what’s coming, but the first act has only shown hints of the masterpiece you know shows up at the end of the first act. It’s a fairly cerebral play, with subdued notes and strong, if standard, storyline. I’m at the moment where the first act is winding down, and I see glimpses of her behind the red velvet curtains stage right. Strong. Poised. Decked out in the most dream-driven costume I have ever seen. Bright oranges and reds, cloth of silk and linen and a purple pearlesque headpiece that carves itself out of the darkness behind it.

I practically tear my invitation in half in my nervous excitement. This. This is me right now, romantically. And I know what’s coming next. Which is a good thing.

Second, I’m stepping out of an abusive work relationship. My job, while “well-paying,” is the kind of mindf*ck you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. She (my job) plays mind games with you: tells you you’re a poor lover, a terrible provider, and overall boring. She says you’re the kind of person nobody else would want, and you have this job but by the grace of her magnanimous gaze. She tells you that you’re responsible for all the things that are outside of your control, then cheats on you, and blames you afterward for “making her do it.”

I’m mostly kidding.

I love the job I work. I love the people I work with. I love meeting new customers and understanding fresh environments. I love my manager(s). I hate the micromanagement. I can’t stand the strange rock/hard place I’m expected to navigate through of Official Methods and Management Directive. That’s like most jobs, right? If management just would get off my back, I could thrive. I consider this a worst-case-scenario, but most likely there are many equally rough, equally unapologetic, equally controlling jobs out there. I am not unique. Or moreso, I am a special snowflake. Just like everyone else.

Regardless, this is an abusive relationship I’m glad I’m finally stepping away from. I mean, look at this! I’m already writing again, and I haven’t even put my last day in. Clearly it has some impact (or my excuse is totally psychosomatic. I can’t underestimate the power of belief).

I also had the good fortune to do some freelance writing work for a government-run facility (entirely due to my amazing girlfriend. Let’s refer to her as… Hmm. Dr. Pepper. I love her like I love Dr. Pepper (and then some). And Dr. Pepper made me diabetic), and I loved every second of that full-force transcription job. I unfortunately overestimated my abilities, but I had a kind boss. (Note: I made myself diabetic through the abuse of overly-sugared drinks. I take full responsibility for my actions. Furthermore, if Dr. Pepper (the woman) ends up making me woman-abetic, I will also take full responsibility for my actions.)

Third, moving back to college for a semester or four means all the stress of quitting a consistent, abusive job (yet still consistent), enrolling and finding my needed classes, finding a place to live, and moving to said place in a matter of three weeks. This is, frankly, terrifying. TERRIFYING spelled with all caps and a screaming ghost in the attic. I am petrified, overwhelmed, child-like in my petulance and insecurity, rote-weary and selfish.

And I need a hug. (Awww)

Hence why I’m writing. I can’t fall back on work anymore. I must finally, FINALLY return to what I love to do most, and that’s write, think about writing, and reading. Fill that hole with creation, yes? Fill that dark space of inadequacy with lots and lots of voices. And they’re all mine. Mmm. #lifeofawriter

Finally, Fantasy. Yum. I have ONE Urban Fantasy novel waiting on cover art, ONE quarter-formed High Fantasy, ONE twisty Coming of Age Thriller with Hints of Fantasy Elements (gotta work on that placement), and ONE Gothic Science Fiction novel with four chapters. Along with whatever I’ve thrown by the wayside that wishes to be resurrected. And several novels to read/finish. Including: Wise Man’s Fear, some philosophical books, Some Robin Hobb Assassin business, and a thousand others.

Now you know the parameters of what I’ll be writing about on here: School, Work experiences, Dr. Pepper, Dr. Pepper (heh), and books. My books. Other books. Sorry for being gone for so long, my wordpress page. I don’t expect a reply. Your silence is telling enough.

Now I must take two migraine pills and apply aloe, because I still have three days of work and THEY DON’T WAIT FOR ANYONE. Plus, Netflix n Chill. Because I desperately need to Chill tonight. Ask my father. Ask the Dr.

Say hi. I need moar community. 🙂

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