Procrastination

So.
I have the story. I have the plot, the characters.
I mostly know what I am supposed to write.
And yet here I am.
Struggling to put one word in front of the other.
My brain keeps slipping away, unable to focus.
I have trouble visualizing scenes, finding a rhythm in the dialogues.
And it's frustrating.
I am constantly behind on my word count, but I can't seem to be able to get my brain to just
focus.
Stray thoughts, teeth rattling,
I hate when I am there.
Where's the hyper fixation when I need it? 

On the difficulty of setting priorities

 So many things I want to do and only a limited amount of time available.

My side of the living room is quite an apt representation of what's inside my heads.
Piles of books I want to read, Notebooks for classes I want to complete. Binders and textbooks and folders for work.
There are piles of fabric for things I want to create, costumes and clothes alike. Some work in progress on top of the already unstable stack.
Boxes of knitting equipment and a bagful of yarn balls.

I want to be more stylish so I want to sew more, but if I dedicate my time to sewing it means I do not have time for writing anymore.
I want to be knowledgeable and well read so I can't sacrifice my daily reading while commuting to knitting, but then when am I ever going to find time to use all the yarn I have and all the ideas that lurk inside my brain?
I also want to watch more movies, keep an eye on the news, practice my foreign languages, have a social life, stay fit (if not even fitter)

I am of a rather passionate disposition. I like throwing myself completely into something and give it my all, sleep and sanity included if required.
The problems start when my brain can't decide what to hyper focus on.
I've always lives with the feeling that every minute counts and that I am constantly running of time, which can be a great source of motivation, but also become very difficult when it comes to setting priorities.
Choosing between hobbies is like choosing which version of me I am going to give up on.
I know it sounds harsh and overly dramatic, but this is how my brain reacts to choices.
It is the underlying terror of not becoming enough, not doing enough, not trying hard enough that fuels me into trying to become an excellent jack of all trades.

Do I want to be a craftsman or do I want to be an academic? Do I want to be a writer or a reader? Do I want to be strong or flexible.
Those are some the questions that keep me awake at night.

Who are you?

Who are you?
I write for myself here, the same way people talk to themselves I guess. It helps clear out my head.
I never wrote in the hope to be read. I've given this address to some people over the years, but no one ever showed any interest in reading it. So who are you?
There seem to be between 4 and 6 people reading this regularly, but for the life of me I can't seem to guess who they are. Not the Sweet monster. He mentionned coming here once in a while. Not my sister, or at least I don't think so.
Then who?
Who
Are
You?
I wish I knew. no one ever brought up my blog in a conversation. Or made a reference to it. There are no comments, no message. So I have no way to know.
So do tell me please. So I'd know. If you've been reading here for a while it means that we know each other.
So tell me. I'd like to know.

Sylvia

I finished the second draft of my novel.
I feel proud and empty.
What should I do?

The small one is the monster. The black one is probably the deadliest, thought they'd rather not know for sure.

They had short hair and a jaw you could sharpen knives on. Everything about them was jet black. their short hair, gloves, boots, even the great coat that bellowed after them. But the most interesting black was their eyes. Not that you could see them behind their clear glasses. They looked grey.
Next to them the girl was vibrating with colours. Fiery red hair woven in a complicated braid, cheeks covered with freckles and slightly reddened by the winter cold. She could have been sixteen or fifty.
- Are you sure this is the right place?" She asked.
- No, but I never am and yet I am never wrong either." Their voice was soft and harsh.
The girl caught a gloved hand and pushed the sleeve up, revealing chalk white skin veined with black.
- Oh, so that's why you are in a mood."
- I am not in a mood. I just wish we didn't have to do that.
- But it's going to be fun!
- No, it's going to be fun for you! For me it's going to be satisfying and quite disgusting, just as it always is."

They climbed up the stairs just when a woman pushed the door open.
- Come on Jewel," she called her dog.
She never saw them but tightened her scarf around her neck as if a cold wind had blown to her face. The air was still.

Three flight of stairs, a door on the left. The floor board creaked heavily under the girl. The one in black made no noise.
They rang the bell.
- I am starving!" She was cheerful tonight. As she always was.
- You always are.
The door opened on a little man. White t-shirt, grey trousers, slippers.
- What's it?
- New neighbours, coming to say hi!" Her words shone like the summer sun. "Can we come in?"
- Sure, sure.
He never stood a chance. But then they never did. He moved and pulled the wooden panel, inviting them in.
They could see the aura around him shift and ooze. They had been right, as always.
He gestured them forward and they walked into the living room. The TV was on but weirdly it had stopped broadcasting anything. The man didn't notice. The room was cramped. Piles of junk, dirty laundry, some plates, some leftovers.
The girl was in the middle of the little place, taking it all in. The stale air, tinged with sweat and smoke. The sounds through the thin walls.
The one in black just sat on the couch and drew out a pack of cigarettes. They looked like they were thirty or a bit less. Probably not more. At least they looked like they had an age.
The man stood there, confused.
- So which flat did you move in?
- Down," they said.
- Like ground floor?
- No, bellow that.
He frowned. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he couldn't tell what. His head was fuzzy.
- But there is no flat bellow ground floor.
His voice trailed off as the girl started to take off her scarf. She was pretty. He liked them pretty. She was young. He liked that too.
He never stood a chance.
- Leave me my due," They said, exhaling smoke, their unlit cigarette hanging between their gloved fingers.
- Sure.
And then she opened her mouth. And then she opened her jaw. And she never stopped. It looked like it had no limits.
Blood sprayed but the meat was good. It was warm and it felt spicy on her tongues.
- Don't toy with your food." They said from the couch as she tore the man's left arm. He'd have screamed but she had ripped his lower jaw first so all that came out was a gurgling sound. "We haven't got all night."
She shrugged and took a giant bite.
When the man was about to die, they stood up, as graceful as a cat, or as an ibis. Long legs and fluid movements.
They looked tall and thin.
First they took off their glasses, revealing their impossibly black eyes and store them carefully in some inside pocket of their coat. Then they peeled off their gloves and put them away the same way. Their hands were black. Absolutely and perfectly black, as it they had dipped them in tar, or maybe in the night sky itself.
Then, They plunged both hands and eyes into the man's life, tearing it away, pulling at it hungrily.
The body slumped forward and the black receded from their hands, living only too white skin.
The girl laughed, the bottom half of her face drenched in blood.
- That was good!
They smiled, or at least it looked like what they would have called a smile if they had known what a smile was.
- Yeah, It feels better.

Nanowrimo

So this happened.

Wings

There is an emptiness in my back, where my wings used to be.
I feel cold and naked without their weigh,
I used to hug myself in them. Soft and warm.

I miss the haven they were,
The barrier they made between me and this harsh world.
With them gone, what am I?

The sky never looked so big,
so close and so far.
Never again shall I feel the ice cold air of the great heights.

The wind on my back makes me want to cry.
My skin is too soft, too new.
They are gone.

Small gestures

Hold my hand,
brush your fingertips against my lips,
put your head on my shoulder
catch me looking at you and smile.

Bite my neck,
bite my lips,
take my hand,
take my breath away.

Write things to make me blush,
not too much,
not too little,
just enough.

At the end of the day

Somebody kick me hard.
I thought I was doing fine.
Did I spoil everything again?

Is there anything beyond my reach,
something I couldn’t break,
couldn’t ruin?

My hands hurt,
I want to crawl out of my skin.

The voices keep repeating those harsh words.
Among all the things that were said,
only the sharp one stayed.
Those that hurt,
Those that cut,
Those that stung.
Hours and days later,
They’re still here,
spinning in my head.
I still can’t get them out.

Sealed lips

"You need to learn to be humbler."
"You sound very condescending sometimes."
"Is that really what you thought?"

I tried to do it right.
I tried to be good.
I tried to be better.
It seemed that I failed.

"Good morning" I always said with that singsong voice.
Smiling and easy-going.

Apologize first, even if you don't understand what you did wrong.
It doesn't matter.
If you hurt someone, you apologize.
That's what you do.

I thought I could be proud and uncompromising,
I didn't think being whole would be so wrong.
I messed it up, didn't I?

They said I should keep quiet in front of the grown ups.
I had thought I could talk now,
I was wrong, wasn't I?

I don't know how to talk
I don't know how to speak
I don't know how...

I keep going from sadness to anger.
From the shame for not fitting in
to the pain of a bruised pride.

Why should I apologize for speaking up?
why am I not allowed to point out at people's mistakes?

I rock like a boat on the ocean, caught in the storm.
I am lost and there is no lighthouse.

Listen

Lying on my back, I let my thoughts wander, taken away by the music.
I listen.
Behind my closed eyelids I can see worlds and galaxies
I can see mountains and stars.
I live in worlds you've never seen and there is only so much words can convey.
Listen.
I am carried away. I feel the sun, the wind, the fall.
I smell the sea, the snow and the storm.
Oh if you could listen.
If you could walk with me inside my head.
The shadows are deep but you've never seen light so bright.
Oh how I wish you could hear.

My ears betray me and I am cut from the world in a way that you cannot fathom.
But right here, right now, if you could hear that world that only belongs to me.
Oh, if you only you could.

Books are not as they used to be.

- I liked this book, but there's too little diversity! It feels like there are only tall and fit beautiful hetero white people. That's annoying!"

Growing up, this remark would have never crossed my mind. It wasn't even something I'd think about. Diversity wasn't even an issue. There was little to no PoC in the novels I read. Main characters usually had the same body type and their sexual orientation was never a question.
But today, young adults have so many titles to pick from that they can actually get a more diverse set of characters and heroes to grow up with and be inspired by.
I find it impressive how young adult literature evolved in the last ten to fifteen years. The number of readers gradually increasing meant that publishers could sell more books and that brought more diversity to the readers.
But for that to happen, it means that writers got the opportunity to write different stories, different characters, and as a writer myself, I find it incredible.
Writing diverse characters isn't necessarily self-evident when you grew up with heroes that all looked the same. It takes some work and some acknowledgement to make one's writing more inclusive.

The fact that kid can know grow up with characters that look like them, who can help them figure out who they are and who they want to be is so important.
Young adult literature is so important!

Something I'd like to film one day

Iron – Woodkid

Black and white.

On the sound of a waving flag : middle shot : A ballerina is sitting on the floor of a dance studio. she is putting on her pointe shoes, her hair in a bun. she is wearing a training suit. dark leotard and dark tights

close shot on her foot and her hands.
Middle shot: she stand up, puts her right foot on the shoe, and then the other.  Stands on pointes in first position, her arms in preparation, and lowers her head / looks down.
Close shot on her face, her eyes are closed, she takes a breathe.

Long shot on the first trumpets - slow motion: The ballerina raises her head.
Close shot on the face, she looks straight at the camera, she is determined.
Camera moves back - full shot : She stands on her pointes and walks and stops herself on the middle of the room, her feet in fifth position, arms in preparation.

Second trumpets : on the crescendo : Middle Shot: she makes a reverence: half fold, she opens her arms in second position
on the decrescendo: she stands and bring back her arm in preparation.
On the drums: she starts to dance. Her pointes on the floor correspond to the rhythm of the drums.

"Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away"
Close shot on the ballerina’s face. She wears make up and her hair is perfectly combed into a strict bun. her tiara shines and sparkles. We understand she is on stage. Her face is lightened by spotlights. She looks at the audience. shoulders back, head straigh, chin up.

Long shot of the audience.
Close shot : she closes her eyes.
flash: a panorama of an ocean:
Close shot, she opens her eyes.
Long shot of the audience - old opera house seats. the room is full.

"Where innocence’s burn in flames"
Close shot on a hand who puts a lighter on, and another bring a piece of ribbon to make it melt.

"A million miles from home, I’m walking ahead"
Long shot: we see a young girl walking alone in a path. It’s snowing, everything is white around her. The camera is far behind her, we see her back as she crosses the huge iron gate.
camera moves forward to follow In front of her there is a huge and old and dark building in which is written “National Ballet Academy”. the camera stops at the gate, unable to move forward as she stares at the building.

"I’m frozen to the bones, I am"
Close shot on the young girl’s face: her breath makes steam. She looks defiant.

“A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way.”
Long shot: We see the young girl in the middle of a dancing class; she looks scared and lost in the exercise. surrounded by other girls. the all wear the same white outfit and move in perfect unison.

“I’m riding up the heights of shame “
Middle shot: The young girl is sitting on her bed, crying.
“I’m waiting for the call, the hands on the chest.”
Middle shot: The ballerina is in backstage, waiting for her entrance. She looks stressed, moving her feet, climbing on a pointe and the other, her arms crossed on the chest. Her head is low.

"I’m ready for the fight and fate"
Close shot on her face; she raises her head and looks straight at the camera.

Music : She enters on the stage. chassé, grand jeté. dancing. Shot altering: The camera is at the edge of the stage as she lands and pauses.
forward to an american shot, then follows her movements.

“The sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head:”
Close shot , slow motion on the teacher ‘s stick hitting the floor with the tip of her cane to mark the tempo, raising a cloud of white dust.
“The thunder of the drums dictates”
Close shot on her old hands, clapping on rhythm.

“The rhythm of the falls, the number of deads”
Long shot: The girl in training suit is trying to make a spin, but falls, once, twice, three times.
Close up on her face as she falls again.

“The rising of the horns, ahead.”
Close shot : We see the face of an old and thin woman, a ballet teacher. She is shouting something in slow motion.
“From the dawn of time to the end of days,
I will have to run, away”
Long shot: we see the young ballerina, training in the empty studio, dancing. older than the girl in front of the door. teen?

"I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste:"
We see the ballerina in the backstage just before her entrance , she is wearing a white tutu, sparkling with jems.
"Of the blood on my lips, again"
Close shot on her mouth. She is bitting her lips, stressed out. dark lipstic, white skin, white teeth. younger than in the first shot. Late teen.

Music : The ballerina is alone on the stage, dancing under the spotlight. all grace and strength.

“This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands”
Medium shot: the young girl is in front of the door of the Ballet school. The camera is on her back. Everything around her is white because of the snow. the camera moves back, the iron gate appears again.

“I’m frozen to the bones, I am”
Close shot:  The young girl puts her woollen hat on her head and claps her hands to fight against the cold.

“A million mile from home, I’m walking ahead”
Very long shot: we see the young girl in front of the building, she seems terribly small, in front of the huge building. the huge closed doors. She walks up the stairs and pushes the door.

«  I can’t remember your eyes, your face.”
Close shot on the ballerina’s face. She closes her eyes.
flash. Long shot of the black gate of the Ballet school, a thirty years old woman is standing, saying goodbye, waving her hand.

Music: The ballerina is dancing on the stage, alone. We see her from the back of the stage, with the audience in the background, dark. She is all in white, bathed in light. contrasts with the audience
When the flute starts, the camera starts to follow the ballerina, following her movement, as if the camera was her dancing partner. close to her. torso, hands, neck, head.

When the flute stops, the ballerina stops, make a slow reverence and lowers her head.

Long shot on the audience who is stanging, applausing, her.

End of the music, Close-up on the ballerina’s face. She raises her head to the light and smiles. triumphant.

Travel through time

How did I get here? Blue sky above. I can feel the sin on my skin.
 The train races and the stone walls zoom by. Moss and trees.
It smells of earth and summer. Where am I?

The tracks run forward, but I don't know where.
I can't remember. There's something missing.

A bridge.
A short tunnel and something else behind.

Something stirs inside me. 

Darkness ahead. Sweat runs down my spine.
I don't want to go.
We shouldn't go.
we mustn't go.

The noise is deafening. My hair lashes across my face.
There's light and there's darkness.
I can see things move at the corner or my eyes.

The lights are fading. my heart beats against my ribcage.
I can hear them come.
I can only make out their shapes in the shadow.

Light at the end of the tunnel,
but I do not dare to hope.
Please let it be true.

I can hear them howl behind me but the train keeps going.
Please, let it be the outside.
Oh please, let me get out of it alive.

I can taste the open air,
The light is blinding.

I brace myself.

  

We are out. I am safe.
The train races ahead, leaving the darkness behind.
I can hear them howl, hungry and furious.

  

 The train races and the stone walls zoom by. Moss and trees.
It smells of earth and summer. Blue sky above. I can feel the sin on my skin.

How did I get here?
Where am I?

a preview of something I'll be working on soon:

My hand were too hot. I could feel the heat sip out of them along my legs. I was tired and I was having a hard time concealing my abilities. It was past time I got home.
The train was full and I felt crushed by the people around me.
All I wanted was to get home and to relax. The day had been too long and terribly tiring.
My nerves were crumbling down and I found myself upset: I should have left earlier.

I ran the last meters to my building and climbed the steps two at a time.
My hands were shaking now and I got scared of to melting down the keys: there were red and glowing in my hands.

One lock. A second lock. I pushed the wood panel with my shoulder.

I slammed the door closed behing me with a kick and ran to the bathroom. I abandoned my bag and coat on the floor and got under the shower all dressed. I needed to cool down.
I felt the stones I had disposed in the room suck the power from me.

The running water helped. It dismissed energy.

It took me fifteen minutes under the cold spray to calm down and to get my powers under control again. I took off my clothes and stayed in the tub.
I let my mind wander.

One foot at a time

Walk with your chin up. Shoulders back. Heel first.

Don’t let them see your fear.

Brisk strides. Sure footed.

It doesn’t matter that some wounds are still bleeding

That the nightmares still creep up on you at night.

Be.

Bright as the sun.

All devouring. A fire through dried grass.

Let them draw their own conclusions.

Have your own standards. Your own expectations.

And the spell was broken

I finished the Nanowrimo.
I finished the Nano and I am still sane (sort of).
I finished the Nano and I still have a job, a flat, a brain and a sweet monster:
I finished the Nano and my head is full of new ideas.

I FINISHED THE NANOWRIMO!

It is even more enjoyable that till now I only finished the Nano every other year. So with this one, I finished it two years in a row, making it my 4th finished Nano out of 7started.

And that feels great.

Under the night sky

Deep inside
Where feelings crawl and time is irrelevant

Things move in the dark, waiting for their time to come

A light shines somewhere above but never reaches the deeps

Monsters, born from pain screech

Walk along the path

Between the trees

Night is above

Your footsteps muted by the grass

The soil is rich and the night is long

The path is endless and full of wonders

Shadows move somewhere

But they do not scare you

Walk the path

Toward unknown trails and forgotten roads

One step at a time,

For it is the only thing to do.

Autumn in China

I love autumn. To me it always had a special atmosphere. being back to school always feel like a fresh start, an opportunity to learn more, to work differently. The weather, being colder makes it easier for me to wear long sleeves and nice outfits. A skirt, a pair of boots and a light jackets. it feels more comfy and I'm less self conscious about what people see of me. Autumn has this special atmosphere, of being both an end and a beginning. I love the colours. The leaves dark brown to bright yellow, through all the shades of red and oranges. The whisper of the wind, in the branches, forming new carpets of leaves. I could walk in the woods for hours. The taste of pumpkin and warm food. The rain, that washes everything, while I sit on the other side of the window, with a cup of hot tea, listening to the drops crashing against the glass. There is that feeling of warmth and of safety that I associate with Autumn. Autumn is the season of artistic creation for me. Writing and creating worlds and story. There is the Nanowrimo, of course, but It's more general than that. 

But here every thing is different. We are in October and I can't find any of this.
I live in China. I don't really realize it. I still feel like I'll only be here for some weeks, a couple of month, but no: I live here. I've got a flat, an address, everything. I live in Chine. And here, October tastes different. It feels like I get the summer I hadn't back in France, wearing shorts and t-shirt. since I still haven't been assigned to a class, I don't even have a real rhythm of life.

I have many ideas and projects to write about, but the mood is not the same. I am torn between my need to settle here, and make myself a life in China and my wish to stay home and write all day long. It feels good to finally feel that call again. I have so many ideas, so many stories that only wait to be developed and written about.
I'll try to make the two work together. Make some time for my projects, without turning into my usual hermit.

Procrastination et lassitude

Nanowrimo Jour 19: Je n'arrive plus à écrire.

Voilà, c'est dit.
Je me suis lancée dans la rédaction d'une histoire, avec une préparation insuffisante et j'en paie aujourd'hui le prix.
Je n'arrive pas à avancer. J'ai des idées, ce n'est pas le problème, mais rien n'est vraiment construit et finit dans ma tête. Ce qui est l'équivalent chez moi du boss de fin de niveau: Je me lasse.
A force d'écrire sans savoir où je vais, j'ai finis par me lasser.
Alors je procrastine au lieu d'avancer dans mon histoire. Je n'ose pas admettre que je me suis perdue, car si je veux tenir le rythme du nano, je ne peux pas vraiment revenir en arrière pour analyser à quel endroit j'ai pris la mauvaise décision.
Il faut donc que j'essaie de réunir mes idées, que je les couche sur le papier et que je réussisse à déterminer quel serait la meilleure stratégie pour arriver jusqu'au dénouement de l'histoire. Et autant dire que ce n'est pas facile.
Depuis le début du mois, l'écriture est un peu le centre de ma vie: quoi que je fasse, il y a toujours une petite voix dans ma tête qui me rappelle que je dois écrire.
Sauf que sans un plan de bataille, là, je ne vois pas quoi faire.