Tag Archives: random mishaps

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Suffering for the Art

Today gives a bit more meaning to the words because there I was, heading down the stairs and doing my usual multitasking thing, getting my new iphone set up so I could work on The Not-So-Super Superhero.

Before any comments about texting while walking, I was really only holding onto the phone when my slipper went loose, I slid down a few stairs, and I hurt a few things.

I noticed I pulled a muscle in my arm trying to stop the fall, probably a part of what made me skin my arm, but that reminded me of my old familiar pain.

Carpal tunnel.

Yes, I have carpel tunnel syndrome, in both hands. It is more pronounced in my right hand, my dominate one, and it is partially inherited–my mother has it as well–but also it’s because of repetitive motion, of writing. Typing.

There are days when I have pushed myself so much with the writing or the typing that I can’t hardly feel my hand anymore.

It doesn’t stop me from writing. Not because I’m a masochist, but I love writing. As much as I used to need to get to the next section of a book I was reading, since I started writing, I need to get to the next part. I love spending time with the characters, almost like being with a friend or watching a really good movie.

A little bit of pain is worth it to spend the time I can doing what I love and enjoying the stories and worlds that I help create. The characters choose their path, they lead the story where it’s going to go, so they have half the credit, at least.

My arm hurts even now, but it is time to go back to the world beyond the garden shed, and I’m looking forward to that.

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When an Outlet Isn’t Enough

I write for a number of reasons. I write because I love it. I write because the ideas never stop coming. I write because the characters need their stories told. I also write to escape. I write to process my world. I write as an outlet.

Today, though, was almost a day off from writing all together.

Had a bit of a wake up call happen last night–nothing bad, but it could have been a lot worse, and it made me think and made me take a look at a few things. It also left me feeling rather guilty because while nothing bad did happen, it could have, and it would have been my fault.

When I got home, I was wound up and usually I unwind by writing before bed. I didn’t. Couldn’t.

The underlying issues I was avoiding couldn’t be ignored for fic. They spilled out onto the fic, giving it a bad light. I was convinced that I’d lost touch with all my current stories: The Monster in My Garden Shed, The Not-So-Super Superhero, The Memory Collector, and the sequel to Nickel and Dime. I didn’t know where to take the first two, I thought I’d screwed up the third, and the fourth was going over the same thing over and over again with Effie and Garan’s current problems.

I couldn’t even bring myself to type on my older projects  because all my writing seemed… bad. Not worth fixing or working on bad.

This is the state I get in where I know things are really bad. If I can’t write, then I’m in a place that worries me.

I told myself it was just the day. I’d take today off from writing and things would look better in the morning. Morning came, and I was not over it. I still thought they were all horribly flawed and not worth fixing, even if I knew where to go with them.

Distracting myself with the games on my phone wasn’t working, though they are very addicting little apps. Talking it out was somewhat helpful, though since it had to be done by chat, it caused some confusion and frustration, too.

It was getting later and later, and it looked like there would be no writing done today at all. I did some minor edits to the second Nickel and Dime–which, by the way, continues to vex me with its refusal to get named–and I had a strange idea for how to go on with it, so I opened up the file and started working on it.

Of course, that was about when it became time to get dinner and go out for the evening, so the scene wasn’t done when I left. Out and about, I used the phone to start today’s Not-So-Super post.

Writing today was more of a battle than an outlet, but I do think that I am better for it, not just in the sense of settling some of my issues in real life but also for taking that look at the stories and acknowledging what might need to change and figuring out where to take them and knowing that they are still worth it, even if they need a bit of work.

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I’d Show You, but Then I’d Have to Moon You

Or so I said when I was trying to figure out just how injured I got falling down the stairs.

Not the whole flight. I’m just bruised.

Though I’m certain that more injuries and bruises will show up later, I’ve already discovered pulled muscles in my shoulder and around my knee. This is going to leave me sore for a while.

About twisted my pinky nail off on my right hand and tore up the skin on my elbow, hit my back and landed on my butt. I asked my friend if she could see anything on my back, but there was nothing there. The only other spot to check would have been my rump, but alas, I did not feel like mooning her, so I checked that on my own in the mirror.

Can’t see anything at the moment, but I suspect there will be a bruise there… In some senses, not a full moon then?

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Slippers of Doom?

So, two days later, and I am still feeling the effects of the slippers’ attempt on my life.

It was amusing to me, the response I got when I told people that it was the slippers. Granted, the look on my mother’s face when she heard my whole “not a full moon” comment was completely priceless, but I was thinking more of the reaction to the slippers bit.

A friend was like, “and that is why I say slippers = death.”

I had to explain, first, that slippers or something on the feet is necessary because the basement where I spend my days chained to my computer my time has very little carpet. It also happens to be winter. It is freezing without something on the feet, thus the need for slippers or socks.

So then I was forced to explain my issues with socks. I don’t like those ankle socks because they feel weird and like my socks are constantly falling down. I also don’t like the other ones because they get tight around my ankles and bug me. You will never, ever catch me in socks that go to my knees or separate my toes, either. I’m a very picky person, and those socks feel… confining. Like turtlenecks. Can’t do them, either.

So then I was told to get some Crocs instead. I explained my aversion to plastic shoes (especially with holes in them) and though both the twins tried to persuade me that it was worth trying, plastic shoes to me are as spandex is to Clayton, the not-so-super superhero. No matter how comfortable those things are supposed to be, they’re still made of plastic, and it’s wrong when I can feel plastic on my feet.

*shudders*

Back to the slippers, though. Immediately after explaining how I ended up falling down part of the stairs while on the phone with my grandmother, she said, “that’s why you’re not supposed to wear slippers when you’re running around.”

I was not running, but okay. I don’t usually have problems with slippers or stairs, but I’m not going to deny that the slippers did, in fact, try to kill me.

It still hurts, I’m still bruised, and I keep finding new places that got hit or muscles that got pulled.

Still, for the record, I have slipper socks on today.

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I Have the March Madness

I have March madness.

 

Not for sports. I don’t actually enjoy sports much, and certainly not watching them. An athlete I am not. There are a few exceptions to this. I’m okay with volleyball and badminton, and I can almost play them. I don’t watch them, though. I enjoy watching figure skating. The others? Not so much. Well, not at all.

 

We’re also not talking about a sales event, either. This isn’t a limited time deal offer or anything to rush out and get.

 

For reasons that I cannot explain, though perhaps it is somewhat seasonally based or something, March is simply a bad time of year for me.

 

The madness, you see, is depression. It has been about ten years now since that diagnosis was made, and the March time pattern is repeating itself again.

 

It isn’t always bad. Sometimes March passes with little incident. Like the lamb in that little poem.

 

Other times, March is more like a lion. More like the insomnia that started a withdrawal from my second semester of my senior year in high school (in spite of which I graduated with an honor’s diploma and in the top ten percent of the class–I was able to pull things back together later. Depression is a cycle, after all, and you’re not always at the lowest point, though sometimes it feels that way.) More like the March where I simply stopped going to my job when the economy was bad and not being able to find a new one.

 

This March has been one long fight to get out of bed, a lot of insecurity when it comes to writing, uncertainty when it comes to publishing, and a not insignificant amount of tears.

 

Part of it might have been the difficulty of attempting to complete a story that began nearly ten years ago. It has been sitting aside, waiting for me to type it and fill in a few pieces, but I have had trouble with that and overcoming a plot hole in the past. I finally solved the plot hole, but it’s still a slow process typing it up, and it does bring back a lot of memories from the past few years.

 

I already know that my word count totals will be down for the month, as it has been a hard month for writing. Between the typing and the way I’ve gotten blocked after one or two scenes despite the fun banter of my “geek” story. Still, without writing, I really don’t know how I’d cope with my particular madness.

 

Part escape, part a way of looking out at the world and solving my issues by exploring the situation in another setting or situation, writing has enabled me to be far more adept at dealing with the lows of depression. It never fails to amuse me how my coping mechanism, my outlet, can also be one of the sources of my frustrations and sorrow. It usually tells me how I’m doing, though. If I can still write, I know I’m okay.

 

Well, I am when the slippers of doom aren’t making more attempts on my life. I cannot believe I fell down the stairs again.