or… writing a fiddly, finicky, time consuming, complicated linky little muther effer.
I have a bad habit of biting off more than I can chew in every sense of the term. If no one’s watching and I can shove three bites of a sandwich into my gob rather than two – I will do it like the gluttonous time efficient sanga eating warthog that I am.
This also applies to most projects tackled in life and most recently with So You Are… Pregnant! Which, ironically was ONLY supposed to be a novella in order to relieve me of waffling on and on and racking up a word count that puts me into complicated categories.
An over eating over writer.
Suffice to say the follow up books in the series will definitely be more light-on from a bla bla perspective.
There are 2 issues that have prevented me from releasing this thing into the world a lot sooner than I had planned;
1: INTERNAL LINKS
2: RELIVING MY PAST
Internal links are a wonderful phenomenon when formatting an ebook and even more funner when it’s a novelty style ebook. Initially when my link light bulb lit up I was elated at the possibilities. Twas short lived.
What a head fCk.
If I had taken the less psychotic path and just written the damned book in normal chronological order, for normal page turning readability, like a normal person – I’d no doubt be ranting about something else as equally unimportant and first worldy.
I did not and as mentioned I am super talented at complicating uncomplicated things.
Exhibit A: Many moons ago I ran an arts room. We were learning about weather patterns and Wizard of Oz cyclones were hot in the kindy world. Instead of just getting out the edicol dye and creating a tornado in a bucket of water, I had to infuse my frenzyism into a simple situation.
We recreated the actual cyclone with 3D shit flying around and it ended up covering half the roof! It was a big room. We’re talking cows, farm houses, witches on broomsticks and every shade of gray in a multitude of mediums.
Was it necessary? Absolutely not. Was it epically impressive and admired by the masses? Yessiree Bob and a boost I probably didn’t need encouraged. Cue Halloween pumpkin pinata that needed a crow bar wielding former wrestler to crack open. I should have been stopped.
I am the embodiment of creation from chaos with equal measures of utter brilliance and astronomical failure. My catalogue of fail-fests are usually the result of burn out and the sheer exhaustion of trying to pull off really mammothly, overwhelming tasks usually beyond my skill set.
My visions are often too visiony and the kind, clueless bystanders to my mad genius moments – often too encouraging. The penny normally drops for the unknowing when knee deep in another batshit crazy idea. Climbing aboard my psycho surfboard former yay-sayers soon realise there’s no exit for rational thinkers and the only option is to brace for the ride and inevitable crash.
But my team of supportive minions are long gone and trying to bring this all together solo has definitely had it’s challenges. None so frustrating as uploading my master piece to Vellum, then half way through formatting pondering if its beautiful and user friendly platform offered internal linking?
To shorten this long, sad, pitiful rookie tale – no. No they fecking do not. Good news though – they’ve put me on the list of dumb arses who probably did the same thing. If there are enough of us they’ll rig it up eventually. So yay… she says beating head. They’ve ruined my editing theme song for me now;
Vellummmm….(I got that) Adrenaline momentum (vellummmm)*
Anyhoo. Live. Learn. Fail. Learn same thing again. Re-do another million times until it sinks in as the cardboard coffin is lowered into my shallow grave.
For now – onward!
…or reliving every solitary moment over and over and over and over again like hell on earth – daily.
To reference the bonkers show Preacher, in hell the captives must spend the majority of their time re-watching the same moment of their life over and over for all of eternity. I had a similar experience and felt it monotonously for the last year and a bit… thankfully without Hitler, his racist plum cake and all the other mad shit on that show – that is.
Books need editing. I waffle like nobodies business so spewing my drama all over the page, while cathartic and eventually entertaining, that rubbish needed soooooooooo much culling/chopping/re-writing/re-thinking/re-living in order to make it remotely readable and it is this mentally draining task day after day that has been less than positive.
Trying to morph decades worth of tricky moments into a story that’s entertaining, informative, heart felt and real has taken it’s toll more than a few times. I have become more recluse in the relentless pursuit to finish the damned thing and move on with my life. I’m all for the trauma healing but reliving it all can shove right off. Really, really taxing.
The pregnancy itself was fairly standard and all the funny bits are a joy to re-read and even I find myself wondering how the hell did I string some of those memories together with actual humorous articulation! But re-reading, re-wording, re-structuring, re-forming, re-living moments and tapping into the rawness of my state of mind at the time was and still is full on.
Without revealing too much of the book itself, a perfect and less serious bit is the midwives during the birth. I catch my breath every time I re-read their role in it all and every single time I have to force myself from weeping. It’s overwhelming. The memories of them are scattered and filled with tears, pain, exhaustion and fear, but at the core is pure love and the most beautiful sensation of trust, kindness and care taking that formed between strangers.
“Naw, lovey. Ye’ve been pushin and pushin, best we hand you over now. You are a strong lass, you’ll do fine.”
“I don’t think I am.”
In the most beautiful act you will ever recall from complete strangers you met merely hours before, she kisses you on the forehead and the three of you embrace as you quietly cry together. You so dearly wanted them to deliver your child and lament this moment that was stolen by something as trivial as a pelvis.
On re-reading it felt like my chest would implode. I remember it so vividly. The words, the interaction, the lighting, the sorrow, the fear, the smells, the air – it’s intoxicating and I am there. I visualise way too well which is a gift and a curse of sorts.
My re-creation, whilst driven from purpose, has truly been one of the most mentally draining tasks I have ever undertaken in my life, because it is my life. A forgotten one I had set adrift like so much of my past I’ve not wanted to deal with. Fiction is way, way easier.
Coming out the other side and I suppose standing on the edge of whatever the story will rouse to those who read it – is surreal, healing and rewarding. Even if this thing doesn’t make a cent, what it has done for me mentally, spiritually and from a growth sense is worth the intense trauma and at times mind-numbing hard work it’s leached from me.
Again, writing for self truly is one of the greatest healers I highly recommend to all. No skill required. All the benefits.
*Credit: Venom by Eminem
Category: So You Are... Stories!, Writer JourneyTags: Author, Creative, Editing, Healing, Post Natal Depression, PTSD, So You Are... Stories!, So You Are...Pregnant, Struggle, Trauma, Writer, Writer Journey