I worked night shift while writing A Story About Self-Confidence: What’s In A Name?, a month~long story at Eville Medical in the Sammohini Arc of “The Story.” It’s a difficult shift. Socializing requires careful calendar coordination. What was once a casual consideration over whether I felt like meeting up is now a careful balance of budgeted time. The shift is easy once you figure out when you must go to sleep by and follow that.
Whenever we accomplish something, we always throw a party, have celebratory foods, and live it up. What if, instead, we celebrate just as we do when we normally would, with a bit of fanfare, some appreciation for doing a job well done, but not as much of the celebratory binge-eating that causes all sorts of physical and mental problems long-term? We can still enjoy the celebration, but having a sugary cake isn’t all that necessary.
“If I ever want to look at it again, I can just pull out the photo.” As I’m downsizing to where I don’t have to funnel so much of my money into renting space for objects I’m not attached to, I have to be careful. What objects could not be replaced with a photo? Not many. Most can be easily repurchased, rebuilt, or recreated from memory. What if I easily make copies of those objects?
Writing is usually easy for me. When it’s not, the writer’s block is either a physical impairment [illness or fatigue] or just being unable to imagine a scene. For the former, I go to sleep. For the latter, I might draw the scene, as I did in an orange notebook with my first novel, A Story About Self-Confidence: What’s In A Name?, a month~long story at Eville Medical in the Sammohini Arc of “The Story.”
For writing practice, I’ve been capturing the nuances of my days since August 12th in a long-form essay I’ll eventually release called “Time Travel Toxicity.” These Travelogue Trivialities essays take that idea, where I might write about going to some thrift stores for the first time in months, and focus that energy on a one-day adventure noteworthy or touristy. With that in mind, these essays will not be overly academic or objective. They’re written there.
From November 1st to 27th, I wrote the first draft of my first novel, A Story About Self-Confidence: What’s In A Name? [a thirty-day period at Eville Medical in the Sammohini Arc of “The Story“] and throughout the next few weeks, I’ll write first about what I learned then what I’ll find out about marketing this novel to sell. Let’s address the most important factor first: how many words per day can you write?
There’s a certain point where, after you’ve been yelled at things outside your control long enough, you just stop caring. It’s that sort of retail freeze I’d never experienced being on the backend. When I handled donations, I talked with one customer, otherwise, I was in the back trashing old donations and receiving new loads. Now, I could get a string of polite people, then get slammed by for no reason by rude, stressed-out people.
I wrote a 60,000-word novel called A Story About Self-Confidence: What’s In A Name?, a month~long story at Eville Medical in the Sammohini Arc of “The Story.” I want to make a physical release of this book and sell digital copies that might be better formatted for PDF readers. For now, you can read it for free using the following links:
- PDF – 1.48MB
- Google Drive – includes first draft, second draft, final drafts with commentaries, along with other related materials to help aspiring writers or those interested in behind-the-scenes things.
Rough draft of the cover
It seems like there’s a monkey behind my right eye that prevents me from enjoyment. It’s hard for me to focus. I can’t write too well. Writing doesn’t flow naturally for me in these sorts of headaches. I would have been able to form an elegant bead of thoughts together into a nice necklace of a sentence, but instead, I am just left thinking about the cause of this headache. Stress, allergies, or general ennui?
I might read my 50-cent copy of Dune someday, but I’ll certainly rewatch Jodorowsky’s Dune first. Science fiction doesn’t do much for me. Analyzing scientific statistics against a starry backdrop doesn’t excite me. What human element does that story convey where I will have become a better person for experiencing it? I don’t have ten-thousand years to live. I’ve gotta make this whole life thing count. This novel’s purpose might contain elements of that drive.