Stream of Consciousness

Three Twisted Tales

So, I have three stories going on right now.

Two are bedtime stories I’m telling ASMR style on my YouTube channel, which you can listen to for free. So far I’ve released the first two chapters of ONE story. (You’re getting the inside scoop on the second, as I haven’t uploaded any chapters yet on YouTube.)

The third is a novel I plan on writing, querying on, and getting published.

 

Here are each story’s basics…

 

ASMR Bedtime Story: Lorelai Wakes

I have 2 chapters of this story on my YouTube channel so far.

Lorelai is an Ancient One, bespelled into believing she works a day job and goes about her life like any regular human being. Until she gives into the ocean’s call and, bleeding to death, is woken by sirens, only to find her memories and identity have been stripped from her. The only thing she remembers is her name and a war between humans and preternatural creatures that happened long ago. A war the preters lost.

 

ASMR Bedtime Story: Luna Baku

I haven’t released any chapters of this story yet.

Luna isn’t human. No one knows what she is, really. But when humans need help in a world where nightmares can be dreamed into reality, Luna – with the help of her little black cat Gypsy, and large black dog Merlin – is who they turn to. 

 

Fool’s Justice

I plotted the entire timeline of this novel and finished writing the first two chapters before last year’s end.

Vada and Valentine, yokai outcasts, take a job to rid a man of the djinn haunting his house. Now Vada is haunted and something is killing pregnant women in their sleep.

 

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Written Word

And then there were three…

In the darkness, they shivered, trapped, looking around wide-eyed and blind. Golden moonlight dripping down, down, down, until there was nothing left but his silver, skeletal remains.

They would not survive this. And yet, they couldn’t leave him. Huddling together, grabbing onto one another’s arms, hugging close, they awaited the gates to open.

The pool of savory sorrow grew, leaking toward them. Closer.

Closer.

Stream of Consciousness

The Secret to Stories

If I give it claws, we’ll talk about the monster in us.

If I give it fangs, we won’t look away from what society tells us is too uncomfortable to linger on.

If I make it a world we don’t live in, we can look at the things we don’t want to talk about. Perhaps we can find the strength to do something about it the next time we see it.

If I make its eyes glow, we’ll think about the pain we want to hide. Maybe we will find a way to deal with it too.

If we have to suspend disbelief, we can poke at our childhood programming, our insecurities, our secrets.

 

Stories don’t judge us. They open us up to the possibility of change, connection, hope, and purpose. They give us new perspectives on things society labels for us (as if we don’t have brains or hearts to decide for ourselves). Stories give us the option to define our own life, our own self, and realize we’re not that different after all.

A black grandpa can read the same story as a white single mom. They can both recognize love when it’s being denied, the pain of a child dying, the need for someone in this world to see us for who we truly are.

 

Stories show us what’s broken and what’s beautiful. They give us a safe place to peel back the layers of this life without anyone mocking us or telling us we’re wrong or bad.

Stories give us heroes with fantastic abilities, somehow making it easier for us to love them when they mess up, hurt, and prove they aren’t perfect. It gives us a little more leeway to be imperfect ourselves.

 

There’s a certain magic to a story, whether there’s anything fantastical or whimsical in it or not.

If we read a story about a monster with a heart, it doesn’t hurt so much to look at the monster within ourselves. Only then can we do something about it.

Stream of Consciousness

Why Depression is Startling

When you’re feeling it – it isn’t startling.

Nothing is startling.

 

Ha! I finally know and understand the definition of apathy.

Unrelated to apathy –

 

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I feel like some invisible disease has punctured my skin, slithered in, and has found a way to live inside me, parasitically changing me, holding me in a strange in-between, a madness, a muted, a roaring duality of pain and nothingness.

Trapping me from within, trying to squeeze the breath out of me.

It’s like a living entity is sitting on my chest; squeezing my heart in a fist of silver and hardness, harshness, imbuing it with sharpened flecks of poison; languishing in my gut, knotting me into coils and pressured twists; cracks breaking through the veneer.

And how am I still alive?

Am I?

If I barely swim to the surface of myself.

Sometimes this is all I have to give.

 

The madness has to come out sometime.

And how blessed am I? Writing gives me a way to breathe.

If only I’ll stop trying to control it. It isn’t always going to be pretty; it’s coming from within me. Sometimes giving the disease swarming inside me, leaching to my bones, and scratching at my soul with metallic nails – words, a voice, helps me.

Instead of leaching inwards, only swirling inside my rib cage, I can spill it onto the page and let it live there.

It may be a little worrisome to those who have never dealt with depression (depression and feeling sad are not the same thing, by the way). Perhaps it’s a little depressing to read for some.

But for me, it’s like expelling poison.

A saving grace.

That, is why I write.

How maddeningly beautiful, how simply poised I find it that both poison and the cure live inside me.

 

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Stream of Consciousness

On Genre Fiction being the Scum of the Literary World

Why do you read books?

I mean seriously. Why bother? Its paper, ink and made up people and places and mostly none of it is true.

 

So WHY

Do You

READ BOOKS.

 

Stories. People like stories. They’re fun. They’re an escape. They teach us something, even if we don’t consciously realize it. Stories help you understand yourself better, as you decide what you think and feel because of everything you just read. Or you have parents that beat you and stories give you a place to live that’s safe from your reality. Or you simply have your head in the clouds and love the adrenaline rush of being someone else inside your head.

 

What KIND

Of Books

Do You Read.

 

Anything? Everything? A specific genre? A few different genres?

I know you’re supposed to have read books in school, mostly literary novels. You most likely hated them, hated having to read them. I know you’ve probably read the dictionary, at least one word on one page, if you’re my generation. Younger and you might have simply googled what the word meant, but hey – it’s still a dictionary. I know you’ve read fluff pieces on or in a magazine whether it’s on the internet or in the grocery store line that never ends. I know you’ve probably read your children’s crazy words if you have kids. I know you’ve read your own inner monologue if you keep a journal.

The list goes on.

 

What Type

Of Books

Are All of Those.

 

Literary, nonfiction, cozies, informational, fictitious, stream of consciousness.

Is one of those BETTER than the other? Did any of them AFFECT you more? Did you end up LOVING one of those and now you search out that kind of writing, essays and books everywhere you go? When you’re in the store for diapers or canned soup, do you check the book racks to see if there’s anything good? Do you wander around the used bookstore? Wonder if your sister, children, mom or best friend read, and if so, what?

 

Which

Books

MATTER.

 

All of them.

End of story.

But because this is real life and real people are contradictory, let me explain.

 

Apparently

I Write the

Scum of the Earth

Why? Because I don’t write non-fiction or literary novels. I write fiction. Fantasy, horror, paranormal. Dear cookies in heaven, I’m the devil!

 

There’s this

Theory

 

It’s an opinion really.

That all genre fiction (for example, what I write and romance, adventure, etc) is scum. It is pointless. Shouldn’t be read. There are snobs who turn their noses up at it and declare the writer of such garbage a freeloading brat who needs to get a real job, while the literary author gets to work and does something real, something important.

 

WHY?

the-reader

 

I have no idea. Maybe it’s one of those things where young people turn their noses up at old people, saying they’re better. And old people look down on young people, saying they’re ignorant idiots with easy lives. People apparently aren’t happy with themselves and need a “reason” to put others down, elevating themselves. In their head only, that is.

Regardless of where I go, all I hear about is people deciding they’re better than other people.

When really, we’re all just opinionated. We have opinions. We have likes.

I like books.

Do I care what kind of books you read?

NO! No a million times over. As long as you enjoy books, I’m a happy camper. And if you don’t like books, well that sucks and you’re missing out but hey, that’s you and I’m me.

 

See How that Works?

 

Honestly, I’d like for people to get over their selfish snobbery and pull their heads out of where the sun don’t shine.

 

GET OVER YOURSELVES.

Everyone.

Right now.

 

I like what I like. You like what you like. The garbage man down the street likes what he likes. The kindergarten teacher, too.

 

Does that make me stupid?

 

No.

Does that make the literary writer stupid? The suspense novelist stupid?

NO!

 

Writing a book

IS HARD!!!

 

I cannot stress this enough. I don’t care if you’re writing for professors, chemical engineers, third graders or the mom who has five minute breaks every couple of hours. WRITING THE FREAKING BOOK TAKES WORK. Hard work. Hours every day, just like a “real” job.

 

Genre Fiction

Is NOT

Scum

Literary Fiction

Is NOT

Snobbery

 

One bad apple does NOT ruin the whole bunch.

So knock it off.

I should be able to take a creative writing course in college and not have a professor look down on me, belittle my work and call it scum because the monsters aren’t 100% human.

But I can’t, now can I?

Because apparently, genre fiction is the scum of the literary world.

Now how

DUMB

does that sound?