Welcome to my NaNoWriMo 2021 Journey.

This year, as well as trying to write my 50000 words, I also chose to keep a weekly journal about the NaNoWriMo experience for me.

 Day one and the creative side of my brain is already stopped in start mode. It's like my car, a bit rough to

start. Yeah, Dad, I know, I probably need to service it - the car, not my brain. According to the neurologist

I spoke to back in March, everything brain-wise is ok. It may be soaked in sugary, carbonated caffeine

residue by now, but at least its working. Just wish the creativity would kick in.

It isn't like I haven't spent the last two months doing planning for this. It isn't like I have the storyboards in

place, ready to roll.

I could have spent time at lunch also writing, instead I got caught in my usual reddit loophole of #aita

posts.

It's not that I'm not interested in writing the story, I think it could just be that I gave so much energy to the

planning that I am not 100% sure that I can give another 1663 dedicated words.

Day eight

Number of words I should be at: 13 304 (give or take)

Number of words I am actually at 7800 (approximately)

Daily word average – way under the 1667 I need to be aiming at. (I know, I said 1663 in previous post,

but I was wrong).

What happened?

Well, as with all things planned, life gets in the way. I get home from work too tired. I write too few words

and burn out. Also, I’m finding my work station (freestanding lap desk sitting on lounge room floor) really

not conductive to long term writing sprints. Ok, so that one is on me. I should have thought of that earlier,

but, yeah, nope. My legs, knees and back start to ache and it all interferes with my writing.

I had a weird dream, that I want to incorporate elements of into the story, but I don’t think it fits in with the

theme of it all. It’s too funny, and while there are humourous elements to the story, I think it will be too

much of a diversion to include it, given that it will be at a tense part of the story. Yep, I have weird

dreams.

Day eight – later

So, I’ve written by hand the next 500 + words, just no one ask what I was supposed to be doing

otherwise. It’s a good way for my mind to drift, get that release of creative energy that my days have

been lacking.

Day 10

So, after not writing anything yesterday, choosing social interaction over doing other tasks before I write,

I have been writing today. The plan I had written out, with all my details, isn’t fitting where the story is

supposed to be headed. Its still the same conversation being said, but the tone of it is changed, and the

path that one of the secondary characters is taking is very different. I still have her making a choice out

of ignorance, but I am adding layers to the why of it so that it has potential for more resonance.

Day 23

Current word count approximately 11500

With seven days to go, I think its pretty fair to say that I am not going to hit the 50000 word goal for

NaNoWriMo. Not that it’s totally shocking. I would have liked to have reached the 25000 mid point, but I

think realistically, I probably won’t hit it. I might hit the 15000 mark, but I might not.

I think that the drive to write needs more work within me. I need to prioritise writing as a daily task to get

those muscles, once quite strong, to come back again.

Do I still like the story I am telling? Sometimes. I worry that, before I reach the end, there will come a

place where I go, actually, I do hate these characters, why can’t I just kill them all? There are definitely

paths that I am being taken on by the characters that I hadn’t planned for when I put together the

planning cards for the chapters. I have pretty much given up on pre-creating character cards with all their

details, instead just making notes along the way for consistency later on.

I did have that aha moment, where I knew how I wanted the chapter to end. Again, it wasn’t a scene I

had preplanned on, more so it was just a drop of an image, and I knew, where I was in my story draft

notes, that I wouldn’t get to it, but I knew I wanted to get there, that I wanted that scene in the story. Kind

of like a few years ago when I knew that I wanted a scene where my central character fought a zombie,

ending with the zombie being pushed into an electric fence. That was a great 10000 word mark!

Day 24

Transferred my handwritten notes, which I always pre-tally the word count. Then when I type them up,

the word count changes for the new addition, usually ending up in more words. Of course, the main

challenge is trying to translate my own rushed handwriting, because it is always a bit of a mess. Usually

because I am writing when I should be doing something else.

Day 29...

Word count: Seriously, don’t even ask me!

The 50000 word deadline looms. I am not even within waving distance of it. I am closer to the starting

line than I am the finishing one.

I think, what I have learnt from all of this is that I need to go further back to my roots as a writer. I need to

start small, maybe a couple of short stories and the like. Maybe review (again) old NaNo projects that I

really enjoyed writing to see what changes can be adapted or made. Lately I have been thinking of the

one that started as a very short chapter story, that I later adapted into a NaNo project. I don’t know if I

still have a printed copy. I know that I had started to make some changes because there were definitely

elements that I didn’t like, that I just wrote for the sake of writing words as opposed to going working on

quality. Which is kind of how NaNo projects are supposed to be. Sometimes it is just words for the sake

of words.

I have also been thinking about the recurring themes and items that come up in my NaNo projects over

the years. Some of these include:

Magic in reality without any justification or explanation about why some people have access to

magic while others do not

Escape from circumstances that are unpleasant to characters

Road trips – usually done on foot. Might start off as solo but usually gather allies

Forests which have magical elements

Overturning authority figures and regimes

Reliance on weaponry, mostly knives, never guns because I don’t like them and know nothing

about them. That’s not to say I know a lot about knives. More so, I don’t know, a fascination with

swords maybe?

Day 30

Yep, that happened.

At least I can say that I attempted it, that I made a start. I put myself through the planning stages. I

wasted a ton of paper and card planning, plotting and scheming.

I think that there were a lot of issues with the world I created. I had a lot of information, and I didn’t know

where to begin. A lot of the questions that I started with never got answered

Meeting with the Muses

 I sat down with my muses today. I say muses because I have more than one. Each one represents different aspects of my writing. I wanted to meet with them today, to see why they have been so MIA of late. Or, when they did visit, they never stayed long enough, just time to inspire an idea but not enough to fully develop the story into something more.

Horror was quick to point out that the monsters I was jumping at weren't her sort, therefore she didn't want to know anything about them. Romance chimed in, stating that there was nothing she could give me. Drama offered something, but was quick to state that she was in no way responsible for the tangents it might take on. 

The key thing that they were all vocal about was how maybe if I drank less carbonated caffeine, maybe they could find their way to being more vocal. I scoffed at them, telling that I couldn't cope without my addition. Drama demanded an answer, asking if my taste for caffeine played in a part in my whole brain exploding episode a couple of years ago. Before I could point out that there was no scientific evidence, Fantasy, who had been off talking to a patch of grass, returned and asked if there could be a spell on me, cast by a wicked faerie or the like. We all paused, then laughed. Fantasy Muse isn't the most rational of thinkers, but her freedom is inspiring, some of the time at least. She just says something, lets it run wild and leaves me to create something about her meanderings.

I rationalised to them that I had brought them out to the waterfalls, hoping that surely, something out there might inspire them.

Horror and Drama co-told a story about a loner, sitting at a bench, writing in a spiral notebook. It was a long, passionate diatribe that turns out it could be a suicide note. Romance chimes in that it could work, add in some lost or spurned love. Then after death, the loner's ghost comes back to haunt everyone who goes there. Fantasy is quiet. She doesn't like this idea. She shifts in her seat, then begs us all to consider something else, something lighter. There isn't anything in the story that she can work with. Ghosts aren't her thing. She asks if there are faeries or pixies around the falls, trying to prevent people from jumping or falling. Instead, catching them mid-jump, taking them through to the world of the fae instead to experience a different life while they heal. Horror sighs, then asks Fantasy if there could be a darker element for them to work with. Fantasy agrees. Then she turns to Romance and Drama and says that their elements can also be a part of it.

Then, they all turn to look at me in expectation. They tell me that, surely I can do something with their ideas. Instead I drink my Raspberry and Lime Slurpee and listen to the water running over the waterfall. It's cold there, but I am not cold inside. I am warm, at peace. There are stories still to be told. I want to go and write them, but first, another walk.

Why I am participating in the Black Dog Institute’s One Foot Forward Challenge

I was going to do a video talking about why doing the 40000 steps for the Black Dog Institute’s One Foot Forward Challenge, but I suck at the whole talking about my emotions verbally, and I am feeling a lot of them of late so it would just end up being a garbled mess. It’s not to garner sympathy that I share with, nor to encourage people to donate, but rather share what is sometimes happening behind the quiet facade people see.

When I was a teenager, I struggled with my mental health, but back then teen anxiety and depression were still very much something that no one talked about because of the stigma attached. I was sixteen, my connection with my friends was a thin thread, becoming tauter every day, ready to snap. When I did talk about how I was feeling overwhelmed, instead of support and kindness, I was told ‘make sure you do it right’, leading me to believe I was worth nothing, that my life had no meaning. No wonder I clammed up emotionally after my first attempts to open up were met with intense scorn. It also meant that I didn’t develop proper coping skills, instead spiralling when things got tough, falling apart each time, rebuilding over a weak foundation.

I have been through therapy a couple of times, dealing with grief over the loss of a family member and also at the time of my parents divorce.

I have also been on anti-depressants for short times, as well as tried St Johns Wort, although the latter had the side effect of nausea on a daily basis and it scared me off of taking them. One of the times I was on anti-depressants, I had actually gone to the doctor for medication for nerve pain after a case of the Shingles, and was put on the tablets without the doctors talking to me about the side effects or with a mental health plan to support me.

After my aneurysm ruptured, while I was still in the hospital in Melbourne, waiting for news that there was a bed for me to go to in the hospital in Ballarat, I had a horrible anxiety/panic attack. All that I wanted to do was leave one hospital and go to another but I wasn’t able to until there was somewhere for me to go. My dad was there, and later my mum. Afterwards they both noted that they had never seen me have such a bad attack. I was virtually catatonic at one point, caught in the loop of ‘I want to get out of here’ and being able to break myself out of that loop for several hours, couldn’t eat and barely drank any water. I think I exhausted myself later that night and, after a visit from a friend, I settled.

During COVID, the isolation necessary to keep me safe has highlighted how far I have come, and also how far I have to go on my mental health journey. I have my anxious moments and plenty of when my depression feels like it is going to overwhelm me all over again and I have struggled to keep on top of things like I usually do .

What helps me:

• walking 
• Driving to random places
• Crying
• Watching old Whose Line is it Anyway clips on YouTube 
• Writing really bad poetry
• Silly SnapChats 
• Memes
• Pet shaming stories

My name is Patrica, my demons are depression and anxiety.

This is only a part of my story, there are other elements that I am not brave enough, or strong enough to share yet. 

Stay safe, and travel well people. To those who are struggling, I am here for you, I am listening. You are enough, you are important and you are valued. Even if we don’t speak, or are not close enough for you to feel like you can or want to talk to me, you are not alone in your journey.

We are all survivors and we will keep on fighting our demons with weapons of our choice.

Some days you just can't...

Some days it is easy.

You get up and do things and you are able to function as a relatively normal human being.

Some days you just can't.

Some days you can't find that bright, shiny light.

You struggle to breathe because it hurts to not be able to say the words that are bouncing around in your head.

You can't say a word because you feel choked up with what feelings you have, that you might just cry.

You can't think of anything but self destruction and not caring about who you might hurt.

Some days you don't 

Short Stories Are Hard To Title

As part of my challenges for the month, I wanted to write a draft of a short story. To hold myself accountable for completing it, I also decided that I would share the 'warts and all' first draft. The only revisions have been putting it through a spelling and grammar check. “You are certifiable if you think that your father is going to let you stand and compete at the testing ceremony,” Kingston stated as he lifted another hefty book back up to the shelf. Seeing that he was having difficulty with its weight, I reached out to the book with my connection to air and lifted it with him so that it could be placed back on the shelf. “Yeah, I know that I’m insane. I also know that if my dimwit cousin goes up, we will lose the challenge,” I pointed out. Kingston turned and looked at me. “Luna, you won’t be allowed to compete. You’re the wrong gender,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. “You’re telling me that because you think that I don’t know?” I asked him. “No, but I think that you’ve conveniently put that criteria aside, just as you have the realisation that you’re not going to be able to slip in as an extra contestant. Only one, one, candidate from the generation of each of the four families is allowed to stand and be tested,” Kingston recited. “They are going to recognise your name and won’t let you compete.” I waved my hand and released some of the energy that was building up inside of me as I heard him speak. The heaviest of the books on the desk lifted, as did the desk, hovering in the air an inch above the floor before falling back. “Just because you’re pissed that I’m right doesn’t give you the right to come in here and throw my stuff all about like that,” Kingston reminded me. “Since when can you lift a desk?” he added. I shrugged. “I’ve been practicing. Just because I can’t compete doesn’t mean that I can’t keep my skills up.” Kingston actually seemed impressed. “Yeah, I get that, but that right there, well it’s damn near levitation,” he said. “You aren’t supposed to be able to do that if there isn’t any wind about, right?” “Technically the gift is linked to air, as in the stuff that we breathe. It’s easy to manipulate when you understand the interconnectivity of it all. Hell, you’re the Scholar here, tell me that it is impossible,” I added with a wry smile. He bit his lip and turned away instead of answering me. “Okay, now what was that all about?” I asked, moving so that I stayed in his line of sight. “Come on, share with your best friend.” “I’ve been reading a lot lately,” he said. “That’s kind of like when you told me I was a female just now. That’s not that much of a surprise to hear,” I reminded him. His family were part of the Scholars, a group of knowledgeable people who studied the scripts, looking for portents of things to come. “Yeah, but this is more like the stuff I’m not supposed to be reading about,” Kingston explained hesitantly. “Well, what is it that you’re trying to tell me without telling me about?” I demanded, getting sick of the way he was skipping around something. When he did it in the past, it usually meant something big, possibly something bad. “Is air the only element that you can manipulate like that? Is it the only one that you can summon from next to nothing?” he added. I paused. “I’ve never tried any other one. I mean, my family are all air users, much to my father’s chagrin. My mother, he doesn’t speak about her and what her family were connected with but I believe that there had to be some connection there.” “You don’t know if your mother was an elemental?” Kingston asked me. “Well, no. I mean, she died when she gave birth to me and my father doesn’t like to talk about it and her family had dropped all connection with us. I assume that they were some kind of elemental given the way my father goes on about the dilution of magical blood, just not air users because if you’re an air user, chances are there’s a blood connection to other users,” I explained to him, even though it was unnecessary. He knew it from his talks with my father. As a member of the Scholars, Kingston was permitted access to the ruling families to consult on a variety of things. “Do you know anything about your mother or any of her family?” he asked me. “I don’t even know what her name was,” I reminded him. “I mean, if she had have lived, maybe I would have gotten to know her family and all but I didn’t. Why are you asking about all of this again?” Kingston looked at me. “Have you ever tried, even just on a whim, to summon fire into an empty fireplace?” he asked me. “No. I was told that it’s too unpredictable to try that sort of thing. When my cousin and I were being told of our family’s elemental connection it was drilled into us.” “That’s not really an answer to my question. I mean, I know you. Whenever someone tells you not to do something, the first thing that you do, once you’re out of their sight, is to try,” Kingston explained. “So, come on, tell me, did you try anything?” I looked away from him. “You did,” he said, and when I turned back to look at him, I saw him smiling at me, almost to the point of laughter. “What did you do?” I sighed. Might as well admit to it, I thought with a shrug. “Do you remember the lake that appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the forest?” I asked him, knowing that he did. “Given that my father and I spent a month trying to find something in the texts about something like that appearing like that, yeah. That was you? Which part did you create?” I raised my eyebrows at him and attempted to look innocent. “I connected with earth to create the hole,” I admitted. “How come it’s full of clear water? How come it isn’t a huge mud puddle?” Kingston asked me. I noticed that as I spoke he was making notes of our conversation. I looked at him until he dropped the pencil. “Sorry, old habit.” “There were a few tyres that I found nearby. They were like huge tractor ones. Anyway, I connected with fire and when I touched each one they softened to the point of being malleable enough to cover the sides of the hole,” I said, moving to sit at the table. “And the water? Were you the one to fill it up?” “Actually, that wasn’t me. I had to get home and when I came back the next day I figured that some water user had filled it for me,” I told him. “What’s with all the questions anyway?” Kingston turned to the set of shelves to his right. He reached up and pulled down a heavily dusted tome. He put it on the table between us so that it would open facing me and moved to stand behind me. He reached over my shoulder and rubbed at the dust on the cover to reveal the front of the book. There were glyphs that I couldn’t read in gold gilt set into the leather of the book cover. “It’s the writing of the Ancients,” I said, recognising the glyphs that were catching the light and shining back at me. “Care to translate it for me?” I asked him as I pointed to the words. “I mean, after all, you’re Mr Language.” “It’s like you know that sucking up to I will get you what you want. Aren’t you going to touch it?” he asked, nodding at the book and the way that my hand was hovering over the top of it. I shook my head. I didn’t know how to explain to him that I couldn’t bring myself to touch the cover of the book. Every time that I even thought about doing so, it filled me with a sense of impending doom. Kingston smiled and reached over to the cover and turned it gently. Sometime in the moments where I had been staring at the book he had slipped on a pair of thin, cotton gloves. “What you’re looking at is a book that no one else in this locale has ever seen. Their ancestors from maybe five generations back might have seen it but I can guarantee that no one else has.” I thought about asking him to justify what he meant but watched instead as he turned the pages in the book. “What are you looking for?” I asked, noting the determined way that his hands were moving through the pages as if he were indeed searching for something. He stopped at an opening and ran a finger along the page, coming to a stop midway. The entire page was covered in the same glyphs that were on the cover. “This,” he said. “Well, again, I can’t read it, so please, by all means, translate and tell me what it is all about,” I said, with an encouraging nod at the page. “‘There will come one who embodies the five gifts. They alone will be the leader of all, and usher us into a new age of prosperity.’ That’s what it says,” Kingston told me. “And no, that wasn’t an error in translating. The ancients did not specify a gender for their prophesised leader.” “Five gifts? Don’t you mean four? That’s all there is,” I reminded him. Kingston lifted an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure? I mean, how do we know?” he stated. I looked back at him, wanting to argue with him about it, mostly because I wanted him to tell me that it was true. “Okay, so, say I believe this is true, what is that fifth element?” I asked finally. “Well, once, many, many generations ago, the fifth element was something akin to heart, but I think that might be the old scribes over describing things. I don’t actually think, if what they describe is true, that there is any heart involved in the people they describe.” “Why not?” I asked him, not liking the way that he looked as he spoke about the ancients. I definitely heard some criticism. “I mean, I could be, for all we know.” Kingston nodded. Then he walked out of the room and returned with a metal bowl. He motioned for me to move all the books out of the way and then, when I had done so, he put it in the middle of the table. “Fill it up with water,” he told me. “Now, just like that?” I asked him. “I told you that I can’t do something like that,” I added. “Try,” he insisted. “Think of this as your testing ceremony and the room is full of people, judging you, waiting for you to fail because they think that you aren’t good enough because of your gender.” I gave him a dirty look and then cleared my mind. Okay, I can do this, I thought as I held a hand above the rim of the bowl. Okay, water, right, fill the bowl, I added, realising that I probably had to focus more to get it to happen. The bowl on the table shook and looked as if it were on the verge of almost rolling over. “I think that you’re summoning air,” Kingston added, a wry smile on his face. Bastard’s enjoying this, I thought as I tried to keep my focus on the bowl. Then a thin curl of smoke came off of the bowl, even though there was nothing in there. Then, a single low flame curled up from the edge of the metal. “I’m pretty sure that’s fire, like the complete opposite of water,” Kingston said as he moved to extinguish the flame. Watching as he doused the flame with a cup of water he had brought in with him, I felt a little disappointed. “Okay, so, I’m not the one. I can handle the disappointment. What are we going to do about finding this one though? I mean they should be told about their birthright so that they can step up and do something. Does that book of yours give any indication of how to find them?” Kingston shook his head. “Nope.” “So, what happens next?” I asked him as I picked up the bowl of water and walked it to the kitchen. “Well, we go to the testing tomorrow and see what happens next,” Kingston suggested. “I’m kind of hoping that we end up with your dimwit cousin as our next ruler. The devil you know and all that.” “Yeah, possibly,” I agreed, albeit half-heartedly. Admit it, for a moment there you thought that you could really be the next ruler, the voice in my head whispered. No, I thought at it firmly, but the potential to find them is out there and that’s what I think I am going to do with my life. (C) Patricia Kekewick 2017

Welcome to my world

Trigger warning: contains references to self-harm, suicide

In my world, things aren't easy to explain, to vocalise. When I am hurting, I tend to shut down, refusing to let anyone in. So many times, I wanted to reach out but I felt like I didn't have the right to.

Here’s what it can be like in my world.

I get so anxious that my heart isn't racing do much as humming. I know that’s not healthy but I won't do anything to stop it except try and breathe deeply.

There have been times when I get so anxious, I curl up in a ball on the floor and become almost catatonic. I just sit, stare at nothing and let my brain overwhelm me with worst case scenarios. I have moments still where my brain and body go on pause and I have to work through it.

I am not ‘actively suicidal’ but my mind does go to ending my life at times.

I don't drink heavily or use hallucinogenic drugs, not because I don't enjoy it, but I know that I am at risk of addiction of anything that numbs my inner turmoil, even on a temporary scale

I have a diagnosis of high blood pressure, but because of my size the doctor’s hesitate to look for a psychological cause, refusing to acknowledge anxiety because my diet or exercise regime is easier for them to attack that my mind.

When I go into ‘full anxiety mode’, the worst thing that you can do is touch me. Seriously, just don't, and while you’re at it don't tell me that it is all going to be okay, or to not think about it.

I crave physical connection, but I can't bring myself to actively touch another unless it's on my terms, and there is a reason for the action. 

I can't verbalise how much people mean to me because, even though I want to say it, the words aren't there.

I babble like an idiot, saying too much, or other times I am distant, not saying anything at all.

What goes on in my head can be beautiful, or it can open up doors to horrible self destruction.

I am numb right now, I feel even as I write this that I should feel more, that there should be a physical pain to compensate for what is going on in my head.

There’s probably more to tell you, but I will leave those confessions for another time

Struggling With Inner Darkness: An Ongoing Battle

We tell people to reach out when they need help, that we are willing to listen to them. How many people would or would they just dismiss the call, the cry as being not important.

After a suicide is attempted, whether it results in the ceasing of life or not, we tell ourselves that these people could have asked for help, that we were there and willing to listen. Of course, these words offer us comfort, but inadvertently shame survivors by putting to them how they should have acted, how they could have acted if they truly wanted to live. We shame them for their inability to ask for help. We try to dictate how they are supposed to feel or respond. Without meaning to, we harm. We guilt them about not reaching out before they got to a point where they greeted death with more energy than life.

To a suicidal mind, sometimes it is impossible to vocalise what's exactly going through their minds. Feeling nothing but pain, they can't express just how much it hurts because they feel like no one is listening anymore. There is a complete numbness, making them wonder if they would feel a thing us a knife were to slice open their wrists.

That's the breaking point. It's the point where you make a choice: life or death. To see if you can survive another day of pain, of numbness because there may be light somewhere unexpected along the way. Maybe, just maybe those people will tell you after your attempt how much they care, maybe they will see the pain in your eyes and listen to you when you choose to open up.

That's life. It's full of maybes, of possibilities that something better coming along. You just have to want to live through the pain of today. You have to want to see another tomorrow, more than you want it to end. You have to be willing to feel everything: the good, the bad, the sweet and the unbearably bitter. You just have to pretend to be okay for just another day, even though you know it's just a mask, a facade to get you through.

To a perceptive mind, this is more than just a release, an outpouring of dark emotions.

What if it is reaching out to the wider world, hoping for someone to see the pain that lies within, to say before it's too late, that they genuinely care about this one life?

Of course, by then it might be just too late. Then there will just be the guilt trips, the questions of 'why', and the need for justification that the soul is broken from within. A survivor cannot heal through guilt or shaming about what they should have done.

Written 23.1.16