This is not me.

This is killing me.

This is tearing me apart.

But in three hours I’m at least consistent. I’m at least the same sort of failure I was last year. Another year, another Na-No-You-can’t-be-a-part-of-this. Two years ago I fell in love with someone and I . . . now I can’t – in good conscience – do the things I want to do, go the places I want to go, be the person I want to be, without being threatened, branded a stalker, a rapist, and other things I am not. I cannot participate in NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month – because there’s two things to it, writing novels (which I do a bit here and a bit there, as time and energy and ideas come to me) and the community of other people all working together, going through the same thing at the same time with the same goals and the same deadline. And that second part is the difference between … the rest of the year … and NaNo–November. And that second part is the part I can’t do. Not here. Not now.

So for me, there’s no community, except a community I’m afraid of even having my digital account admit to being in the same region as, for fear it is a perceived threat. And there’s no one doing the same thing as me, because … it’s out of sight, out of mind, isn’t it? There’s this website, these people I can’t talk to, these gatherings I can’t attend, and it’s like I’m alone in the universe. And that’s a horrible feeling. No goals, no different goals anyway, from the goals I have all the time. (Actually, it’s almost easier than usual, because in November it’s supposed to be “write a novel” and the rest of the year I’ve got a few too many projects on my mind; three books and all those blank canvases and two or three unused domains and which hosting plan should I buy when the free runs out in a couple of weeks? November is cake.)

And the deadline? Midnight tonight? Is fast approaching. Is faster eating a hole in me. Tuesday I determined mathematically that even at the fastest rate I could type (assuming a fugue state took over me) for every hour not at work between then and midnight tonight (which assumes I don’t sleep at all – a feat not easily accomplished in this draught with no modafinil), I could not write enough words to meet this arbitrary deadline. Between that and not knowing what comes next in my story – not to mention needing a break from continuous activity in recent weeks and months and weekends – I didn’t write at all, last night or today. I went to bed at a reasonable hour, I slept in, I took my time, I played computer games and later watched a movie, then I went to class (only the final class left – that’s a whole other stressor) and now I’m at a coffee shop… writing. Writing this. Not writing a novel.

…and now I’m at a coffee shop… because I checked the list at the beginning of the month, and most of the coffee shops in town became off limits to me for the rest of the month, but this one didn’t make the cut somehow. It’s 45 minutes from where I live (90 minutes from work, on account of traffic on my old schedule), but at least I didn’t have to worry about … violating the terrible restraining threats that hang over me … about seeing anyone I recognize at all and wondering if they’re going to start spouting death threats.

Last night, after work, I was ready to go to the Willow House and work until they kicked me out (midnight, I believe), then come down here to Mesa all day today and just see how many words I could kick out of my head. And then, as I got into my car at nine o’clock at night last night after a long day at work, I realized I didn’t know if there might be a gathering of people who hate me at the Willow House, and decided not to risk it — that was the actual moment I gave up. Not when I figured out it was physically impossible, but when I decided it was too dangerous to go to a coffee shop to write. When I felt so trapped (by love – if I didn’t care about her, why would I bother to try to respect her wishes and those of her friends?) that I couldn’t move. And a good thing, too. I just glanced at the site for a few minutes (over nine hundred million words written this year, only ten thousand of them mine) and they did actually have a gathering scheduled there last night. I haven’t a clue if anyone who despises me showed up, but it doesn’t matter, does it? My hand was stilled.

My blog, too, this journal, for the last (almost) two years. My hand stilled. My words restrained.

And I might go back on this – I might be too scared, still, too respectful, too polite – but fuck that! It’s been long enough, alright? It’s been too, too much. I’ve put up with it, but I’m not putting up with it any more.

I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not cowering anymore. I’m not playing your games.

Not. Any. More.

I need to be able to live my life, and I can’t do it this way.

I’ve been dying too long. It’s time for living again.

And fuck you.

Fuck you for killing me.

I never did anything to deserve that.

And fuck NaNoWriMo.

If the answer is to leave town, fuck it. I’ve driven back and forth and up and down across this country, and haven’t found another place I’d rather be. I’m an author, a novelist, and I don’t need you to get me writing. So fuck you.

And fuck secrets.

If I want to post about it, I’m going to fucking post about it, and fuck you.


I’m out of here.

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Author, artist, romantic, insomniac, exorcist, creative visionary, lover, and all-around-crazy-person.