A Quieter Darkness

Finished reading ‘salem’s Lot the other day. Wasn’t impressed. I went into it with the impression there was a twist, but it’s from ‘75. No twist. Just a generic vampire story with disposable female characters.

I thought it would help me get over Jon. It didn’t. I’m not. The only thing I’ve managed to do is make myself upset about the breakup. Go figure.

The move has been delayed thanks to a lack of response from Trev’s job. We’re here until we’re not, and I’ve told everyone I know more times than I cared to, but there’s no new news and there’s nothing changing in the next few days. I’ll post if that changes.

Book stuff is, uh… exhausting? I write important information by hand so I remember it, but I don’t end up remembering it, so I’m pouring over handwritten notes, trying to scrabble together whatever half-developed concept I was hoping to capture. Occasionally, I surprise myself.

I can’t believe how quickly this year has gone by. It’s almost over. It’s almost fucking over.

Fucking disgusting.

When you write a story, you have a general idea of what will happen, but the rest is off the cuff. Mostly garbage. I think I’m getting better at being comfortable with the trash.

A draft is so wonderful beneath all the awkward sentiment, flimsy plot, empty characters, and odd pacing. It’s so free to be absolutely anything. It basks in its own awfulness. It’s happily bad.

It’s what I want to be when I start a new hobby.

Miserably mediocre.

I’m getting better. I’m falling in love with my draft.

I’m so excited about what comes next.

Cheers Kat

Well, I’m 33 pages of garbage into Shedding Skin. Infancy. I look at what I’ve accomplished and I think, ‘Wow, I hate every word of this’. I’m headed in the right direction.

Meanwhile, my great aunt passed away. I’m not sure how I feel. Sad, obviously, but something else. Homesick?

When I talked to my mom about it, I let her know I couldn’t make the funeral. Not so close to the move, our savings are going toward getting from point a to point b. There’s nothing to be done about it.

She said it was fine. Expected. Everyone knows we’re moving. Etc.

I wonder if this book will be out in time for my dad to read it?

Knowing his health issues, it might not.

If I run out of time, at least I know I’m the same disappointment he remembers me being.

Cheers Kat

Things are moving fast. Too fast? I’m not sure.

I get overwhelmed by everything. My sense of ‘wow, this is too much’ is skewed.

As far as writing is concerned, I’m chugging along. Back to Shedding Skin.

Retconned motives, and tweaked some ideas to better fit the overarching plotline. Characters with purpose > characters with big dicks.

I’m reading The Left Hand of Darkness. I should definitely join a book club. I feel like, somewhere beneath the endless search for shit to keep myself occupied with, a book club would really improve my mood. Like, that shit sounds fun as hell. Sign me up.

Hobby stuff is going m e h . I got sick and I got tired and I basically forgot to socialize for a week.

Did I miss it? I dunno. What don’t I miss?

Starting to think my entire existence is committed to circulating nostalgic feelings toward toxic memories I can’t file away as bulk trauma. When I call it bulk trauma, that makes it sound less gross, doesn’t it? Compressed repression? Groomed prepubescent?

I won’t unpack that. It’s a waste of time.

Anyway, we’re homeowners. How fucking cool is that? We bought a house. A HOUSE IS OUR HOME IS OURS IS AHHHHHHH-

The negative factor is going to be the move, obviously. We’re slowly packing up for next month… mid-month probably?

I own so much shit. Clothing and books and weird mementos. 80% of “our” stuff is my stuff and I’m suffering for my hubris. It’s depressingly in character for me but it hits differently when life shoves circumstance in your face. BOXES OF SHIT.

No wonder I wind down with hardcore vulgarity and visions of futures I’d rather not live to see. I’m boring as fuck.

But wow.

We OWN a house.

HOMEOWNERS.

The world didn’t prepare me for success. I’m at a loss.

Guess I should write more vulgarity and think about how close the move is.

WOW.

Cheers Kat

Closing is tomorrow. We’ll be homeowners.

I’m excited and terrified, both at once, and I don’t know when the feeling will subside.

It’s been incredibly hot, too, and the temperature has put restrictions on my work. I have a new project, but the other projects are still being obsessed over because I convinced myself I’m more than capable of writing three or four books at once. We’ll see how long that unwarranted confidence sticks around.

My newest project is from the lore of a story I’m writing on BD. Related but unrelated? It’s about unending space war and alien demons.

No, I won’t elaborate further.

For the life of me, I can’t explain my compulsion toward writing about grimdark cosmic horror. My only saving grace is working from a 40k/DOOM angle rather than trying to dig myself into a Lovecraftian ditch I won’t be able to climb free from. Don’t try and one up the classics, Kat. You’ll fail.

But it’s nice to have so much inspiration in my work. If it wasn’t so goddamn hot this week, I’d have cleared several chapters for each project. I stopped posting updates because, as I get further along, I recognize I can’t give everything away in the early previews. It’s okay. No one was reading them anyway.

Lowkey jealous Trev gets to see the house in person without me, BUT it has to be this way. I’ll live. He’ll be back soon. He’s in my thoughts until he’s home again.

Cheers, Kat

When it rains, it pours pours pours—like a hurricane.

Like you’re back in the water.

Like the house is dark and you’re praying the rain will stop.

You don’t remember who you were praying to, do you? Someone who could help, if help constituted controlling a bizarre occurrence.

A fire would’ve been worse. A fire would’ve killed you.

But now you’re afraid of water. You have nightmares. You have two or three months out of the year when you can’t get your shit together because you still hear the water and it never stops coming.

You fall asleep to phantom water sources. You cry in the shower. You think about getting back into therapy again because the last counselor you had said you were allowed to be scared.

But when were you thinking about getting over it?

And your boyfriend didn’t message you for a month so you broke up with him. He could be in a coma in the hospital, but you’re so fucking anxious, you just swallow the feelings and deal with it.

Did you want to break up?

No, of course not. You love him. You still love him.

But you can’t keep pretending he’s thinking about you, maybe regretting not getting in touch. You can’t keep acting like he’s a bird in the window. He flies in, he flies out. He’s skittish, he’s standoffish, he’s too far away to hold.

And you’re back to crying.

Because water. Because boyfriend. Because world. Because tired.

You’re smoking again.

You take edibles to chill out.

You drown everything in the same mundane pastimes you’ve had most of your life. Your husband loves you, but he’s mad at your boyfriend. Your friends are still there, still willing to be friends with you. Cass cares. Your family cares even if they don’t show it.

Your world is brightening but you’re still so fucking dark.

A storm cloud.

A rain storm.

A hurricane.

What good is a house when you’re still looking for a coffin?

Starting at the bottom makes me think there’s something wrong with the idea of starting at the bottom.

My bottom or your bottom? Which bottom is the real bottom?

Say we buy this house, this house we’ve put down a bid for and got preapproved for a mortgage for and basically put our lives on hold for, is that the bottom?

Or was the bottom the hurricane? The divorce? The rebellious years of wasted youth?

Was the bottom the abuse from my household?

What about when, where, and to whom I was born?

It’s depressing.

Not knowing the bottom. Not knowing the top. Not knowing the future. Not knowing to what extent the past reflects on the opportunities to come.

Maybe I’d like to know the bottom better than I do like it’s an old place I visited once upon a time and I can go back when the world falls apart and there are no other options.

But what if the bottom isn’t there?

What if there is no bottom?

Bottom of a bottle, bottom of a pit, bottom of a very steep hill.

Bottomless.

Cheers, Kat

Like so many others, I’ve been using Midjourney for worldbuilding tools/assets.

Wow.

More than impressed, honestly.

Addicted.

I can’t wait to waste too much time playing with this.

Cheers, Kat

Biding your time is anxiety in the palm of your hand.

At any point and time, you can cup it close. Cherish it. It’s the problem to circulate around all your other problems, a predatory creature stalking the outskirts of life.

Your life.

When you hold it most dear, in that way you do when the world starts to drag you down, it will remind you of every coming obstacle you’ve yet overcome.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you hope it never goes away. The wait, the idea of waiting; you want it to stay. It’s a familiar spirit you’ve nurtured, a beast of infinite burden. When the rest has fallen into place, you still have this anxiety at your disposal.

Now ask me why I’m tired.

Always tired.

Cheers, Kat

When you work, you do so with purpose. To complete, or to compete, and to what lengths you feel are necessary—that is how far you will go. That is work.

And when you’re done, should you ever find an end to the constant grind, you will retire. You cease to work. You cease to toil. You cease to be an instrument for others to use, as you are now an instrument at your own disposal.

Our life, as day and night.

All long mornings bleed into short afternoons, and the evening is a blink before sleep. If you struggle, you tire faster.

Sleep is peace. Sleep can be eternal, too.

In this way, I am headed toward the mid-morning hustle. The world is vast, the sky’s the limit; I am ready yet unprepared.

I’ve done so much already. What more can I do?

What more do I want to do?

Cheers, Kat