Whiteout

I would be a poor host if I didn’t gather up SOME semblance of content now that the site has been vaguely restored (I have not the skill nor the remaining friends to replace the glorious image based header menu), yet while I am decidedly unwealthy AND not a host of any sort, content I shall provide.

Content in the piss poor excuse for life updates that is, the thing I am eternally surprised people either give a shit about, or seek as a reassurance theirs isn’t quite as misshapen.

Many things have transpired since we last spoke children, many things.

What of novelling?

Usu was published as a drastic push of the down key will show you, and I’ve not been idle hands since. My third novel has long since been finished, my publisher however…….MIA. To make things grander still, the publisher submission dance I’ve been doing for 2 years regarding the third novel has reached the point where I don’t actually have any publishers open to submissions left to be rejected by. Following said rejections, I’ve started to waver on my confidence in the (twice as long as Usu) work or my ability at all for that matter. Private sharing has given mixed reception. Old editor hated it and then grew to like it after slaving away at my typos, Swedish modblogger felt middling about the whole affair, about 3-4 trusted people just never got back to me about it and the one person who truly, genuinely loved it with all her heart………killed herself a week after reading it. Rimshot? Needless to say friends lavishing praise wouldn’t change a publisher’s opinion in the slightest, but they might make me feel somewhat less shit about using two years of my life on something I still feel is very special, even if only one other person also thought so thus far.

I dabble in a fourth work half-heartedly at the moment. That may improve if my living friends actually start pulling through and let me know if I made a pile of shit or a glorious beacon of faecal majesty, or I might just finish it out of spite anyway. Did you notice an underlying theme there? That’s write!

What’s with all the deathy-weathy whatnots?

 

A damned good question! In the last two years I’ve had two of my closest friends kill themselves. Dante, the chap who thought of this site’s name and Blue, the only reason I was ever brave enough to write in the first place. Dante wasn’t talking to me because of silly reasons I had long since declared silly, but I still worried about him often, bragged about him to strangers and sent him the self-absorbed gift of a signed novel copy. I had figured he’d get over it eventually and talk to me normally one day. Yeah that didn’t work out.

Blue hits even harder, and while it’s shitty to compare such things, it needs to be said. Blue was someone I knew from Modblog. Who gave shits about me…when I didn’t even give shits about me. Blue was a glue for a small group of us who considered her family, and given her family history, I think she considered us family too. Me, Janna, Mika and Luk all connected with Blue, and through her each other. Hell, I braved THE OUTSIDE to stay with Blue and Janna for a week. Partially because perving at Janna (A Swedish redhead out of everyone’s league) was unavoidable bait, but mostly because spending time with them was………actually important.

Fuck, conditions were hellish. I always had respect for Blue, but her life was harder than she would ever let on. Purely solar power, a half destroyed bathroom, borehole water and the kindness of neighbours feeding her (and us) most nights. But I was even more fucking proud of her when I saw all that. She was fighting mental health woes from childhood and back, a loveloss that burned eternal (on that we often compared notes), failed treatments that went as far as shock therapy and conditions of dire times. Yet she was so strong. She took on the burdens of others and rarely ever spoke of her own. Instead being a rock for the few I mentioned above, without even asking for a pebble to herself.

So now me and another friend are super weird and still send her messages on Whatsapp. A sort of therapy I call it, until I see those grey ticks go blue in a few years and shit gets real.

We expected it, just not as soon as it was. It’s particularly weird when a suicide leaves you with a confused mishmash of anger and understanding.

But what of your failed social life stories we all so adore?

More of those than you can count dear paragraph of morbidity skipping reader! They range from a lass claiming to be in love with someone else after the first date……..only to appear boosted on the same dating app later that day, to a very intelligent and otherwise impressive one INSISTING SHE DROWN MY SPHYNXES IN A RIVER. Needless to say as crazy cat lady myself that……….is where even I draw a line.

Then there’s a half-date at someone’s shared apartment where I ended up having more conversation with the extremely aggressive gay best friend, was almost forced to sleep over and was allowed to touch a traditional Native-American scalping knife as a goodbye gift before being very passively ghosted for the next several months.

More?! Along with my illness(es) my teeth have been internally destroyed (no saliva means bad shit yo) to the point of a full replacement. Whilst I’m undergoing the shitty top half now (and am in sexy dentures), when I was on the bottom phase I did warn one charming girl in question that I may lisp a little but was determined to give things a shot. Irony struck when she had a speech issue to point of mouth frothing. Actual mouth frothing. But I do not judge as you know (or have low standards) and was primed and ready for the……..ghosting that followed!

Ultimately a problem I’m having more and more is that I am (however shitty you may declare) a writer. An author. A wordyperson. This is my domain, my strength, my weapon. I’ve almost become completely dull to the amount of times women have been “falling for me” or “obsessed” before meeting me in person, simply because I know my written words are the better part of me. My personality is no different, and dare I say I’m even more dramatic and eccentric in person, but I’ve had far too many smitten with the “idea of me” than the “reality”. Oh did I sneak a final paragraph of minor existential crisis on you there? Worry not! I plan to continue my rejection train, especially since there is so much entertainment in my eternal folly.

 

P.S.

Suggesting a publisher, asking for a rough manuscript because you are a vague fan and have no faith in my future and even supplying me with self-immolating essentials are all welcome things.

P.P.S.

Because I’m a comment-fearing sissy manly man, you’d do that in an email. The UFAQS hold the secret.

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