Thursday, 31 January 2013

I Have No Idea What To Say

…so I thought I’d enlighten you on my life.

1. Boys are confusing.

2. I’m friends with a group of crazy, permanently single geeks. So for Valentine’s Day, we’re buying each other chocolates.

3. My friend circle’s Love Dodecahedron (containing P, G and E) is becoming more awkward for P by the day. She asked out G the other day, and got rejected. I’m guessing she likes J as well as E now, but to be honest, she likes a different boy every week, so I’m not all that bothered.

4. It’s easier to be a boy. You walk up to another boy, go “Alright, mate?” and you’re instant friends. If a girl sees a girl she’d otherwise be friends with, and that second girl’s with a reasonably fit boy, I can guarantee that first girl’s thinking “Look at that bitch with the fit guy, thinking she’s so special.” If the second girl (okay, fine. First girl’s called Amy, second one’s Lola) has nice hair, Amy will think “Look at that bitch with the hair (it’s never ‘the nice hair’ or ‘the blonde hair’ or ‘the straight hair’, it’s always ‘the hair’). Bet she spent hours straightening it. Slut.” If Lola has nice clothes, Amy will think “Look at that bitch with the clothes. Bet they’re all from Primark, the cheapskate.” You get the idea. (No, I’m not Amy. Or Lola, for that matter.)

5. Boys that show their feelings are so much cuter than boys that pretend they’re tough as nails. (My brain is too fried to be un-clichéd.)

6. Chuck Wendig is funny. Check out his blog.

7. Boys are confusing.

Love always,

Tuesday, 29 January 2013

Cut for Mikey

Disclaimer: This is my opinion, and I have the right to change it. If I get facts wrong, I’m sorry. You’ll live. As always, feel free to comment.

NB: As stated before (in another post), when I’m angry, I swear. Especially at first. If you’re offended by profanity, you probably shouldn’t read this.

My first thoughts: You fucking twats. Why? MCR is against self harm. It’s pretty much what they’re about, apart from awesome music. You know, the first lyrics they wrote were “You’re not in this alone”. And really, after slagging off those Cut for Bieber trolls, you cut for Mikey? You dicks.

*gears up for a rant*

Mikey Way has cheated on his wife of seven years. With a 20-year-old.

Personally, I think cheats are absolute scum. If something’s that wrong with your relationship that you feel you have to go elsewhere, you should at least mention it to your partner. Talk through it. See if you can make things work. Because love gives you the power to break someone, and it’s not fun being broken.

But Mikey cheating isn’t any of your business. Does it really affect your life? So much so that you feel you have to do the last thing any of MCR wants you to do, ever? Is one guy dicking around* really worth disappointing one of your favourite bands**?

And do you really want to be painted with the same brush as Beliebers?

Yeah, no. You’re better than that***. You don’t want to be called a Justin Bieber fan because you cut over your idols, do you? And more importantly – they don’t want you to cut.

tl;dr Yeah, cheating is stupid. No, you shouldn’t cut over it.‡

Love always,

* To dick is a verb. It means to be a dick. Honest.
** I’m assuming people that cut for Mikey like MCR.
*** No offense to Beliebers. Just MCR-ers (Romantics? Hell yeah) have better music taste than you. The disclaimer’s there for a reason.
‡ If it’s over your relationships… well, people still shouldn’t cut, but I empathize. (Wait, what? I’ve never been in a relationship. I understand more, then.)

Monday, 28 January 2013

Unsent Letters

Do you know how to speak Internet? (Danisnotonfire + Jacksgap = ♥.)
I’m not good with feels. At all. So instead of telling people that I can’t even, I write it out. Like this.
(And I change the names. Amy and Bob are my standard Average Joe names. Or, you know, I could just call them Joe… I like Bob better.)

You really loved your girlfriend, didn’t you?
And somehow, it feels like everything I say, you compare to her.
I’ve never broken up with someone. Hell, I’ve never gone out with them in the first place. But I know it can’t be good to be this… this upset.
You’re not talking to her now, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Because even if she made you think otherwise, girls like having friends. And I don’t know you that well, but I’d bet she wanted to stay friends.
Girls are good at lying. We have to be. We lie about our face (“Of course I’m not wearing make up!”). We lie about our friends (“I love them all!” We don’t. Trust me on that one). We lie about who we like and don’t like, because it’s safer that way. We don’t get hurt. Everyone’s happy.
Except we’re not. Because we lie so much, no one knows how we really feel. And we get upset when no one understands, when deep down, it’s our fault.
Maybe you should try talking to Amy. I know you have already, but maybe you should try again. And maybe this time, she’ll listen.
I don’t believe in altruism. (Aw.) And I do have a reason for saying this other than the fact it might make you happier (well, less upset). You feeling better is the main reason, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others.
It’s complicated (when isn’t it?), but it essentially boils down to two things: “It hurts when you’re upset” and “I’m not Amy, and I don’t like being compared to her”.
I’m not jealous of her. I’m really not. If you have Skype, I will say it to your face.
I just don’t like being compared to something – or someone – I’m not.

I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business. I know that I’m not going to send this, so it’s not fair of me to say it. And I know that you really do miss Amy.
But to be honest, I’m tired of lying.
I like you. And one day, I’ll find a way to show you.

It doesn’t necessarily make me feel better, but it helps. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Love always,

Friday, 25 January 2013

Notice: The Death of the Interwebs

This post is supposed to release at 5.25. I think. It’s timed. Yay technology.
Our internet isn’t working*, so I might not post on Monday. We’re having maintenance done. I’ll post as soon as I can. Promise.

You should listen to Of Monsters And Men. They’re similar to Imagine Dragons, but more… I don’t know. Imagine Dragons could be more popular if more people had heard of them. Of Monsters And Men… some people love them, some think they’re just Swedish hipster kids. End-quote. (In no way are they Swedish hipster kids. Apart from being Swedish.)

You should also watch this spoof. *snickers*

Love always,

* It won’t be when you see this.

Thursday, 24 January 2013

I’m messed up, and possibly bipolar

Only one of my friends knows I cut, and she thinks I’ve stopped. It’s ironic that the closest person I have to a best friend doesn’t like wrists because she’s squeamish about cutting.
I don’t know why I find that kind of funny. I have a really twisted sense of humour. And she’s the person I’d be most likely to tell, too.
But… it’s not fair on her. It’d hurt her.
My parents think I’ve stopped too. It’s not like my mum cared anyway. She’s too disappointed I’m not a carbon copy of her to accept I might actually have opinions of my own. And my dad’s kind of scary when he’s drinking or angry, which is happening a lot at the moment. Even if he’s not drunk, I get scared when he has a glass of wine. He’s not abusive or anything, just… he says stuff he’d never say when he’s sober. And he never remembers it either. I never bring it up.

I’m messed up.

It’d be better if I wasn’t alive, really. What kind of girl makes a New Year’s Resolution to kill herself? Helium’s painless, and my parents wouldn’t need to know. I could pretend I was getting it for a party. And seeing as I used to aquascape (like landscaping, but in an aquarium), I could say I was going to try and get back into it. Scaping hose doesn’t leak gas. Good for injecting CO2 into aquaria. Or helium into an exit bag, which you can get all too easily. Even Tesco sells bags you could use. Oversized freezer bags, for example, or miniature bin bags.
It’s too simple to commit suicide. And no one would really care. They’d be better off without me.
Sometime before the end of April would be good, but really, the sooner the better.

I’ve thought about it far too much. I’ve researched. (Yeah, I have all sorts of tables and graphs and articles hidden away. And people say I’m not that nerdy.) I’m going to go through with it, and I’m not going to fail. Because I’ve never failed anything before, and this is in no way going to be the first.

And I keep my word. I said I was going to do it. Might as well get it over and done with.

Although, I think I deserve a week’s worth of mochas (every day at school) before I start buying things, because one can’t keep on top of all the homework Year 8 gets, one’s internet duties, and suicide preparations all at once.

Love always,

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

My Opinion-Not-A-Review Of Chasing Venus

(No, it’s not Rihanna’s latest chart topper, it’s a romantic suspense by Diana Dempsey.)
Contains spoilers for Up, Harry Potter and, naturally, the novel itself.
I downloaded Chasing Venus because it was
a) by Diana Dempsey – I’d read her novel Falling Star before and loved it
b) had a pretty awesome chick-lit-y cover (I’m a sucker for chick lit)
c) I’d read a sample somewhere and it teased my writerly tastebuds
d) it had good reviews
e) it was free
I recommend you go and download it.

Rating: ★★★★

I literally could not put Venus down. And Annie and Reid’s story is beautifully written. But when I finished it… I had a few nitpicks.
Annie’s a fantastically complex character, but there were a couple of OOC* moments that bugged me. (It’s a product of reading too much fanfiction.)
May I mention the movie ‘Up’? At one moment–


Wow, excuse the Americanism. I spend too much time on the interwebs.
Take the ‘yer a wizard’ out and you’ve got Reid sussed. (Yeah. No one ships Reid×Hermione. My point is proved.)

*Spoilers end*

My verdict: It’s fun to read and even better to nitpick.

Love always,

* Out Of Character
** No offense to Harmony shippers.

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

Why Suffocation Doesn’t Kill You

Your brain doesn’t know when it’s running out of oxygen, but it knows that there’s too much carbon dioxide.
Helium is different to carbon dioxide.

Just saying.

Love always,

Important Note of Notes

Guys, I’m really sorry. The Blogger app doesn’t show you people’s comments. I was getting a link for another post and was like SHIT PEOPLE READ MY BLOG AND FUCKING COMMENT AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW ABOUT IT I’M A CRAPPY BLOGGER
Yeah. So I’m going through your comments now and I swear I’ll reply to them all.
Again, sorry.

Also: No, X. If you’ve figured out who N is, I don’t like him. At all. I did… once. Just… no.
And don’t get any ideas about me liking other guys either.
(It’s easy for X. E likes her, P and S like E. IT’S A LOVE TRIANGLE.)

Love always,

This should really be on my sidebar…

…but the Blogger app isn’t advanced enough (yeah, Blogger, I’m talking ’bout you) to let you edit your theme.

Or: Various writerly links I’m putting together for a friend. X, this is all your fault. (Wait, no. Look, if you look at my posts mentioning you, or ones tagged ‘personal’, I will… die metaphorically. Yup. Don’t go there.)

As well as my other links post (which I recommend you look at first), I give you:

How Chuck Wendig Writes A Novel

How To Structure A Killer Novel Ending

For lack of a better title, Chuck Wendig On Themish Shit And Stuff

How To Craft Compelling Characters (or, Why People Should Give A Fuck About Your Imaginary Friends)

How To Start A Novel Right (note: this post is like if the literary gods joined and had a love child called How To Write An Opening*. No shit.)

Tension (the literary gods’ve been at it again)

Love always,

* I’ve been reading too much Chuck Wendig.**
** That isn’t possible. Fuck you, logic.

Right to Die?

Disclaimer: I do not promote any form of eating disorder, self harm or suicide.

These are just my opinions, and should be taken as such.

I reserve the right to edit this content. (So there.)

Most people on the interwebs will have heard of the so-called ‘right to die’ groups. These are organisations such as the now-defunct Hemlock Society that provide detailed information about suicide, specifically how to commit.
Before I get virtually murdered*, let me point something out.

Pro ana.
Ever heard of that one? Look at the Tumblr tag.
The best way to explain it is material (generally images) encouraging anorexia nervosa. Anorexia. Ana.

Self harm.
Again, don’t Google it. Tumblr’s the way forward.
Poetry, photography, quotes of girls (generally – the Tumblr boys that harm mainly reblog pictures of girls) harming themselves, be it the cuts, the blades, the blood, or all three.

Now suicide.
Don’t look at the Tumblr tag; 99.9% of it is hate. Look at blogs. Websites. PDFs. Material encouraging pain-free ways of killing yourself.

Let me put it this way.
A girl – let’s call her… Lizzy – wants to be thinner.
She starts starving herself.
Then she looks at the pro-ana tag on Tumblr. She discovers ways of exercising to burn more calories, different diets that are healthier than what she’s currently doing, other girls out there that can and will support her. She loses more weight than she was before, but she’s happier, because she’s not alone.

Lizzy starts feeling depressed. She gets a knife and cuts.
She looks at the self harm tag on Tumblr. There she finds other ways of coping, less painful ways to cut**, and again, other girls going through the same thing. She’s not happy, exactly, but she feels… more in control.

Lizzy becomes suicidal. Let’s not discuss how. She decides to hang herself, but checks Tumblr and a few blogs she’s found.
She discovers that hanging yourself isn’t a guaranteed way to die, that it’s pretty fucking painful, that there are easier, quicker, less agonizing ways to die.
She kills herself, but she’s not in pain when she does.

Do you see what I’m getting at? These sites don’t stop you doing whatever it is. But they make it easier, for lack of a better word. They give you dignity.

I don’t think anyone should kill themselves. But I’m the biggest hypocrite you’ll find on that. And I think that these sites help, if not in the decision, then in the execution.

Less pain for you means less pain for others. And surely that’s a good thing.

Love always,

* Pun 100% intended***. Sue me.‡
** For the record, sharpener blades are the motherfucker of self harm. I’m not even joking. And don’t even look at serrated ones.
*** Honestly, I didn’t notice the second one. That was 100% unintended.
‡ Please don’t sue me.

Monday, 21 January 2013


Or: I’m too lazy to write a decent post so I’ll leave you with a shitload of writerly links. And by ‘a shitload’ I mean five.

How To Use An Outline To Write Your First Draft

How To Plot A Novel In 5 Steps

How Chuck Wendig Edits A Novel

What Flavour Of Publishing Will You Choose?

Your Novel Blueprint (which, FYI, is the most badass outliney stuff EVER)

Yes, they’re all from three blogs. JUDGE ME. (Please don’t.)

Love always,

Thursday, 17 January 2013

The Fault in my Stars…

…is that there’s a simple reason I’ll never be able to overdose. I can’t swallow tablets.

Love always,

Altruism is a Unicorn

When the lights go out
Will you take me with you?
– My Chemical Romance, Summertime

Luke doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. Period.
He goes out with Paisley because he doesn’t like getting bothered by the popular kids. He punts because he doesn’t have to commit to anyone. He’s a charming, sarcastic prick because it’s easier than being decent. For Luke, altruism is about as real as unicorns.

What do people think of unicorns? They’d be awesome as fuck if they existed.

For a character to be likable, I have one rule. They need to be unicorns.
The hard part is convincing them.

All characters have the ability to be unicorns. It’s like having a locked chest inside them. Someone or something else out there has the key, but it’s up to them to open it.
And by the end of your novel, they have to want it open.

Point in case: Luke Maynard. At the start of the novel, he’s about to cheat on his apparently asexual girlfriend* (again) with a streetwalker that turns out to be a vampire assassin**. At the end of the novel, he’s most probably going to die for her. The assassin, that is.
Of course, a shitload of unicorn hunting happens between that, but the most important thing is that October Elliot holds Luke’s key, and by the end of the novel, they’ve found his unicorn.

And an explanation of my opening quote: would you take someone with you when there’s no one around to see it? When the only person it’ll affect is you? When the lights go out, will you take me with you?

Love always,

* Spoiler: she’s not actually asexual. I’ll explain more later.
** It makes sense in context, honest. And by a vampire assassin I mean a vampire who kills people, not a vampire killer.
NB: I know this post made next to no sense. I’m sorry, guys. I’m sorry.

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

The Wallbanger of Texting*

*finds Teen-Speak to Rest-Of-English-Population dictionary*

1. abbrv. What are you up to?
2. message one receives before cracking one’s mobile phone in two, often caused by the ignorance levels of fellow humans

What am I up to?
Blogging. Cutting. Writing. Overdosing – not suicidal amounts, just enough to make me stop overthinking for a few hours. Homework. Researching the success rates of various suicide methods; throwing yourself under a train has a 90% death rate, but I’d rather not do that. Overdosing on legal drugs is only lethal 49.7% of the time. Freezing to death in typical English weather. Wishing I was being literal.

Wait, there’s a third definition.

3. Part of the text script ‘Meeting’. The required question is ‘Heya’. The required answer is “Nm, u?”

*flicks through dictionary*

Nm, u
1. abbrv. Nothing much, you (generally imposed as question)
2. Part of the text script ‘Meeting’. The required question is ‘Wuu2?’ The required answer is ‘Nm’, but teens occasionally substitute ‘Gtg now’ followed by ‘soz’.

No one actually cares what you’re up to. And that’s why it annoys me.

tl;dr Only ask a question if you give a shit about the answer.

Love always,

*A wallbanger is a book that’s so bad you throw it at the wall.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

No Joke

An exchange between two of my friends (B and K, if you will) in fifth period went like this:
“B… I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I… I slit my wrists.”
And K showed us her drawn-on scars. And B laughed.

It’s not funny.
Let me ask you something. Just one question. Is this something you find funny?*
If it is, please get the hell off my blog. Because I don’t think it’s funny.

Self harm isn’t funny. Only one of my friends, Z, knows.
When I told her, she said, “I’m just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying. It’s just you’re not the kind of person I’d imagine doing this to yourself.”
There is no ‘kind of person’. Pick the person you think is least likely to harm. They’re probably the most likely.
And X, who doesn’t know I harm, said, “No one has a reason to cut.”
Um, why do you think they do it?
(We were talking about the Cut for Bieber bullshit. You know how I feel about that.)
I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this post. But I can sum it up nicely.
tl;dr Don’t judge things you don’t understand.

Love always,

* I don’t own that picture.

‘Cut for Bieber’ is…

[Edit: I’m working on my potty mouth, so I’ve censored myself. I’s a good girl.]

Now I’ve got that out of the way, let us proceed.

TW: self harm
Disclaimer: I do not promote or glorify any form of self-harm.
NB: When I’m really pissed off, I swear. A lot. (A/N: Edited out. You may continue.)

Justin Bieber smokes weed. So (the fudge, Victoria, fudge) what? It’s his body. Live and let smoke. It’s called free will.

Right. Okay.

“He doesn’t like cutting – so let’s cut.”

The fuck?

And I thought my logic was messed up.

If you’re a fan of Bieber (what do they call themselves? Beliebers, or some such?), why would you do something he doesn’t like? Tell me that before you start cutting.

And you don’t want to start cutting.

It’s addictive.
We’re all addicted to something that takes the pain away, be it music, porn, cutting, whatever. (No, I don’t watch porn*. Have a nice day.)
For the people that cut, though… they have reasons. Reasons other than some guy smoking weed**.

Reasons like control. Like how the amount of blood on their wrists – our wrists – is the only damn thing in their life they can control. Like how for those fleeting moments when the blade enters your skin, you can forget what’s going on around you.
Oh, it hurts. But this time, it’s a pain you can control.
When you can’t do anything about emotional pain, you turn to physical pain. Making your wounds real.
For me, and millions of other people*** out there, it helps. Even if it’s for one minute, it’s a minute of complete freedom.
And when your freedom ends, you cut again. And again. And again.
It’s a vicious cycle. Don’t start. And most of all, don’t start for Justin Bieber.

Love always,

* As many friends ask me. “But I thought nerdy girls watched porn!” -.-
** Why doesn’t anyone cut for teens? Or dealers? Or Whitney Houston’s kid?‡
*** Boys harm too. It’s not just the girls. Trust me on that one.
‡ Please don’t.

Monday, 14 January 2013

Not So Different

Written for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction challenge.
Prompt: Bad Girls In Prison
Conflict: Enemy At The Gates (I’m not sure how I did with this…)
Must include: A bottle of rare whiskey

She’s back. She’s sitting down, making herself comfortable. I hear her sigh as she settles her fat arse onto the chair next to my bed. She’s gearing up for another go at me, another lecture on how sick I am. She’s swigging at her bottle. Smells like whiskey. She’s about to begin.
“So, Ellen,” she says. “How’re you feeling today? That disgustin’ little head o’ yours still hurtin’?” She laughs. “’Course it is. Fractured skulls don’t heal overnight, do they?” She pokes her whiskey into my ribs. It hurts, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing that.
“Actually, the painkillers they gave me are doing the trick. I’m remarkably well, considering.”
“A right good kicking they gave you. Nothin’ more than a whore like you deserves, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, Ms Cattan, I wouldn’t say.”
“You whores are a breed apart. A particularly abhorrent breed. I looked that up specially for you.” The chair creaks and I hear the sound of whiskey being poured into a glass. “This is nice stuff you had on you. Looked it up as well. Rare, this.”
“Glad to know you’re using me as an excuse to learn something.”
“Learned a lot in the service,” she says. “Like how your lot are the lowest of the low. Filth.” Her face is right up against mine, whiskey-loaded breath tickling what little I have left of my nose.
I count to ten. And then twenty. “My lot? Who’d they be?”
I hear the creak of the chair as she leans back. Her boots squeak along the lino of the ward floor. She’s getting comfy.
“Filth,” she says. “All o’ you.”
“Actually, not all of us. Your lot think we’re all the same old kiddie fiddlers.” I try to ignore the pain in my ribs, still throbbing with the imprint of Jessy’s kicks.
“Pity they didn’t finish you off.”
“They would have, no thanks to you.”
“A few more kicks and no one would’ve been any the wiser.” Her chair protests feebly as she stands up. Her prison-issue boots squeak across the floor and I imagine her standing at the window.
“You got a husband, Ms Cattan?” No reply. “Kids?” Silence. “I doubt you’ll tell me, but I’m guessing you have. You’re, what, thirty-nine? Forty? Two kids, probably more. I’m guessing Mr Cattan’s body isn’t what it used to be.” She hasn’t said a word. I try to breathe through the pain. “Tell me, when he’s lying on top of you, do you fantasize? Do you shut your eyes, conjure up a younger, smoother, firmer body? I bet you do. How old is he, this young thing who keeps you going? D’you have a name for him?”
I hear her turn around. Her footsteps come towards me. They stop at my bed and I sense her bulk above me, taste her heavy breath on my face. Then she turns away and I hear the whoosh of automatic doors expelling him into the corridor.
She’s not so different from me. Oh, she likes to think she’s on some moral high ground, looking with disgust at the likes of me. But deep down, somewhere in the oily darkness of her soul, when she’s fucked by that inflated, lumpen mound she calls her husband, she wants it too. She wants to feel young flesh. The difference is, I can.
She’s back. I hear her popping a cork. Beer? Rosé? Or my whiskey? She slurps noisily.
“Do you have a name for your fantasy lover?” I press. “I’m betting he’s real. Your first boyfriend? The one you felt up in your school photo? He was twelve, right? Thirteen at the most.” I hear her shift in her seat and I force myself to carry on. “So if this fantasy of yours is underage and you’re forty, what does that make you? Not a whole lot different to me.”
The effort’s exhausted me and I’m relieved when the doors swoosh open. Now someone’s fiddling around with the machinery keeping me alive. And I am alive. Hello, I want to call out, I’m here and I can hear everything you’re saying.
“How’s she doing?” I recognize the voice of Prison Doctor Isabel, my saviour.
“Same as before.” Cattan doesn’t sound amused.
There’s a period of hushed whispering before Cattan speaks again. “I don’t know why they’ve got me sat ’ere all day. Not like she’s going anywhere any time soon.”
Doctor Isabel laughs and Cattan joins in. I hear footsteps, not the heavy, obnoxious clumps Cattan’s boots make, someone else’s, retreating.
“That’s it? Not even a bit more morphine?” Nobody’s listening. The doors slide shut, and Cattan tramps back over.
“Looks like you’re going to get what you deserve, despite Doc.” Cattan sounds pleased.
Not if I’ve got anything to do with it. I concentrate on my left hand. I will what’s left of my brain to send a signal to it to move. Just one finger. Now, damn it, move.
I’m sure I felt something. A twitch. A slight trembling. But definite movement.
“Hah! See that, Cattan? Did you? I moved. Who’s paralyzed now, brain-dead?”
“Aren’t you going for help? Come on, this is your chance to redeem yourself, you bitch.”
She lets out a loud belch and sighs.
I take that as a no.

This is the first flash fiction I’ve written. What do you think?
Love always,


Well, I was there on the day
They sold the car for the Queen
And when the lights all went out
We watched our lives on the screen
I hate the ending myself
But it started with an alright scene.
- My Chemical Romance, Disenchantment

So there’s this boy.
…No, hear me out.
There’s this boy, and, well… yeah.
I like him. And apparently he likes me, but to be honest, I doubt it. I’ve known him since I was three, I think I’d… Okay, fine. Other people are trying to convince me he likes me, but I don’t think he does. Just because… well.
I’m not explaining myself well. Look. Here’s a letter I wrote (as advised by my fellow elephants). It was a few months ago, but it holds up. The only difference is that X Took a Level in Jerkass (I’m pretty sure she’s a Tsundere too, just I don’t know which type) and we don’t talk as much now. So we don’t walk with the boys.
Dear N,
You confuse me.
At our old school, you’d relentlessly take the mick. We were rivals, but I was winning. On the rare occasion you’d beat me, you’d be so unbearably pleased that I’d vow never to let it happen again. You’d make up little songs about me, songs laughing snidely at me, and I’d try not to show how much I hated it when everyone else started singing them too.
That was then.
Now, it’s… different. You still poke fun at me. A lot. And it still hurts. And I still ignore it.
But that’s the end of the similarities.
When my guard slips, when my emotions flutter across my face, when anyone could see how much your words hurt, I’d say you were appalled if I didn’t know you. You take back what you’ve said immediately. You look like… like you actually care about me.
When I moved house, we walked down the same road for our secondary school. You’d laugh at me for being a ‘larry’ when I got to the top of the road early, before X and Z got there. The first year, I deliberately avoided you there.
Now we’ve started Year 8, X and I walk with the boys. It suits all of us. And we end up walking down our road for maybe a minute together each day.
You always think of some excuse to talk to me. And you don’t laugh at me. We actually talk. For a minute a day, three or four days a week.
And every day, every lesson we have together, I catch you watching me.
And I’m confused.
But I think I like it better this way.
That’s as coherently as I can explain myself.
But that doesn’t explain everything. It doesn’t explain how I feel when he’s around. How whenever he’s hurt, I’m hurt. How my heart skips whenever he speaks to me.
Fun fact: I don’t know why they call it butterflies. It felt like my ribs were being bludgeoned open by a sledgehammer. Or something.
Maybe not a sledgehammer. Maybe something like a tennis ball.
In case you missed it*, I’m not good at this ‘explaining myself’ thing.

So there’s this boy. And I like him. And maybe he likes me.
And I’m confused.
Love always,

* ‘In case’ is a strange phrase. In case you missed it. In case. Maybe it’s short for ‘in the case of’. In the case of you missing it. A hypothetical phrase. See, this is why I have no life. I spend my time being confused by the English language and boys, and relating my life to TV Tropes.

Saturday, 12 January 2013

Flash fiction, Chuck Wendig style

Okay. Okay. I’ll explain.
Or rather, I’ll guide you here.

I rolled Bad Girls In Prison, Enemy At The Gates and A Bottle Of Rare Whiskey. I know how this is going to turn out already. But I wonder, can I have a bad girl and a bad boy? No? Meh, they can be lesbians. Or… Okay, I know where I’m going.
Here’s my favourite from last week. I’m not kidding. It’s amazing.
Write with me… I guess I can’t call you word-nerds. Write with me, dear readers.

Love always,

Thursday, 10 January 2013

Post schedules

I’ve changed my mind (again). There’ll be definite posts on Mondays and either Wednesdays or Thursdays. You’re guaranteed two posts a week. But I’ve got too much to say not to post on other days, so I’ll probably post more often than that.

Love always,

Your Characters Are Smarter Than You

You may be looking at me thinking something along the lines of “But I created them, stupid.” Before you dismiss me though, hear me out.
That title needs a revision. If you’ve written them well, your characters are smarter than you.
Now, I’m not saying academically. Some of mine certainly aren’t. I’m saying that in their day-to-day life, they’re smarter.
Can’t fill that plot hole? Ask your characters. Don’t know who killed the cat? Ask your characters. No idea who your side character ends up with? Ask her. Even better, ask her suitors. Chances are they’re much more original than you are.
For example, I was having trouble outlining my final scene. Ten-word summary: five socially awkward teenagers are trapped on a deserted island. (Hey, I did it!) The scene I couldn’t write was at the end, where there’s room on a ship for four to leave. I couldn’t decide who stayed.

In my pre-NaNo novel, my main character Tom has an on-and-off girlfriend named Ashlie. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t give a damn about anyone else. She’ll say what she likes, and if you get hurt, she’ll probably laugh. And she loves Tom more than anything.
Tom’s a dick. There’s not really any other way to put it. For any Tropers out there, he’s a Deadpan Snarker and a Jerk With A (very well-concealed) Heart Of Gold. I can’t stand him, but he’s interesting, I guess.

Anyway, Tom and Ashlie have a huge The Reason You Suck-type argument near the end of the novel, leaving Ashlie absolutely heartbroken and Tom… showing signs of regret. Which is weird to see. (This was my characters solving a plot hole for me. Their personalities clashed too much for this not to be inevitable, I just didn’t see it.) Ashlie decides to stay – blame teenage hormones. And Tom… he feels like shit.
So he decides to stay with her.
I think that’s my favourite scene.

Love always,

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Logic is subjective.

Disclaimer: I do not promote or glorify any form of self harm.

Before I start:

1. Yes, this post is early.
2. There’ll still be one on Sunday.

Earlier in the week, one of my internet friends (wait, there are other kinds?) told me that no one understood her logic. This logic can be found here.

She thinks that’s not logical? Has she ever met me? (Answer: no.)

Self harm is not logical. Cutting yourself – and feeling better after it – is not logical. Craving the feeling of blood trickling out of a wound you made is not logical.
Does that stop me? No.
It makes me feel better, even if it’s only for the fleeting moment I cut. It makes me forget reality, even if it’s only for the few seconds the knife carves a message into my wrist. It makes me feel like I’m in control. That’s not logical. I know it’s not logical.
But it doesn’t stop me.
I have my reasons for cutting. They’re not logical, but they make sense to me.

Everyone has their own set of rules they want to live by. These are some of mine. They won’t make much sense to anyone else, but your rules won’t make sense to me.
Things don’t need to be logical to make sense. Accept it, move on.

Love always,

Monday, 7 January 2013

They say first posts are awkward.

They say they’re like first dates: you enter knowing nothing about the other person, you leave with a faint idea with what makes them tick. So here goes.

My pen name’s Victoria Huntley. I write novels in November, fangirl over Emma Watson, and love The Perks Of Being A Wallflower.
I also self harm, and I’ve attempted suicide several times. Writing’s my way of escaping reality. I doubt I won’t try to escape it again, but for now, I’m holding on, if only for my characters. Tom would kill me if I didn’t tell his story.
I like to consider myself as different, but anyone who gets comfort from fictional characters deserves a slightly stronger adjective. Let’s go with ‘different’ for now.
I’m planning on blogging Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays. If I won’t make it, I’ll post ahead of time.
I’d love to be a screenwriter, but seeing as you need a Drama GCSE and I can’t act, I don’t think that’ll happen any time soon. I’ll stick with novelist for the time being.
So that’s me. An indie suicidal dreamer, as they say. (Or not.)

Love always,