Oh, gosh. HTML editing right off the bat. It's been a while. Bear with me. does the text go to the link pipe?
I woke up today with every intention of rowing for a good 5000 metres, doing some yoga/body weight exercises, reading about communism, finishing my essay on Dracula and rifling through papers on sperm-egg interactions in Australian hopping mice. Instead, I saw a single gif of Prince Nuada and decided to watch Hellboy one and two. It's the end of the term, the list of things I have to do is exceptionally long, but all I've managed is several hundred words in the fantasy novel I'm writing.
Oh, I know. How original. How unique. A fantasy novel.
I didn't quit writing when I quit this place. I kept writing, but I wrote bigger and longer and more obscene. I wrote for audiences not welcome here, and I am not critiquing that, but I wanted to get into the habit of writing every day, and writing a story from start to finish, and here does not cater for that so well as the realm of fanfiction. Fanfiction allows crappy writing and thoughtless writing and it allows strange ideas and strange combinations, and it allows the exploration of areas that other types of writings do not.
Sometimes those areas are plain disturbing (rape? fish porn? wing kink? underage? it's all there). Genderswapped highschool AU of Sherlock? Hells to the yes, and after eighty thousand words of that I turned it into parentlock (where Sherlock and John (Joan, in this case) have had a kid), and it fell into something akin to a Harry Potter crossover, and there was BDSM and bloodplay and eating disorders and it was all very strange and nothing that I would have considered writing otherwise. It was a stretch, and it was fun. Overall, between that and another that I wrote, and all the other pieces of stories I wrote in between as I learned how to become deeply uncomfortable with a single day not writing, well. Three hundred thousand words since October last year, and I can look back at something I wrote a month ago and know I have improved.
When I have the motivation to properly sit down and work, I'm reading about the Maoist insurgency in Nepal and it's helping me form problems for the other story I am writing (sci-fi dictator-Australia). I'm learning about Classical Mythology and that's helping me with my fantasy story, and I read about feminism and racism and ableism and terrorism and it helps me to write.
(The dictatorship was meant to be a crappy easy erotica that I could sell with the plan to go to Sydney in my second semester holidays, because I've not yet managed the concept of dying my hair a respectable colour and giving up swearing long enough to find a job. Alas, it spawned incest and murder and wide-spread chaos, and I am so over sex, y'know?)
Tomorrow, hopefully, my stomach will have healed enough that I can row again, because although I can run a decent distance rowing has a completely different muscle set (hence the abs that have been giving me pain for two days after scarcely 20 minutes on the ergo). I prefer running to erging and actually rowing to both. Though rowing is hell. I know why they made the slaves row, and let rich people recline or travel on horseback.
My friends are the type of people who are happy to listen to me rant and rage about the Supernatural season finale and then slip into a mad rant about how absolutely brilliant Hannibal is (interjected with complaints on the latest Star Trek). I am into feminism and pink hair and soul music and the smell of wood fires. I am uninterested in straight boys and gay girls or monogamy, and most of what I want is to be left alone to read about every revolution that ever happened without having to write a paper on the possible future of South Asia.
My politics teacher thinks I'm a Marxist. My mythology teacher thinks I'm angry about everything. My English teacher cannot say my name right, and I am constantly angry at her. My fourth teacher, who teaches anatomy, touches me too often, on the shoulder or arm or knee as he exclaims some exciting fact or consoles me that I have searched through another hundred slides with nothing to show for it. He does it in an innocent fashion, with no harm intended, but I dislike it. Most days I cannot cope with even my mother brushing past me in the kitchen.
This is me. I am becoming.