|
About Tehuti
I am an amateur writer of novels, serials, and novellas. Most of my work is in the genres of fantasy, mythology, drama, occult, GLBT, and erotica.
As I'm not seeking publication, I offer my work online for free reading. I'm not seeking stylistic critique so much as feedback from people who just like reading what I write. I love hearing what people think of my characters, plots, themes, etc., so if you have any comments or advice on those, feel free to share. I'm not hugely popular and often go many months without hearing from readers so I enjoy all the comments I get!
My interests are Ojibwa mythology, Mackinac Island, Egyptian mythology, Jungian symbolism and dream interpretation, ritual crime, fantasy writing, and various other things you can find in my personal bio, available just to the right. Please click to learn more about me and what I'm looking for in terms of readers and potential friends.
Feel free to hit me up if you're interested in any of these things, and enjoy my writing!
Tar! :) |
 Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only |
Untitled Tentative Blog-Type Thing Entry #698672, added on 06-09-10 @ 10:51 am EDT
Entry Access Restriction: None.
Typed up over the past week. I've been disconnected twice so far this morning.
Sorry for the belatedness, but the Internet connection just gets worse and worse so all I ever feel like doing is hurrying up and getting through my eBay searches (which, on a GOOD day, takes a little over an hour) and my Amazon and whatnot and then logging off before I get too hysterical. God, it just makes me so mad. I'll connect without any trouble and then promptly get disconnected, I'll try to reconnect and fail or else get a busy signal (???--it's not the phone line, that's clear, so it must be the ISP, not that they'll own up to it!), I'll connect at an atrocious speed, it'll make horrific noises while trying (and failing) to connect like there's something wrong with the line, I'll successfully connect at even a really fast speed and it will move like molasses, etc. etc. etc. Even on days when I'll connect just fine and go an hour or so just fine, it can just bam, disconnect me for no reason whatsoever, and it's been doing it frequently. So I'm very pissed off by this, because it's the exact same as last summer, only even worse, and I fail to understand why an ISP will act so atrociously during the summer months and they can't even admit they're having problems. And I just got an Amazon order on an OOP book cancelled because it wasn't in stock even though IT WAS LISTED AS IN STOCK ON AT LEAST TWO DIFFERENT SITES. I realize such things happen but UGH would sellers stop being so frigging lazy and update their listings?? Took them two days to tell me they don't have the book. At least be prompt. Jackasses.
And my bladder (or more like the urine) has been flaring so that and that and this all together just UGH UGH UGH!! 
Speaking of, I never described how the first Elmiron instill treatment went. It went. That's pretty much all to say. It was a nurse who performed it, not the urologist--big surprise that he doesn't do yet another procedure, but I preferred a nurse since they actually treat you like you have a brain and feelings. I got in there in decent time, but she wanted the doctor to check my urine sample, and go figure he was being chatty with some other people so I had to wait on this table thingie half-covered with a sheet for like fifteen minutes until she could make sure I didn't have an infection or something. We asked and answered a few questions for each other and she even attempted some smalltalk. (I'm not averse to listening to other people's smalltalk, I just rarely have anything of my own to contribute--with smalltalk I'm more of a listener than a contributor--so I often feel people will think I'm not interested or don't want them to talk when in fact I don't mind.) She said that the goal is to hold the medicine in the bladder for at least a half hour, though some people can't handle it that long because of the irritation, so if I couldn't make it a half hour, "It's not the end of the world." The urologist had warned the same thing, so I had this fear that the procedure, the Elmiron being directly in the bladder, might irritate it even worse, so I was quite anxious about this. She explained that she'd chosen the smallest catheter she could find since I've never had this done before, and took my pill (I had to bring my own) and mixed it with saline solution and lidocaine, I believe, to make the pain tolerable; she said the procedure shouldn't even take ten minutes, which was good, so she first used the lidocaine or whatever and then put in the stuff. It was over with fast, at least, and there was no pain because of the lidocaine being put in the bladder, but there was great discomfort when the catheter was inserted, and that makes me unhappy. My mother told me it does NOT feel like you have to pee with a catheter, it's just awkward, but I guess her idea of "discomfort" is different from mine, because it REALLY feels like I have to pee whenever something presses on the urethra and that includes inserting a catheter. I was willing to put up with catheters the rest of my life, if need be, as long as I don't always feel like I have to pee, but after this procedure, and knowing what they feel like at last, that option seems out, I would be in pure misery all the time. So I really hope so much that either this procedure or augmentation surgery works. 
Went home. I managed to hold the medication in not just a half hour, but slightly over an hour, and that short a time only because by then the lidocaine had started to wear off at last and it felt like I had to pee a lot more than I really had to, like after the cystoscopy only not nearly as bad. When I went, it again bled and burned like crazy, but again, not so bad as before, presumably because the catheter was much smaller than the scope.
Hold on, must scare off a raccoon.
Okay, back. More on them later. Anyway, the irritation didn't last nearly as long as with the cystoscopy either, which was a relief...and the putting of the Elmiron directly into the bladder didn't irritate it any either. I was rather puzzled since they'd made it seem like it would be very irritating when in fact it felt no different from having anything else in my bladder. Almost two weeks later, I feel no difference at all. No worsening, thank goodness, but also no improvement. I realize one shouldn't expect real improvement with just one treatment, but I'm only scheduled for four of them, and there's just no change whatsoever at all, so I don't see how or why it works. The urine is flaring up at the moment (it seems to prefer flaring just after I get to bed but lately the flares have been moderately mild so I've slept through the bulk of them and/or gotten back to sleep quickly, but last night it acted up badly enough to keep me awake until around three again) so, like doing the 32oz test, I sat and tried to hold it as long as I could and ended up letting out 4.5oz--I could have held a tad more but it was already terribly stressful, I hurried from the room and the Cozbug insisted on getting right in front of me so I picked him up bodily and set him aside, why must cats always do that??--so that just shows there is no improvement yet since that's as much as I've held before. 3-4oz tends to awaken me from sleep; I haven't had another 6oz success recently like I had a couple of times in the past.  So I don't know what to say or think. I want to hope for this to work, but nothing else ever has. I have never gotten any significant, lasting benefit from ANY prescription drug in my life. I keep hoping I will, but I never do. Antidepressants just make me apathetic and fat. Not exactly my idea of being better. All my life I've been so hopeful of SOME medication doing something wonderful for me, but nothing ever has, so even when Psychologist urges me to try something like Wellbutrin so I don't stress so much, all I can do is nudge the suggestion aside. I don't want to rule such things out, since I'd love a drug that makes me feel better, but none of them ever have, and in fact they usually just make me worse (I'm seriously wondering if it was the Lexapro that made me get this interstitial cystitis??), so of course by now I'm jaded.
I have the second treatment this upcoming week. *sigh* I wonder why they wait two weeks between treatments when I notice no improvement or even irritation at all? The nurse said some people have the procedure done every week or twice a week, some do it every two weeks like mine, it depends on how much irritation there is, but when there's no irritation at all, what is to stop one from having it done more frequently? The better to more quickly heal the ulcer or whatever? I'm just so impatient to be better. IF that can even happen.
The raccoons have become so bothersome, ugh. There are at least two, possibly siblings since they tend to show up together. They hang out below the porch, under the standing feeder in the yard or on the sidewalk near it, eating up stray seed, or else raid the standing feeder near the dining room window. I am constantly shooing them away from the latter at night; I'll shine out the light and see either little flying squirrels darting about, in which case I withdraw as unobtrusively as I can, or else a fat startled raccoon staring back in at me, in which case I angrily get rid of it. But they're losing their fear of me, if they ever even had it. Their hurried climbs back down the feeder made it tilt dangerously so Dad pushed it around so the projecting "branch" under the plate is braced against the chimney; the other night when I flicked on the light, a raccoon was reclining upon this branch with its head in the feeder as if it were Cleopatra eating grapes! Damn things! When I just shooed it away again moments ago, it actually stood there staring at me and reaching again for the seed as if hoping I would just go away--I had to knock on the window repeatedly and at last open it to shoo it away. UGH!
Continued the next day. Some nights ago I kept alternating between shooing one away from this feeder and from the porch (the porch is pretty much a lost cause by now); when I saw one down by the bushes, I opened the door and yelled and swung the broom and it crept out of sight so I waited a moment, as I suspect they do. I thought I saw something in the bush itself and drew back fearfully, then swung at the bush and hit it again a few times, and then this raccoon just came strolling around it and into the yard as if it owned the place!! Totally unafraid! I shooed at it and saw something go scurrying away but that really freaked me out that they're so cavalier. Then, I returned to the standing feeder near the window. I got it in my head to make them nervous since they make me so nervous. Every time I shined the light out I'd startle this raccoon either in the tray or making its way up toward the tray. Kitty watched. At one point I turned on the light to find the raccoon halfway up the pole, and he then crept his way back down and vanished. Ten or fifteen minutes later I tried again and there was this masked face just peering over the feeding tray, and it slowly sank down out of sight. That made me laugh. Several nights later, after logging off, I went out to stand on the front porch and cry and huff a little because of the stupid Internet, and I just stared and listened to the wind gusting in the leaves for a while since it was nice out and I found that soothing. (I really would like a nice CD featuring merely the sound of wind in leaves, with maybe crickets in the background, but mainly just wind in leaves. No goofy New Age music or birds chirping or anything. Just wind in leaves. Any recording companies out there willing?) I shut my eyes and imagined that it was completely dark (since it was still dim out, being not quite ten o'clock), and thought of when I'd done similar on Mackinac Island, imagining the shushing leaves were Lake Algonquin. Then when I lowered my head and opened my eyes I just happened to glimpse a shape sneaking from the direction of the highway and into our yard. Its hind legs were longer than its front ones and it just kind of ambled along in this really furtive, sneaky manner. "I SEE YOU!!" I yelled at it, and it hastened (though quite nonchalantly) down the driveway and out of my sight. I grabbed the broom and went down the steps and after it in my bare feet, which was hard as the driveway is gravel, but I hung back somewhat since I thought it might jump out and bite me. I caught sight of it turning the corner of the house toward Dad's vehicle. "You BETTER not go to the feeder!" I snapped after it. I started in the same direction, but going between the house and Dad's vehicle unnerved me too much, since it was such a narrow space and it could be hiding under the SUV, so I went the other way, between the vehicle and the garage, because even though it could be hiding in the garage, the space was bigger and more open and I could better keep watch of both sides. Jeez, I sound like I have PTSD or something. Anyway I peered under the vehicle, and swung the broom at the garage, but there was nothing there, and when I went into the short driveway to look around the corner toward the standing feeder, I saw nothing there either, so it must have gone off some other way, or else passed back through the yard ahead of me. I threatened it again before turning and hastening back to the front porch since Criminal Intent was about to start and it just scared the bejesus out of me being out in the dark like that. I thought it might have circled back to the front porch and could even now be waiting for me, but the porch was clear (I struck the bush and the bamboo with the broom just to make sure), so I darted back inside and locked the door. Then missed perhaps a good ten minutes toward the end of my show as I grew preoccupied trying to figure out what this moving shape was outside the window below the feeder, when in fact I believe it was just leaves. Ugh, so annoying. They gobble up so much food and what they don't gobble, they tend to spill as they hurry out of the feeder, and it's such a waste. Plus there are the frigging chipmunks to contend with, and they're basically tiny but efficient vacuum cleaners with fur. Plus the red squirrels are getting more voracious and I actually found one on the yard feeder this morning!! That thing is supposed to be squirrel proof, it has a baffle and everything!! I mean, yes, I did find a black squirrel on it once, but just once, and I figured it was a fluke, but today there was a red squirrel and it should be even harder for them to get up it! I hoped again it was a fluke since that feeder has been there for like two years now and this is only the second time a squirrel has been on it, but when I got to the porch to put out more food, I found him on the pole, reaching for the baffle, trying to climb up again!! The little turd! I haven't seen one on it since but they've been squabbling at the other feeder (when they squabble, they spill food, the little...well, turds) and gobbling stuff from the porch which I intended for the sparrows so...again, UGH. Too many frigging hungry mouths around this place! I barely see the chickadees lately, I wish I knew where they've gone, and the sparrows have grown shy too. I have more than enough squirrels.
Oh my goodness, as I type this there's a red squirrel eating in the nearby feeder and he's soaking wet! His fur is sticking out every which way! Poor little bedraggled thing.
Ma and I have gone to eat at the casino in St. Ignace a couple of times lately, as they have an excellent buffet, and yesterday (Thursday) her mother accompanied us. I do not care for casinos as, as I told my grandmother, I'm immune to gambling. I just don't see the point or allure. Not only is it dreadfully boring, but my philosophy is, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, or a dollar in the hand is worth two in the slot machine, or, as I say it without metaphors, "I'd rather use the money I already have to buy something, like a book, than spend it on the SLIGHT POSSIBILITY of getting MORE money!" Seriously. If I have $20, I'm going to buy a book with it, not put it in a machine and hope I get back $50 when chances are I'll spend an hour getting back maybe $5, if anything. Stupid.
So while they gambled (just so Ma could get back the fare she'd spent getting across the bridge, seriously, it's just $7 total, is it REALLY worth it?--still, since she goes there so much she gets comped on pretty much everything, including our lunch), I was far more interested in examining the fountain cascading down the wall, or the numerous cameras set in the ceiling, or the security guard wandering about and then opening a machine and giving some people their winnings, or the way wooden poles had been carved and "bound" around a supporting pillar to look like a bunch of reeds. Even the flashing lights and noises get tiresome eventually. There will be like five machines in a row, each with completely different names and themes, but the games on them are basically the same, just that one is Egyptian while one is Wild West and one is an Aztec temple or something, so I decry the lack of originality there. And I fail to see why in the hierarchy of fictional prizes on the Aztec machine, the big ruby is valued as much more than the golden statue, it seriously seems it should be the other way around.
The lobby of the casino, on the other hand, is gorgeous. It has a very, very high vaulted ceiling with wooden crossbars and such which I believe is meant to mimic the interior of a longhouse or some such, while there's a huge window and seating area overlooking the lake, and set in the floor is a giant mosaic of variously colored mica in the design of Michigan and the Great Lakes, and situated over the Straits area is a silhouette of the Great Turtle. Surrounding the whole is a design of Ojibwa-style flowers. I never tire of going to stand on and look at this. The lighter mica making up the Great Lakes glimmers blue in places when the light hits it right. The area where I live is covered up by the Great Turtle's long tail. While my mother and grandmother gambled a bit more as they hadn't quite covered the bridge fare yet, I returned to look down at this and an older man saw me and approached, asking, "Do you know what that is?"
I nodded and pointed at the turtle. "The Great Turtle."
I don't know if he heard me, for he said, "The Great Lakes," and gestured at the mica design. "That's how Mackinac Island got its name, did you know that--?" he started to say, pointing at the turtle himself, but I was already nodding. "You know all this already?" he added, and I said yes, because I found it rather funny that this guy was telling me this as if it were new, which to most people it would be, whereas it's something I'm not only intensely interested in but have been reading about for years. Go figure he'd pick the probably one person in the place who's read as much on it as I have.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said as he turned to walk away, and I said, yes, the colors of the rock were lovely. I hoped I didn't give him the impression of "Good Lord, why are you talking to me??--do I look like I want to chatter about a stupid mosaic?" My vehement nodding might have made it look like such, like I was trying to get rid of him, and that saddens me, that something that indicates an acute interest in chattering about something could be mistaken for a brushoff. I just don't know how to communicate with people properly. I know, he probably wandered off merely because that was the extent of what he had to say, but still, that's the kind of situation I always dream of happening, somebody "in the know" approaching me and opening up a conversation I really COULD participate in. You have to admit, the overwhelming majority of people really don't want to make smalltalk about Great Turtles and whatnot.
Today as I sat huddled on the couch (since it's again cold and wet outside, so much for the nice weather) and got to thinking about how lonely I am, I again got to thinking about the impressions people make on each other. I'm always thinking about people who've made impressions on me, however tiny, and wondering if I've made any on anyone else, though I have little reason to believe I have. I've realized that I don't remember people by their faces or names, as evidenced by the sheer number of people who cross me in public and say, "Hi, Rachel!" and I have no idea who the hell they are, even if I happen to glance at their face or they tell me their name. It's embarrassing. Half the people, surely old classmates, who have friended me on Facebook, including the few who bother to say, "Hi, Rach!", I have no idea who they are, or, if I know them only by name, I wonder why they've even friended me or how they even know me because we never shared even one word in school together. Seriously. They're mostly people I never, ever once talked to so I find myself wondering, how the heck do they know me? Is it just the same and they know me only by name? I'm the kind of person who sees no point in friending somebody if you know them only by name, so that might be the total of it there, I'm just weird that way and am putting way too much thought into something that's a null point. But it still puzzles me. I know Oprah Winfrey by name but I'm not going to go friending her like we're buddies. Ditto with my entire graduating class.
Anyway, though, as I said, I don't remember people by faces or names. I remember people by their actions. If somebody were to come up to me and say, "Hi, Rach, it's Chris, remember me?" I'll probably be like, "Er, no" (though I'll be too embarrassed to say it aloud, my lack of reply gives me away), but if he were to say, "I'm the one who left those weird notes in your textbook in literature class, remember?" I would be like, "Oh, NOW I remember you!" I associate names and faces with people, for the most part, only AFTER they've done something that makes them memorable to me as an individual. This probably comes from me putting so much emphasis on people meaning what they say, why I get so angry when people promise to do things and then don't. Despite being a writer I put a lot more stress on actions over words. Anybody can say, "Hi, remember me?" but few people can actually do something worth remembering. I don't look at faces, and names mean little to me without anything to go along with them, so until somebody does something memorable, they're just a faceless name to me. When you get as little out of life as I do, however, somebody else doesn't have to do something monumental to be remembered. I often remember people because of the tiniest things that they've probably long forgotten by now.
Seeing how almost all the people I really knew in real life have let me down over the years, I find it's easier to place faith in the people I know I have little chance, if any, of ever meeting again. Somebody can't let you down if you'll never see them again, if the total of your interactions with them are limited to just one point in time. I had the idea once, actually, to write imaginary letters to my old, long-lost friend Mya, because I valued our childhood friendship, I was lonely and wanted to chatter with somebody over old times, and I figured I stood little chance of ever meeting her again. Then lo and behold, she contacts me on Facebook and proves she no longer gives a crap about me, so that pretty much ruins those good memories. Most of the people I was once friends with have done this by now so I have few good memories left that aren't tainted by the fear that my friendship never meant much to these people at all. Seriously, if somebody's friendship meant as much to me as these people's did, I would not forget or brush them off so easily as they've done to me, so that rather tells me I didn't make nearly as much of a lasting impression on them as they did on me, and that hurts. It makes me wonder if we were ever really friends at all, since IMO, real friends don't just forget each other that way. They always leave SOME kind of permanent impression.
It seems the only people I can rely on never to let me down as all my friends have are those I met only once, briefly, and of course, I have no way of knowing if the impression they made on me went both ways. I often find myself wondering about these people who probably don't even remember me. The turtle girl is the one I think about the most. I wonder, what became of that little girl I befriended and played with for one afternoon out at the Black Lake campground, who I helped catch a snapping turtle in a net, which we then proudly paraded around? Does she remember me or ever think of me? What became of the man who, as I stood crying outside Wal-Mart following an argument with my mother, stopped long enough to murmur to me, "God loves you"? What became of the EMT-in-training from Dearborn who took my vital signs in Big Boy? What of the man talking to his friend about Glacial Lake Algonquin on my trip to Mackinac Island? What of the man who asked me about the Great Turtle in the casino lobby? Do any of these people remember me the way I remember them, do they ever wonder what became of that girl who helped them catch the turtle, who was crying outside Wal-Mart, who passed out in the restaurant, who knew about the glacial lake, who was standing looking down at the mosaic? Did I make a lasting impression on them as they made on me, or was I barely a temporary blip they've already forgotten? Do they sometimes wonder if I'm still out there and how I'm doing, or even who I am or what I'm like, what led up to the situations they met me in? Do they ever wonder if there's a way we could get in touch somehow, or would they even want to?
Once a long while back, I stupidly tried Googling such phrases as "black lake," "campground," and "snapping turtle" all at once in the dim hopes of finding, say, a blog entry posted by the girl who caught the snapping turtle while childhood camping with her family at Black Lake, to see if maybe she remembers me and wonders what became of that other girl. Of course, I found nothing. I wondered if the EMT-in-training had, perhaps, Twittered or Facebooked something about the girl whose vital signs he took in Big Boy, though I honestly have no way of knowing. And why would any of these people find these incidents to be worth remembering or commenting on? They all probably have much fuller lives than I do, so such incidents should be quite small and unimportant in the bigger scheme of things, but my life is quite small and unimportant, so I notice such small things, and have a lot of time in which to think about them. When you have very little in your life, of course you notice small things, and they seem much bigger than they seem to other people with bigger lives. (Hence why a failure to connect to the Internet will make most people grumble in irritation, whereas it'll make me scream and cry and will ruin the rest of my night and will lead to me dwelling on every other letdown in my entire life.) When your life is small, everything is magnified. Great importance is attached to things that most people would dismiss as trivial. Thus you're seen as histrionic, overly dramatic, making mountains out of molehills, but when your existence and importance is the size of a mole, can you really be faulted for seeing a molehill as anything lesser than a mountain?
Hence why my wondering over the impression I've made on people I've known for all of a few minutes, or an hour or so at most, strikes me as silly, a bunch of futile fantasizing about my (lack of) importance in others' lives. Why SHOULD any of these people think of or remember me by my actions? People who've known me for far longer forget about me pretty fast. I, however, remember them. And do keep hoping that somewhere out there there's somebody who, even though (especially though) they're no longer in touch with me, thinks about me and wonders who and how I am. I want somebody to remember me for what I've done. If it's somebody I'm in no way in touch with, then their interest in me is all the more sincere, since I'm not there to nag and nag and nag at them to think about me, the way I feel like I do with the people I am occasionally in touch with. I want people to think about me because they want to, not because I guilt them into it. Unfortunately, all I have to do is send a note saying, "Hi, I hope you're doing okay" and I feel like I've overdone it since of course I do that when I haven't heard from somebody in ages and I'm worrying that they've forgotten about me and that's the politest way to ask if that's so. I'm terribly manipulative, and I hate that I'm that way, but I know no other way to keep in touch with people. Probably why I never manage to stay in touch with people. People really don't like staying in touch if they get the feeling you're trying to guilt them into doing so. It just seems easier, even if lonelier, to simply keep to myself rather than try to be friends with people when all I ever feel is that I'm annoying them. That's it, what I'm trying to say in all these words. Just being friends with people feels like I'm being manipulative, since I feel that my presence and need for friendship is burdensome (and has been proven so by countless people in the past, if their silence and/or angry outbursts are any indication). I don't know how to be friends without being annoying, since every single thing about me is annoying, so I never have any clue what to do. Like nodding vehemently at the man in the casino lobby, hoping he'll take it as a sign of interest, fearing he's just taken it as a sign of irritation. I can't read people because I fear they can't read me.
Continued several days later. I can't even remember what I've already typed up. I have to confess, I set Hodgson aside because I want to read Lovecraftian fiction so much, so now I'm reading Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos and skipping any stories written by Lovecraft himself because I've read them before and intend to read them at some point in the future, it's time to see the stuff I haven't read yet. I think I now have all the Del Rey trade paperback editions of these works. Chaosium has an awful lot of books out though, many of them out of print and rather pricey, so that will take me quite a while. Right now I'm reading "The Shadow From The Steeple" by Robert Bloch, which was written as a followup to Lovecraft's "The Haunter Of The Dark," which was written as a followup to Bloch's "The Shambler From The Stars." Recall how I mentioned before how these writers formed a sort of "circle" (called the Lovecraft Circle, in this case) of people who corresponded regularly and swapped and used each other's characters and even wrote fictional versions of each other in their stories (both Lovecraft and Bloch in effect killed each other off in their respective stories). I never knew before recently just how much Lovecraft borrowed from these people he was in touch with. I haven't read much about Lovecraft's personal life, and feel I should refrain from doing so, for learning a lot about him as a person might spoil some of the enjoyment (I know he was incredibly racist, for one thing), so what I do know about him could be flawed; from what I've read here and there, though, he wasn't terribly social, but had this incredible network of friends he kept in touch with through the mail--he wrote thousands of letters--and I envy that so much. I read that only four people attended his funeral--I'm guessing relatives--but I believe this was because his friends didn't know about his illness so didn't have time to gather for something so sudden. One member of the circle, Bloch perhaps, maybe someone else, said something like, "After he died it kind of took the fun out of the whole thing," and went on to writing other types of stories. Bloch later became famous for Psycho, I believe.
So even though he obviously had a lot of friends and influence while alive, it looks like most of Lovecraft's popularity was achieved after he died. Witness Chaosium alone, for one thing.
That would be a dream come true, to be part of a "circle" devoted not to PUBLISH PUBLISH PUBLISH but just corresponding, sharing characters and stories and having fun. Most of the Lovecraft fiction I've read isn't high art but I get the sense the writers had lots of fun writing it and being part of that circle. It hasn't happened for me though, and not for a lack of trying. I guess my work just isn't captivating enough. By now I'm surprised when I can interest one person in reading more than one story of mine, much less in keeping anyone interested long term, at which I always fail. At least, if anyone does show more interest, they aren't that interested in keeping in touch--face it, how many people want to really correspond with somebody just because they enjoy their work? People would rather read and say nothing nowadays, if that. Even I've become this way, but not out of unwillingness to communicate--just out of being bitten too many times. I adored the early Egyptian work of that one girl online, but we lost touch, and by the time I tried to get back in touch, she was so busy she and her girlfriend both chewed me out (I kid you not, her GF butted in where she was totally ignorant of the situation, tore me a new one, and the girl I'd been writing to did nothing to clear things up or tell her it was none of her business, really mature to sic your significant other on somebody who was just trying to be friends!) for presuming to think I was so important as to be kept in touch with, so that really put a damper on me trying again. And that was one of the few times people bothered to reply, usually they don't. By now whenever I come across somebody's work and I really like it, I don't even bother contacting them, I just remind myself of the times I tried and tell myself to move on. So no circle is formed. A circle implies they'd have to be interested in my work in return anyway, which they usually aren't.
By now I've become almost too leery of talking about my work with anyone anyway, no matter how willing they seem, because it always seems to be the people who appear most interested in my work who lose interest the fastest. I can't count how many times somebody has contacted me and they were so effusive in their praise and interest, I could tell from their comments that they'd really read indepth, and it felt so good and I loved replying to them, but now I feel I have to make a point not to talk about my writing to anyone for fear of boring them off, even if they bring it up first. None of those effusive people stayed in touch more than a few e-mails. In fact almost every one of them, the last thing I heard was, "I'll write back soon, I can't wait to hear from you again!"...and that was it. I guess they could wait. Enough times of that happening and you kind of take the hint. Lovecraft must have gotten that now and again but he sure didn't get it EVERY time. It looks like he cultivated lots of literary friendships. Don't people do that anymore? Or is everyone too busy with themselves? All somebody on WDC has to do is become a moderator to forget I exist so I know I would never be in touch with anyone published. Not that I care about that--people not seeking publication are easier for me to chatter with--but just to be in a circle of likeminded people who are interested in me and I'm interested in them, and we play with each other's work, would be such fun. I wonder if anyone does that anymore or if you have to be famous for it to happen. Anyway, chattering about my work seems to be the common denominator in losing touch with people, so it's better not to do it, though that too puts a damper on communication since that's what I like to chatter about most.
All I can do is think that maybe when I'm dead, somebody will discover my work, and people will enjoy it then and make their own circle, maybe. All the easier since I'm not getting published so copyright wouldn't be as big a problem. The thing is, even Lovecraft was noticed in his time. I haven't really been noticed yet; who is there to notice me once I'm gone? I'm not exactly trumpeting my work anymore; gave that up long ago. Nobody seems to stumble upon things by chance anymore so I can't imagine anyone finding my work and making enough of a to-do about it that people finally notice. I've been posting it online for a decade now without luck, why should my death help matters? So...it was nice to hope that maybe once I'm gone, I'll at last be noticed, but that puts a damper on that hope. A decade without finding a lasting audience. I know my grammar and I know how to string a plot together but it can't be that wonderful after all. That's understandable, but I don't understand why people who write so much lousier, and who are so much more ungrateful to their readers, DO get all the attention they could hope for. 
I've become so used to keeping my mouth shut that even if I did get the audience I've longed for, by now I have no idea what to say to them. Every time I got my hopes up in the past they were shattered, so what's the difference now? All those other people who said they loved my work and they hoped to hear from me sounded sincere, but apparently weren't, or at least my work wasn't as captivating as they said it was.
*Two people who were in semi-regular correspondence with me and even started fanfics of my work, both disappeared and ignored me when they did briefly show up again.
*Two people who read and enjoyed my work and even drew art for it, one vanished without a trace, the other is the girl mentioned above who pretty much told me she was too busy and I am of no importance to her anymore and was stupid for thinking I was (that after she clearly promised to reply to me, then publicly posted to her journal that she was so lonely and bored, wouldn't people please mail her?).
*One guy who said my work "changed his life," even linking to it on his MySpace, and who wrote out a detailed "dream" he'd had about it (in reality probably a disguised fanfic), last I heard gave me a vague promise to reply and then never did. I believe he long ago removed the link, so much for changing his life.
*Another guy who did artwork inspired by my stories and really wanted to correspond about the subject matter, lost interest and disappeared. Friended me on Facebook but showed no interest in getting back in touch.
*At least one, probably more, people who replied to the sad note I'd appended to Part 100 of RTMI, claiming the story was great, and promised to get back to me with more, never did.
*Various people who were regularly or semi-regularly commenting on various stories of mine here at WDC, all of whom vanished (some are still onsite, just not interested anymore); once in a blue moon I'll get a comment from one along the lines of "I sure miss reading your work," and I think, "Well, it's STILL THERE, what's keeping you from reading it??" But I never bother replying anymore. One of them, too, friended me on Facebook, but seeing as she could never be bothered to actually correspond, I gave up. I'm tired of all the effort.
That's just the tip of it. There are many more I'm not mentioning, for that very reason, there are just so many I can't keep track of them anymore. And of course it gets so discouraging running down the sheer numbers of people I've bored off, not that much is ENcouraging nowadays, for every compliment I get promising to return to read more of my work all I can ever think anymore is, "Yeah, whatever, that's what everyone else has been saying the past decade, too." I really hate it when people promise to come read more of my work. Because I keep hoping they mean it, but they never do.
I'm nowhere near Lovecraft, but I know I'm capable of writing at least decently, better than many people who have legions of followers. I'm not keeping my work entirely to myself or where nobody can find it whatsoever. I finish a few things I start. I'm no literary giant but a lot of people have told me my work at least interests or entertains them. So I don't understand why it can't KEEP interesting them, or at least why I can't interest them, too. I get people who say they're interested in me, just not my work; and I'm betting there are some people who are interested in my work, just not in me; I wish I could find the ones who are interested in both. They seem to be mutually exclusive. OR...my work really is that boring, and people just think it looks good until they really get into it, so that's why I never hear from them again. I really can't think my writing is that good if nobody else thinks so. I'm tired of people telling me it's really good when they just lose interest a moment later. That's not good writing; good writing doesn't make you lose interest. I certainly wouldn't call somebody a really great writer if they kept me entertained for all of ten minutes. Why do other people do that?
I hate all this whining which always leads to the same spot--nowhere, with me feeling horrible that I've been so whiny--and I can't think of a decent way to segue out of it so I guess that's it. I've just gotten so sad and envious reading about this "Lovecraft Circle" that sounds like it would have been fabulous to take part in, and wish my own work could inspire people that way, even if only after my death. But it's bigheaded to think it would.
I have seen chickadees at last three times today, so that was nice.
My second procedure is scheduled for tomorrow (Wednesday), I believe; I wish I could hope it would help, but there has been absolutely no improvement since the last one. I don't see what good this medication is, how come it seems to help so many other people? All I feel is dreadfully tired all the time. I have no energy anymore. It's getting late and I should go and do some actual reading (because I see little point in actual writing lately), so I guess that's all, my apologies for the whining. Tar.
|
© Copyright 2010 Tehuti, Lord Of The Eight (UN: tehuti_88 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Tehuti, Lord Of The Eight has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
Click "Contact Me" to let me know what you think!
This page last updated 11/11/09. Still under construction so may change at any time.
|