Check It

A second post not two months after the first. If that isn't dedication, I do not know what it.

That was sarcasm, by the way.

Anyway, I thought, on top of my college school work, that I could participate in NaNoWriMo.  It was great for the first week and a half.  Then I had three papers due, a presentation to prepare for, and two books to read.  And so I fell behind.  And when you fall behind, you get fucked over up the ass. Hard.  I'm down by 6,000 words, but I can't just not finish now - I'm already 19,000 in the hole and that's hours of my life I'll never get back.

And I like my story, as well as my characters. 

Like Detective Sammy Wolfe, who has a bit of a major depressive, alcohol problem - while she's trying to catch the most notorious serial killer the Bay City region has ever seen.  Post-traumatic stress from the death of her husband leaves her cold and heartless to the outside world, as well as her inner world where she no longer feels emotions.  She's deathly afraid of psychiatrists - especially the one who works with the department from time to time - because she is afraid they can see through her and know how damaged she really is. 

Her partner, a whipped married man, Henry Kempis, tries to help all he can - but he never really knew what happened, as it happened before Wolfe came to the Bay City area.  Laid back and genial, he is the calm to her manic.

Then there is the psychiatrist, Thomas Zucker, who is a genius of almost incredible proportions.  He gets along with very few of the police, and surprisingly enough, he likes Wolfe in a purely platonic way.  He likes that she doesn't treat him with kid gloves - and actually listens when he has a smart idea. 

Thats it for now, but maybe later.

Can't wait for thanksgiving break and sleeping.

Obligatory First Post

I'm not entirely certain as to why I created a blog.  In theory, sure, its pretty sound - showcase some writings, rant about school, rant about people, rant about life in general, etc.  But in practice, I will most likely end up forgetting about this, though maybe I won't.

Maybe I'll end up actually posting every couple of weeks, maybe more often.  Maybe less.  Maybe I'll learn to articulate better, really express myself.  Maybe I'll actually have people who follow me, maybe they'll actually care what they read.  Maybe someone decides they like what they're reading, and maybe my style amuses them.  Maybe they're sympathetic to starving college students, who know that they'll never really use their creative writing degrees.  Maybe I'm not really wasting my life, and maybe I'll publish one of my books.

Or maybe nobody ends up reading this.  Maybe day after day, I will forget to post, people will forget to read.  Maybe I'm just deluding myself into thinking this is something I can really do, maybe one can't make a living being creative.  Maybe I fall deeper and deeper into depression, writing more and more, less and less, until I make the decision.  Maybe I can't cut it as a writer, maybe I've just been deluding myself these many years.

Maybe, just maybe, I can continue with what I've started.  Maybe there's a possibility for something greater.  Maybe there's a chance.

Maybe I'll fail.

Maybe I won't.