Hello wonderful readers, I'm on the cusp of the second half of the year, and I realise I haven't posted in months (I am pretty active on Instagram if anyone wants to follow me in my day to day life. Lots of pictures of my fur babies). So, I thought I'd talk about the books that I've read and loved in the first half of 2014. Currently, I'm sitting at 77 books read, but quite a few of them didn't really move me all that much.
Monday, 30 June 2014
Tuesday, 27 May 2014
I really need to post more often...
Dang, I haven't been here in ages. And I hate knowing that I've neglected this blog.
So, what have I been up to since January? Not much, really.
Started my last year of uni, with some classes that don't feel relevant to writing at all. But I did have to get myself an internship for one of my classes, and that worked out great. I got an internship at Little Raven Publishing, a small Australian-based erotic publisher, which was super fun. Something nice to add to my writer's resume. In the long run, I hope to get a job in the publishing industry.
So, what have I been up to since January? Not much, really.
~
Started my last year of uni, with some classes that don't feel relevant to writing at all. But I did have to get myself an internship for one of my classes, and that worked out great. I got an internship at Little Raven Publishing, a small Australian-based erotic publisher, which was super fun. Something nice to add to my writer's resume. In the long run, I hope to get a job in the publishing industry.
~
Got diagnosed with bipolar disorder and OCD, and finally got treatment for it, which is, like, the best thing ever. My mood swings haven't been quite as intense, and it makes it easier for me to find the motivation to do more that just lie in bed with a book on my face and a dog on my legs, day after day.
Unfortunately, one of the side effects I've been getting is intense vertigo every time I stand up, but it's so worth it.
~
 |
| I guess you could say I'm the bees knees |
Got another tattoo, and they're my favourite ones yet. Lately I've been really passionate about gardening and flowers, and the importance of bees. Also, it shows my love for puns.
~
Officially came out as pansexual to my peers, which may have been the scariest, yet most exhilarating thing I've ever done. I don't think I've ever felt prouder of myself, and relieved at all the positivity gained from it.
~
Started plans for a new novel, and all I'm going to say about it for now is that it's a modern retelling of The Snow Queen, with mermaids, a guest appearance of Cthulhu, a damsel saving her knight in distress, and no love triangles whatsoever. More details to come as I go through it.
~
And, saving the best for last, my family has grown by two!
Meet Selina and Luna!
They already get along so well with Layla, in fact, Luna just adores Layla, and loves grooming and bopping her on the nose, as pictured.
So, that's been my life for the last few months. I hope I can post more frequently than before. Maybe at least once a month like I used to, at least a book haul or what I've read for the month, that sort of thing.
See ya next time!
Sunday, 2 February 2014
January Book Haul
Books read in January
This was a difficult month for me. I didn't get many books read, only 10, 3 of which were graphic novels.
It being the middle of summer, we've had weeks where doing anything but lying comatose in front of the air con was unbearable, with temperatures exceeding 40 degrees (Celsius, for all you American readers. You have the polar vortex, and we have Summerpocalypse.). And at the same time, depression got in the way, making it difficult to want to pick up books, even if they're wonderful and make me feel good. I just felt so apathetic about it all.
But whatever, we're here to talk about books, aren't we?
It being the middle of summer, we've had weeks where doing anything but lying comatose in front of the air con was unbearable, with temperatures exceeding 40 degrees (Celsius, for all you American readers. You have the polar vortex, and we have Summerpocalypse.). And at the same time, depression got in the way, making it difficult to want to pick up books, even if they're wonderful and make me feel good. I just felt so apathetic about it all.
But whatever, we're here to talk about books, aren't we?
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Are Comics Real Books?
Ah, the great question. When I was in school, teachers would always tell off anyone who brought comics or graphic novels to silent reading time. "They're not books!" they would exclaim.
Aren't they?
They have words. They have a story, characters, conflict. They inflict a painful amount of feels at times. They discuss issues.
Is it that they have pictures that makes them not worthy of being called books?
To me, it seems snobby to claim that graphic novels don't count in literature.
Becky Cloonan has written a trilogy of sorts, The Ink and Thunder series, and each issue is a one-shot. They're carefully crafted, written, illustrated and inked by Becky herself. And I would call them literary-fantasy crossovers. There's a lot of hidden things in her work, imagery, symbolism, everything you'd find in a regular book.
I dare you to check them out. Each issue is only 99 cents on comixology.
So, what do you think about comics as books? Goodreads thankfully counts comics as books towards my yearly reading goal, since I've slowly started reading more comics than books lately.
Aren't they?
They have words. They have a story, characters, conflict. They inflict a painful amount of feels at times. They discuss issues.
Is it that they have pictures that makes them not worthy of being called books?
To me, it seems snobby to claim that graphic novels don't count in literature.
Becky Cloonan has written a trilogy of sorts, The Ink and Thunder series, and each issue is a one-shot. They're carefully crafted, written, illustrated and inked by Becky herself. And I would call them literary-fantasy crossovers. There's a lot of hidden things in her work, imagery, symbolism, everything you'd find in a regular book.
I dare you to check them out. Each issue is only 99 cents on comixology.
So, what do you think about comics as books? Goodreads thankfully counts comics as books towards my yearly reading goal, since I've slowly started reading more comics than books lately.
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
A quick post to let you know that I'm not dead, and what I've been obsessing with lately
Apologies for not posting in several months. Especially after that last post wherein I talked in verbatim about my depression. I hope no one thought I'd pulled an Allie Brosh (her several months-long hiatus on Hyperbole and a Half, with no warning, after her own post on depression was an extremely worrying time for me.)
But I've been getting better. I think. My feelings have been going up and down, as to be expected with mental illnesses. But I've been dealing with it. I've made a new friend in my course, who quickly turned into my best friend. And this best friend introduced me to superheroes.
Now, I've read some comics before. I'd read the first 100-something issues of Fables, before getting sick of the convoluted, meandering plot. Ditto with The Walking Dead. But I'd found it difficult to get into superhero comics, mainly because, well, I found the Batman universe uninteresting and too male-angsty for me (Oh, Chris Nolan, please tone down the angst), just to name one example, and the comic community is severely anti-woman, as I've encountered.
But after reading some comics that he forced onto me (I completely recommend Loeb's Hush, Tomasi's Batman and Robin run (up until Damian dies), Simone's Brids of Prey run, and Dini's Gotham City Sirens run), I've become so in love with the feels that the superheroes give me.
So, I've decided, since I can't think about anything else, that I'll post a few things on various topics regarding comics.
Next post, which should be up within a few days, will be all about the disdain some people have for comics, and how they sometimes don't see comics and graphic novels as real literature, and how they're not real books.
I'll also be discussing feminism in comics (with a lot of vitriol at the New 52 Wonder Woman, and just Wonder Woman's current situation).
After that, I'll talk about writing in comics, which, as a novelist, I've discovered is incredibly ruthlessly difficult to grasp, but super incredibly fun.
I hope that this will help me keep consistent in posting often, and that I can rant happily about my new passions, and maybe even educate people.
But I've been getting better. I think. My feelings have been going up and down, as to be expected with mental illnesses. But I've been dealing with it. I've made a new friend in my course, who quickly turned into my best friend. And this best friend introduced me to superheroes.
Now, I've read some comics before. I'd read the first 100-something issues of Fables, before getting sick of the convoluted, meandering plot. Ditto with The Walking Dead. But I'd found it difficult to get into superhero comics, mainly because, well, I found the Batman universe uninteresting and too male-angsty for me (Oh, Chris Nolan, please tone down the angst), just to name one example, and the comic community is severely anti-woman, as I've encountered.
But after reading some comics that he forced onto me (I completely recommend Loeb's Hush, Tomasi's Batman and Robin run (up until Damian dies), Simone's Brids of Prey run, and Dini's Gotham City Sirens run), I've become so in love with the feels that the superheroes give me.
So, I've decided, since I can't think about anything else, that I'll post a few things on various topics regarding comics.
Next post, which should be up within a few days, will be all about the disdain some people have for comics, and how they sometimes don't see comics and graphic novels as real literature, and how they're not real books.
I'll also be discussing feminism in comics (with a lot of vitriol at the New 52 Wonder Woman, and just Wonder Woman's current situation).
After that, I'll talk about writing in comics, which, as a novelist, I've discovered is incredibly ruthlessly difficult to grasp, but super incredibly fun.
I hope that this will help me keep consistent in posting often, and that I can rant happily about my new passions, and maybe even educate people.
Thursday, 9 May 2013
Art and Insanity
It's become this thing to associate artists with mental illnesses. Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, David Foster Wallace, Ernest Hemmingway (just to name a few) are all writers who committed suicide. Heck, there's even a wikipedia page on the link between creativity and mental illness.
Mental illness is something I think about often, since I suffer from quite a few different problems: anxiety, depression, and OCD. Who knows what other illnesses I might be harbouring in that brain of mine.
As much as I hate to say it, as a result of this connection between art and insanity, it makes me think of death in a very personal manner. Not in a "I think about killing myself" way (although, when the depression gets really bad, I suppose I can't help but think like that), but it makes me think of how torturous the life of an artist must be, that the mind breaks in such a way.
It's taken me two months to write this post. Sometimes, I delete every single word, because I worry it's too personal, and nobody wants to hear me whining about how sucky my life is. It's so difficult to put my thoughts down, to create something I feel happy with. I haven't written anything in ages. I find myself empty and lost when I try to conjure up some words. I feel like a failure when I can't produce perfection.
I've been skipping school a lot lately. I know I said I'd cut back on skipping classes, but these past few weeks, when I wake up, I just can't get out of bed. I dread facing the day ahead of me. The mere thought of being surrounded by hundreds of people in the city haunts me. So I just hide in my bed and wait for the feeling to pass.
It never does.
My doctor upped my antidepressant dose. It used to be 75mg, but my anxiety had begun to manifest in the form of stomach pains every time I ate, so now my meds are at 150mg. The side effects are annoying. I feel buzzed sometimes, as if my brain isn't really my brain. I space out sometimes. If I take my meds without any food, then I get so nauseous that I feel like I could throw up, but instead of throwing up, I sneeze.
I've been trying so hard to find a therapist, but it's near impossible to find affordable mental health care. And I need someone suited for my needs. My last therapist was great, but she flat out told me that she doesn't know how to deal with anxiety that manifests as OCD. How am I supposed to get better if the government basically doesn't want me to?
My passion for anything has diminished. I don't find absolute joy in writing anymore. I can't even lose myself in a book, and forget about the world around me, and my problems. I don't hang out with my friends because a part of me, the depressed part of me, tells me that I probably won't have any fun, that I'll be too busy worrying about everything to have fun.
I'm slowly punishing my body for having anxiety. I have a form of OCD called dermatillomania, which is essentially a compulsion to pick at the skin. As a result, my arms, shoulders, face and scalp are covered in sores and scabs. I have near-premanent semi-circles under my nails, of blood that's dried from red to brown to black.
I can't wear clothes that show my upper arms or back, because I'm terrified of people seeing the scars and the sores. I'm terrified of what they'll think of me. And it just makes me pick more and more.
On cold days, the scars on my wrists are so purple against my ghost-pale skin. It makes them so much more visible. I used to be so terrified that people would see them. One of my friends freaked out when she saw them. It made me feel like I'd done something bad. But it's so hard to hide them. I can't wear jumpers and long sleeved-shirts forever. I wish someone would just tell me that having these scars isn't such a big deal, and that I'm not weak for wanting to cut.
The nails on my left hand are warped from the way I chew and pick at them. I don't often pick with my right hand, nor do I chew on that hand, so the nails are long and strong. Healthy.
For uni, I had to write about a body part, and I wrote about my skin. I wrote about the hate I have for my dermatillomania, for the anxiety that makes me pick. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to write. This is just as hard.
It's so hard to talk to people about this, simply because for the most part, they don't understand it. I've had so many people tell me to get over it, that I'm just overreacting, that I just need to cheer up, as if it were as simple as that. It just results in me feeling even more broken, because if it's that easy for other people, then why am I struggling so hard? Why can't I just snap my fingers and magically be happy again?
I guess this is why this post exists: so I can get things off my chest before I explode and do something irrational and stupid and possibly dangerous. This is very much a cry for attention and a cry for help. I do in fact want people to reach out to me. I mean, who doesn't?
It's nice to feel wanted and loved every once in a while.
I feel like I am a worthless human being right now. Because writing is the only thing I feel like I'm good at, the only thing I live for. But if I can't write, if I'm too mentally broken to write, where does that leave me?
Mental illness is something I think about often, since I suffer from quite a few different problems: anxiety, depression, and OCD. Who knows what other illnesses I might be harbouring in that brain of mine.
As much as I hate to say it, as a result of this connection between art and insanity, it makes me think of death in a very personal manner. Not in a "I think about killing myself" way (although, when the depression gets really bad, I suppose I can't help but think like that), but it makes me think of how torturous the life of an artist must be, that the mind breaks in such a way.
~
It's taken me two months to write this post. Sometimes, I delete every single word, because I worry it's too personal, and nobody wants to hear me whining about how sucky my life is. It's so difficult to put my thoughts down, to create something I feel happy with. I haven't written anything in ages. I find myself empty and lost when I try to conjure up some words. I feel like a failure when I can't produce perfection.
~
I've been skipping school a lot lately. I know I said I'd cut back on skipping classes, but these past few weeks, when I wake up, I just can't get out of bed. I dread facing the day ahead of me. The mere thought of being surrounded by hundreds of people in the city haunts me. So I just hide in my bed and wait for the feeling to pass.
It never does.
~
I've been trying so hard to find a therapist, but it's near impossible to find affordable mental health care. And I need someone suited for my needs. My last therapist was great, but she flat out told me that she doesn't know how to deal with anxiety that manifests as OCD. How am I supposed to get better if the government basically doesn't want me to?
~
My passion for anything has diminished. I don't find absolute joy in writing anymore. I can't even lose myself in a book, and forget about the world around me, and my problems. I don't hang out with my friends because a part of me, the depressed part of me, tells me that I probably won't have any fun, that I'll be too busy worrying about everything to have fun.
~
I'm slowly punishing my body for having anxiety. I have a form of OCD called dermatillomania, which is essentially a compulsion to pick at the skin. As a result, my arms, shoulders, face and scalp are covered in sores and scabs. I have near-premanent semi-circles under my nails, of blood that's dried from red to brown to black.
I can't wear clothes that show my upper arms or back, because I'm terrified of people seeing the scars and the sores. I'm terrified of what they'll think of me. And it just makes me pick more and more.
On cold days, the scars on my wrists are so purple against my ghost-pale skin. It makes them so much more visible. I used to be so terrified that people would see them. One of my friends freaked out when she saw them. It made me feel like I'd done something bad. But it's so hard to hide them. I can't wear jumpers and long sleeved-shirts forever. I wish someone would just tell me that having these scars isn't such a big deal, and that I'm not weak for wanting to cut.
~
The nails on my left hand are warped from the way I chew and pick at them. I don't often pick with my right hand, nor do I chew on that hand, so the nails are long and strong. Healthy.
~
For uni, I had to write about a body part, and I wrote about my skin. I wrote about the hate I have for my dermatillomania, for the anxiety that makes me pick. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to write. This is just as hard.
~
It's so hard to talk to people about this, simply because for the most part, they don't understand it. I've had so many people tell me to get over it, that I'm just overreacting, that I just need to cheer up, as if it were as simple as that. It just results in me feeling even more broken, because if it's that easy for other people, then why am I struggling so hard? Why can't I just snap my fingers and magically be happy again?
I guess this is why this post exists: so I can get things off my chest before I explode and do something irrational and stupid and possibly dangerous. This is very much a cry for attention and a cry for help. I do in fact want people to reach out to me. I mean, who doesn't?
It's nice to feel wanted and loved every once in a while.
~
I feel like I am a worthless human being right now. Because writing is the only thing I feel like I'm good at, the only thing I live for. But if I can't write, if I'm too mentally broken to write, where does that leave me?
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