#20min1day

[grapecaseschoices]

i cannot stand writing. i really can't. it is such a tedious and monotonous and boring ass task. what is the use of this skill. what is the purpose. my mom used to always say, "'people will say Thy Will be done' but then turn around and say, 'why me Lord?'" and far be it from me to question the skill God wanted to sprinkle upon me but --

i can't help and be like. you know. if you're taking suggestions. paying the piano might have been more helpful. learning to draw might have been more useful. because i feel those are more definitive. you can be like 'oh dang i didnt do that well' or 'oh dang let me practice this technique to improve'. but the technique to improve writing is to ... write more. BITCH. bitch. that is so annoying. and how do i know if i did it well. i don't. not solely because i am personally the worst person to judge my own writing. do i ask others? do i trust them? but beyond that. beyond that what is the standard for judging writing. how do you know if a writing is GOOD or mediocre or BAD. how do you know if you're iMPROVING or becoming WORST.

is there a standard? there really can't be. because i suppose technically there could be ... but i still don't think that is much of a measurement. maybe it is because im the outside looking in -- but i feel the measurement is clearer for other artistic endeavors. it is also because im in the inside, im too close. i cannot see the forest for the trees, perhaps. and that is why writing feels just like a slop some days, the luck of the draw is what merits what is good or bad or mediocre. can you believe i was in AP english? roflmao. i cant. i cant even remember what i learned there.

is it because i am not excited by writing anymore? i am excited by creating. not writing. but my creations have things to say, how else do i get that out there?

i am tempted to just delete this. i wish i could lock this just for myself but also show that yeah i did my 20 minutes. bc i do still want to have it counted. however, maybe it is best to ---

anyway, i probably needed to get this out. or i definitely did. i legit have seven minutes left and complaining for seven more minutes feels self important.

i do still have a fondness for writing. i dont know if it is a nostalgic fondness or under the mire, i still love it. did i ever really love it? i think i did. i think i was braver then though.

how do i get back into my roots? it was poetry. rofl. lmao. i keep thinking about getting back into poetry. but i dont think i was ever terribly good ... but people liked it. so i guess that counts for something.

i suppose that is both my curse and my boon. people somehow for some reason supposedly ... this really is getting to be self important.

sigh. four more minutes

what can i pick from this to use in future works? i like the pacing. i dont think my sentences are entirely that strong but i seem to have better pacing with my sentences here than when i am writing writing. i wonder why. i suppose that is the point of this endeavor. to figure it out.

i do feel better for letting this all out though.

i hope no one reasons this. but i also do roflmao.

i am terribly ... something. not as self aware as i like to pretend. and alas perhaps this too is my grand error.

one minute.

[grapecaseschoices]

I looked out toward the vast stretches of snow. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was already fixing itself to settle into the horizon; and in its rest it left what resembled twinkling crystals embedded in a mixture of pure white (the fresh snow) and greyish (the old, dirty sludge) marble.

I could admit to myself that it was absolutely breathtaking. I couldn’t begrudge myself – much – the pleasure of the sight; however, I didn’t allow myself to linger. I knew if Gareth or his mother caught me “gawping” at “everyday nature” like the “mountain-life neophyte from the Big City” they would never let me down.

In fact, I couldn’t help wonder if I was too late in avoiding their smugness when I felt a tight, heavy stare at the back of my head. It was enough to make the hairs on my neck stand on end. Quickly, on my feet clad with too big socks, I spun around to catch my voyeur. Of course, not without hip checking the chair to my left — hard. And having to windmill or wiggle or whatever weird mood I had to do with my shoulders to keep me from falling back on my butt. Of course. 

Ugh. Stupid Gareth. Stupid Gareth and this out of nowhere inn, or “bed and breakfast” – that hardly had any comfortable beds and served breakfast at the most inhumane times – that was a few miles away from an icy road that led to a huge slope that was split by a huge tree. Stupid Gareth and his stupid tree that had to insult to injury by snow all over her things and … I couldn’t even think about it. 

Not just because I didn’t want to but because I had to leap to the right to avoid Stupid Gareth’s stupid creepy dog. 

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more like 17 minutes today. but i really wasnt gonna do anything. then i figured i was just gonna ramble about storylines I wanted to do either in general, one day. or for my sim city chars. but then i was like let's try writing in a different perspective. so first person it is. i think it started going okay until like the second half of last paragraph, and the last bit. but alas. at least i wrote. idefk what i wrote lmao. like there was no thought beyond 'remember this is first person' and 'don't over do it with the descriptions' and 'action > stream of consciousness'. which i suppose is thoughts and intent.

[grapecaseschoices]

“I see knockin’ ain’t your forte, huh?”

“Shut up. Just. Shut up. Please.”

“An’ neither’re manners. Sit your behind down an’ I’ll get started on fixin’ this mess of yours.”

“This! Ha. Ha. This is why I wanted you to – I knew it would be only a matter of time before you were smug.”

“Hm.”

“No. Come on. Surely, there is more to it than that. Go on. Let it all out. Let out all those ‘I told you so’s, since we both know my pleading means nothing. I simply wanted you to not … Go ahead.”

“Did mine?”

“Wha - Did yours what?”

“Did my pleadin’ mean much to you? Hm. I guess not right? Whatever.”

“That is not what happened. Do – Do not – ! You. You did not plead! You went over my head. You were hypocritical and cruel and mean and … and –”

“Mean an’ cruel are basically the same. Anyway, you plan on sittin’ down anytime soon or you gonna curse my name ‘til you pus out all over my newly waxed floors?”

“I am so – You are the most fatiguing individual I have ever met, Kendis.”

“An’ yet you’re here. Needin’ my help.”

“Yes. Well, yes, it is not as if I have very much choice in the matter. You – ! You are …”

“I’m the only one ‘with knowledge regarding my dire circumstances’. Yeah, I know. Just me an’ your rat-shittin’ bosses, yeah? So, maybe you should remember that the next time you come to me with attitude.”

“You cannot deny me care. You have an oath.”

“No, babe. Doctor’s have oaths. I’m a former EMT that knows things. I ain’t gotta promise you nothin’. But don’t you worry. I’ll be so, so sweet an’ gentle while you’re pussin’ all over my new coach.”

“It is not pus!”

“Kid, you’ve got sulfer yellow lookin’ ooze comin’ out a gash on your stomach. It’s pus. Now. Sit. Down.”

“Ahh — shit! Ow! You did not have to sho –”

“But I’m mean an’ cruel. What else was I gonna do when you weren’t listenin’?” 

“I should have taken my chances with the – the – the med – Mr. Rosen downstairs.”

“Pfft. You can’t even call that quack a medic. Please, hate me all you want but you ain’t gotta lie on top of that to try an’ hurt my pride.”

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honestly: 16 minutes done. i couldn't think of more -- or well, i could but it wouldve devolved into nitpicking

i don't think this is the type of snippet that should be dialogue only. but it came out that way. kendis weirdly feels rusty even tho i was just writing them like a month ago. or maybe not. i decided this is kendis bishop. a little more country, a little less aave and pop culture. tho definitely still with kendis' unique way of saying things.

[grapecaseschoices]

He pressed his closed eyes even tighter together as he came to with a rush of nausea pressing against his chest. It took several swallows not to give into the desire to empty his stomach. Yet despite his best effort, his discomfort and anxiety made a burning path up his throat that he had to forcibly cough back down — once … twice … it was on the third time that he managed to slowly catch deep, sharp breaths through his nose. 

His eyes remained shut as he tried to catch his bearings. More accurately they were glued shut. A mixture of grit and fear kept them in the same position. If he could, he would have done his best to keep his gaze shut from the world around him but his body refused to comply with his wishes. And he, Sylvestro Barnes, knew that no amount of ignoring the person who had dragged him into this situation would cause the other person to lose patience. The bastard had waited him out before, there was no way he wouldn’t have issue waiting for Sylvestro now that the other man had him right under his thumb.

He trembled at the thought. 

No. No, his chances at survival were better if he faced this head on, he thought as his eyes refused to tolerate the burning sensation that pressed into every corner of them; a mixture of the desire to cry and having had them closed for some time probably. They were dry. And they blurred as his eyes attempted to focus.

He swallowed again. 

They said that – Sylvestro had heard this from one of the boys that worked for him at the shop, a loud little punk named Yusuf, that when one of the senses were out the others made up for it. But he felt like that had to be wrong. Or maybe it was because forcefully made to be out of it; however, as he opened his eyes it was as if everything hit him at once. An overwhelming force of sensations.

His mouth tasted like a rat’s ass. 

And the scent of … Sylvestro couldn’t immediately place it but it was familiar. It made him think of the backrooms of his grandfather’s businesses and the photographs of his father’s father’s father and his before him. Old and .. no, no. Old wasn’t the right word. But nitpicking over scents wasn’t something that he actually had time for.

Still, due to it the scent of burning fell around him more significantly, like a suffocating hug; like something that should have been comforting but that he didn’t want. At all.

Sylvestro blinked again. His dry eyes began to make out shapes even though they were hazy at the edges and languid at the center. He could pick out

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THIS might mean something. it definitely would need polishing though. I tried to pace as I wrote, like alternate length of sentences but the last few paragraphs were too wordy. Even for me. There are a couple that need to be more active voice [reminder to self. And also that I had wanted to do something for Andy with this. But maybe not? Hm.] I think having something like this more thoughts than action makes sense vs the other one I did yesterday. But maybe I'm being unfair to myself lmao. Any how. JUST IN TIME RT5E4W lmao.

actually didnt think this would be more than a few sentences so im pleased. i was lamenting :-D

[grapecaseschoices]

Each morning for the past two months had started the same way — in a shadow. The sky presented itself with dark clouds, a haunting slate grey of a skyline. The trees, houses, and the surroundings seemed to melt against the horizon like charcoal smudged against the fragile sketching paper.

Fragile. 

Yes, fragile was a good word for it … it was the best way to describe the weather that couldn’t decide if it wanted to burst into rain or keep them stranded in this humid, suffocating greyness. It was the best way to describe the careful way people in town maneuvered themselves through surroundings that had reluctantly become their new status quo. 

Shannon Prospere felt it getting to her too. She had never been one to put much stock in an environment that could shift the mood and the ways of its people. Perhaps that was rude of her. Maybe it was unfair. However, she’d always thought it was an excuse of the weaker willed. She had grown up in a terrible environment. And she had left it with her head high. She had left it with her wits and her will to make a name for herself.

She had left it so long ago and that led to her forgetting. She had forgotten that as bogged down as she had been in her uncle’s house, in that town, that the sun always came shining through in the day to greet her.

Shannon felt - if she may be dramatic - she had forgotten what the sun had looked like. Shannon felt that, perhaps, she should have given her editor’s advice some consideration — perhaps if she had placed more merit on superstitions and ~vibes~ and the ‘impactful influence of weather on a person’s mood’ she would have mindfully heeded the advice to stay clear of Wayhaven.

Or, she at the very least, wouldn’t have thought that staying in this old, dilapidated building with no air conditioner and terrible lighting was a ‘quaint’ idea. 

She lamented the arrogant foolishness of the Shannon of yestermonth. However, she couldn’t afford to spend any more time lamenting. Nothing would be gained from her melting into the bed of the inn she was staying in. 

She closed her eyes against the sticky, darkness outside her window that beckoned her to give into the desire to stay still and waste her days away, languid and in yearning for coolness. Instead, she reveled in the pitch black of her closed eyelids and tried to find the zest that had whirlwinded her through life. 

“Aaaaaand …. Hup!” She stretched her arms out above her and tried to propel herself into a sitting position. But she felt like crumbling crepe paper.

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This is crap. I couldn't decide what to do and ended up spewing this as the day got darker. I would like to work on just getting out my head and writing 20 minutes straight. I paused too many times. I may freeform next time, or maybe for the next week. Just ramble until i feel less self-conscious?

I don't know if I will continue this. I probably won't because it just popped out of nowhere and I refuse to further consider it roflmao. Note to self, I need to ... or rather WANT to work on less stream of consciousness and balance thought/action.