Who We Are

That title is not only for this blog post, but it's also the current working title of my (what was) SAVING PAIGES rewrite. Switch the arrangement around and you get Who Are We?

My new rewrite is about delving into yourself, looking for those dark corners and how they affect your life. It's about everything a person is in their entirety; the good, the bad, the recovering, the sensitivity. In it, a strong friendship crumbles because neither person can confide in the other about who they really are. Or, rather, one is very honest in all her flaws and the other can't speak a thought unless it is clear to them. When it fails to become clear, they harbor the bad feelings, causing a rift in the friendship. As I've mentioned, this story of the friends comes from a personal place, but this story is also prompting me to look inside myself as a person.

Here is the answer that I've found: I do not know who I am, what I like, how I write. I'm composed of everything around me and not just in the casual inspiration sort of way. Sometimes, when I'm shopping, I've tried to adopt other people's personalities into my own that I don't even know what I like. I'll cut my hair because some famous Instagram girl has, and then I'll spend months growing it out because another account has done so. Everything is so jumbled up in this brain.

I have a favourite kpop group called BTS and they launched a UNICEF campaign about Loving Yourself, released an album about self love and I, a person who has never been content with any aspect of myself, felt like I could benefit from that sort of concept. But then it occured to me in the deepest of guilt waves over this last week: I cannot love myself because I don't know who I am. Even in the smallest writing senses of adopting the writing style of whatever book I last read, I alter my style. Somehow, it never feels like growth. It feels like I'm lost in wanting to be everyone around me because I don't enjoy any remnants of myself that's left.

I had a Thing with my friend this last week, involving how a lot of myself has come from her. A little beyond inspiration. It's became a heavy, unhealthy dependence that I could never open up about. It only came to light when what I was doing got to her so much that she had to make me aware that she knew. This last week I've been trying to work out how to deal with the guilt of copying another person's look, often trying to mirror it, and how that affects them. I haven't worked that out yet, but each time I glance at my reflection now, I keep wondering how the hell I am because I don't know. I've lost myself so wholly that I don't even know my favourite colour is anymore. I wear pink because others that I admire wear pink when I don't even like the colour all that much. I wear hooped earrings now because it fits an aesthetic I want but don't own when, for years, I laughed at people for having hoops hanging out their earlobes.

About a year ago, I threw out a lot of old clothes, reminders of how I failed to know how to compose my appearance. During that time, I got a lot of comments about things I couldn't necessarily change, or wasn't ready to. I took those comments on-board to an unhealthy degree and began to think, "If I look like the people making these comments, how can I go wrong?" I took large snippets of my friends' looks--even people I don't know on Instagram, I will obsessively search to find the same aesthetic that they own and I just look silly copying--buried everything I was, and tried to rebirth myself, as such.

In a sense, it worked. I got more compliments from people who didn't know what I was doing, the fraud I felt like. I tried to make every look I did my own, tried to pass it off as my original when it wasn't. It was always a copy, and again, not in a harmless inspired way. I was going to unhealthy extremes to copy off someone's outfit, their makeup design, generally making every time I looked at something toxic.

Writing WHO WE ARE is forcing me to do a lot of self-reflection, to forgive my broken brain for not ever being happy with everything Bryony (and Shane) Reid is. It's forcing me to accept recovery, to style my hair in a particular way because I like it, and not veer towards another style because it's what someone else sports. When I write contemporary stories, it's always to work through a personal issue. When I began this story, I thought it was to get over the heartbreak a friendship brought. Now, I've realised it might be to get over myself. To get over this constant lack of "not good enough" feeling I have. Why am I, in myself, not good enough for me? I don't know why my mind thinks I'm not good enough until I look like someone else, until I adopt their mannerisms and ways and speech. That's my own issue and I need to stop putting it on others and causing them to form problems through it, because I have.

WHO WE ARE is a book that highlights the differences between friends and how those differences can exist in harmony until they become toxic. I am trying to rediscover my differences and embrace them once more rather than try to fit myself into moulds already taken shape. Moulds that aren't mine to fill. In this story, there are several important characters: there's Nina, who is suffering. There's Beth, who has suffered, still suffers when the bad hits, but helps Nina find the brighter side. There's Simon, who has recovered and endures the occasional knock-backs but he tries to simplify everything when Nina's anxious brain spirals it out of proportion. She has irrational thinking: she's upset her friend once and Oh, God, her friend is going to leave her forever. She makes one mistake in an assignment: wow! She is going to fail college! That sort of thing. WHO WE ARE is the emotional journey of Nina rationalising her thoughts and growing emotionally as a person and accepting herself for being different to her best friend.

I'm not entirely sure when it will be published as I'm still self-publishing this story, but I can't wait to share it with you all, and hopefully come out as a better person on the other end. <3

What's Happening With Shane's* Book?

* Shane is the social media writing name I prefer, although I will be publishing under the name Bryony Reid due to further recognition.

It's been an AGE since I've posted on here. I thought I'd reinvent my blogger presence by updating on my writing life over the past few months.

Some time in August, I knew I needed a win. My day job was weighing me down (as it continues to do but heyho, it's 2018, we're expected to earn a wage, even if it mentally kills us off amiright!), my social life is a lil' bit in tatters, and I was generally feeling lost again. I had a story saved, one that came from a very deep, broken place in my heart about platonic friends that suffer a break-up, so to speak. After much deliberation, I decided I wanted to self-publish again. I got in touch with self-published authors, got lots of advice, and decided this was where I wanted to take myself. I wanted to be in control.

That book was called SAVING PAIGES and I pretty much announced it to the world. I was proud; I had news, I had a beautiful book that had already been called "profound". I hired an editor and shared my story, willing to take any and every piece of advice she gave me. I'd be self-publishing alone; I needed all the professional eyes I could get. I set a publication date (20/12/2018). I found a sort of social media theme. I put myself on Goodreads.

And then.

At first, I would have called it "Disaster Strikes", but after much rational thought, I'm calling it the "Thankful Realisation". My editorial letter came through on SAVING PAIGES. I had a good story but I didn't have the logistics. I didn't have a secure plot to follow. Everything in there was too much Me and not enough Fiction. Remember when I said the story came from a deep, broken place? I put unfiltered thoughts and content in, and my editor gave me a few reality hits. (Ones that made me realise things about my own self). She made me realise there was not near enough to my main character, not near enough to the actual story. She suggested a big replot, and at first, I genuinely wallowed. This was a story I had already spent so much time drafting and editing--now I'd have to go through it all again? The point of me self-publishing was to take control, was to give myself something to hold and cheer myself on for, and I felt like it left me.

On a side note, I'm trying to rationalise all my thoughts as of late. I'm trying to be less sensitive, to laugh things off, to be a lighter, happier, better me. So I took time out to go through this editorial letter, to look at it from the correct angle: my editor is not trying to ruin my dreams but help me achieve the best story I could create. I deliberated, wrote down everything that didn't work well within my story, let myself know why, and resolved to recreate.

I won't have a book for December now, I don't think. It will be some sort of miracle if I do! That's the hardest to come to terms with. I can rewrite a book, I can edit again and again, over and over, until it can be a book suitable for publication. I just don't want to be sitting idle for months on end, and even though I write every day, I've had the world make me feel like I'm sitting idle just because I'm not out in the "real world" working full time. I'm not. I have to remember that. I'm working every day towards my ultimate dream. I'm not letting that dream be swayed, or burn out. I'm chasing it, working towards it, and I'm working hard. The hardest lesson I've learnt over 2018 is that just because you're not up and physically productive, does not nullify anything you do whilst sat down, working. Progress is progress, and it happens to different people in different ways. As someone handling a dream job where I work at it in my bedroom, in comfort, its hard to accept that as progress when I have a day job that requires me to be professional and literally stood at a desk for eight hours, on my feet, physically there. That's my own problem, I'll deal with that, not let anyone else tell me that writing isn't a real job, or a real thing, or enough.

So what's happening with my book? It's getting a brand new rewrite. Its slowly becoming a better story to tell. Every word will still come from a personal place but it won't be sensitive anymore; it will be a story worthy of any interested reader. For now, I'm taking down all my promotions because they exist for something non-existing right now, and I'm taking down my Goodreads information. I was hasty and excited with everything else.

All I can do is write and wait, and edit and wait, and hope that I have support backing me, even if my promotion time will be much shorter.

Camp NaNoWriMo July 2018

I'm writing this on Day 11 of Camp, so I'm a little late!

My experience so far is going really, really well. Better than any of my previous attempt at NaNo. I was a little contemplative over entering this month due to my April NaNo. I completely failed, bailed, and then cried wimpishly at myself.

I can recognise why I failed: I didn't dedicate enough thought to my story. I outlined it but everything was like a spider web and rather than being the spider, I was the fly--caught, trapped, unsure which  way was forward. I didn't know what to do in my tangles of words. I think I barely got to 11K in three weeks. It just didn't work for me - and as someone who prides themselves on word counts, I struggled with that.

At the time, I was trying out several different manuscripts - none of them were quite clicking to work with me. Nothing was coming out right on the page. So I took a long, long break from writing. I worked on my TBR pile instead and tried to find the story out there waiting for me to reclaim my writing. I read avidly, knowing I wouldn't find my answer in books but knowing it would distract my brain from overthinking the problem.

Eventually, it hit me. I wanted a story with the more relaxed ruling of Lords; I wanted another female-centred cast, and I wanted adventure. My world-building absolutely sucks so this new story had to test that. Had to build on my lacking skills rather than run from them. During my long break from my laptop, I picked up a fresh notebook and began visualising my new story. Character names came swiftly; they all fit the images I had in my head. The world they all lived in fleshed in my mind; the layout and system of the world came to me. I took my notebook to work with me, as well as on holiday, and planned like I'd never quite planned before. With over 50 pages just in notes alone, I came back from my holiday in time for Camp, feeling determined and insistent that I could succeed.

So, for my Camp NaNoWriMo I'm working on a story about four girls, all from very different backgrounds and cities, all sent on one mission to retrieve a precious Jewel that controls the world they live in. It belonged to the High Queen, ruling over the whole world, and controlling  the Lord who claim each city, and was stolen. There are high stakes, good ships, and hopefully varied locations!

At Day 11 I'm already several thousand words ahead of schedule, at just over 25,000 words. Share your NaNo stories with me over on Twitter @ShaneDReid!

Two Months Post-Shave - Why I Did It.

Two months ago, I did something so entirely me--yet it seemed as far from me as possible. In a way that can only work when your entire personality is split and you don't know who you are exactly most days.

Two months ago today, I decided that having hair--no matter how short it was already--simply wasn't enough for me anymore. I decided to shave it off--not to my bare scalp. I did a #3 on it. It was a decision I'd thought of for months. It was a decision I researched, I debated over with friends/family, and a decision I still don't have a solid reason for. Living in a home with a mum who loves reasoning, that was a difficult conversation. And when the person (me) who needs to explain, and can't? Everything was so much harder.

Now, I'll laugh and say, "Why did I do that?" But at the end of the day, I'll tell people one thing and admit another thing to myself.

"I needed to focus on my disliking for my own face. Apparently this is a method to help with that. There's no hair to hide behind," was one explanation. "I just don't like my hair," was the main one I spouted to my mother. "Aesthetic!" Was what I laughed over with my cousin.

"Honestly, I don't know," I said to myself. Here's the story:

I've always been hit-and-miss with my hair. Ever since I was 14 (I think, my memory is repressive and likes to become a net in which things slip through easily), and had my first proper short haircut, I was hooked. I preferred the way short hair looked on me; I preferred the lack of maintenance. (Which is a lie--haircuts need to be more frequent, so goodbye savings!) I liked the upkeep and feel of a new, fresh haircut every so often. Except it was every so often. Finally, for my Year 11 prom, I got the closed-cropped haircut I'd always wanted. I was excluded from most group photos, I heard my friends talking s*** about my new haircut, and felt the stares. But who cares? I felt comfortable with my hair. I've always been extremely firm in the belief that it's my hair, my consequences, and nobody else's business. I fell out often with my mum when it was Time For a Haircut because she loves long hair--loved long hair on me.


In late 2016, I had cherry-red hair and sported an undercut: a result of showing the hairdresser a picture of Min Yoongi and saying, "I want that." Of course, this is strange, I know. So I loved it; my mum hated it. Same old story. But fast-forward a few months, to April 2017. I suddenly got the idea that I should grow my hair. Not long, never past my shoulders, but maybe just see what change would occur in myself. 2017 was a year of utter lost for me. My decisions and choices were very skewed, but I persisted in growing out my hair. Every week or so, I texted my friend saying, "I just want to cut it all off again." And she recognised my fierceness and saw past the structure in my thoughts and suggested self-destructive tendencies. Safer tendencies; wanting to take out some repressed anger at the world on my hair.

And people loved me growing out my hair. My family who'd always endured my short hair started patting my head, complimenting the growth, saying how good I looked. They began to compliment me so much more. Of course it helped that I was discovering proper makeup during this growing-out stage--so my appearance overall glowed up, I suppose.

But then I recognised the problem that sat uncomfortably: I was no longer growing my hair for me, to see how I'd feel. It started to become for others, for their compliments, for the notice that something was changing about me again. My hair began to exist for their pleasing. When I looked in the mirror, my hair was just the same-old; I no longer found it satisfying. Whenever I styled it how I wanted and liked, my mum sort of laughed or told me to do a different thing to be more presentable.

I grew my hair from June 2017 - April 2018. And then one day, I'd had enough. I wanted a style for me again. I wanted to reclaim control of my hair. So I got it all cut off into an extremely short, #4 shaved sides, crew cut. Most in work complimented it, told me I suited the short hair so much better, and I felt more confident in who I was again.

But then I got something into my system that wouldn't shake loose until I satisfied it. I began romanticizing shaved hair intensely. I saw a lot of females on Pinterest and Instagram shaving their hair off and talking of empowerment. As someone who'd never felt much in control of their hair, this was like music to my ears. I yearned for that feeling of power over myself, to completely take it away from my family, and anyone else who thought they had a say as to how I should look. I was so inspired and insistent, driven a little mad by this idea; I messaged many people for their opinion even though I already knew I was going to do it.

So I was inspired, yet I looked for a hair colour I don't have. I only ever saw and admired girls with dark hair who'd shaved it all off. A ginger buzzcut, in my experience, is a very different story and look. In my experience, a bad one. As soon as I began to shave mine, I knew it wasn't the right decision. Instead of that control I'd wanted, I felt sick and anxious as I ran the trimmer over and over my head, taking off chunks of hair. So much hair I didn't even think I still had after my crew cut restyle. Instead of loving my new buzz, I felt anxious every time I looked in the mirror. I was left with the complete opposite of what I'd desired.

I'd had people support me, telling me what I wanted to hear, not what I needed to hear. All that came from my family and I wrongly resented it. Yes, it's just hair--but hair adds significantly to an overall appearance and when I sported something I did not suit and couldn't carry confidently? Nooooo.

Sometimes doing this is the right thing for people. Other times, it isn't--for people like me. Right now, I'm growing my hair back to a length I'll hopefully be happy with--at least for a while. The style I'm planning to get is another entirely new one.

So the end point is: I shaved my hair off chasing something that wouldn't have ever existed for me with a shaved head. I don't have a proper reason as to what came over me when I held the trimmer up to my hair, but maybe sometimes weird actions don't need one. I did it, I regret it, I look back on my pictures from that short time thinking how ugly I am, but it's hair: it's growing back. It's reconciling.

ALL THE CROOKED SAINTS (Non-Spoiler Review)

Title: All the Crooked Saints

Author: Maggie Stiefvater

Star Rating: 3* out of 5* (but bear with me; it's not a BAD story)

Would I recommend it?: Hesitantly.

Although this is a review that praises this story as well as points out it's strangeness, I can only give this book three stars purely because it had quite a slow start but this book was, by all means, not a bad book at all. It's the 12th Maggie Stiefvater book I've read, after loving all of her previous books.

All the Crooked Saints is The Most bizarre book I've ever read, with the most bizarre backstories and the most bizarre character interests, but with a very real and honest point to each story told. So entirely different from any of book she's written, Maggie Stiefvater seems to have taken a risk by writing this because it's so distanced from her usual stories (which is a good thing; I don't know why I say it like it isn't). Yes, it has hints of magic and the unusual; yes it has her love stories written like not love stories but love stories all the same; yes it has her cool way of describing family dynamics, but it was so utterly chaotic and somewhat lovable for it's bizarreness that I'm still unsure of my true feelings for it.

From the start to the first 100 pages, I struggled to read more than ten pages a day, wondering if I could actually finish this weird book. It didn't seem to promise much at the beginning, except a large cast of characters, that, at the time, seemed too much; I felt lost in the meaning. But then past page 100, the book suddenly gripped me (think Take on Me by A-Ha sort of gripping, with the hand through the page) and I couldn't put it down for another 150 pages, thus making me suffer with a crick in my shoulder that I'm complaining over now. Things got interesting. Whilst I still read 50% of the book thinking "what the hell?" and frowning, I became interested. That cast that seemed too full at the beginning became necessary and important. All those backstories? They actually have amazing meanings to them. And the base of the story, at it's core? Incredibly thought out. It was like finding gold buried beneath layers of sand, if only you dig long and hard enough. I felt like reading this book was a test: get through the weirdness to find what everything actually means. All the Crooked Saints is about learning lessons, about learning who you are, and I felt like it taught me a lesson.

Very clearly in the story there are two halves: there are the Saints, and there are the pilgrims. Whilst at first things seemed dull, the division became something intriguing. Despite living on the same ranch the two halves never spoke. Until they did. And danger brewed. For a Soria (the family in the book, very wonderfully reminiscent of the dynamic with the Sargents in TRC), to speak to a pilgrim means facing their own (even more terrible than ordinary) darkness, because that's what the pilgrims are trying to work through. Whatever they become after seeking a miracle, it seems to be what they fear. And what they fear is the thing they need to overcome to move on with their life; otherwise they're trapped, unmoving, not knowing where to go. That was a Big Deal to read--so very true, wrapped in the strange, surrounding context of the story. You have to face your fear so you can begin to live properly again.

Maggie Stiefvater has a way of making a smaller setting seem much grander, much more vast, and Bicho Raro, the place where the Soria's live, is no exception. It has all the vastness and endless possibilities found in Fox Way, in Monmouth, and so, in a distant way, All the Crooked Saints is like a unique mirror of TRC - with more characters, a thinner plot and book, but just as much otherworldliness and intrigue.

All the Crooked Saints was hard to get into, but once I did get into it, it was endless, infinite, beautiful, imaginative and asked me to read in between the lines--which I kind of feel like I have done. Then there are the three main Soria counsins of the "current generation" as such: Beatriz was interesting and lovable; Daniel was flawed and thoughtful, and Joaquin was just downright a classic Stiefvater creation. Each name and backstory and fleshed-out character had that special, unique Stiefvater brand, which was what won me over eventually. Consisting of many owls, miracles, trading darkness for light, butterfly dresses and a girl who can't stop crying and is constantly rained on, this book is one I'd hesitantly recommend.

If you want a book to challenge your focus and understanding as a reader, go ahead! Although some of the writing felt simple yet quirky, it was not a simple storyline, but one that asked to be looked into further beyond what was written. It's weirdness is what will make me remember this book in a good way; it's what will make this book stand out.

THE START OF ME AND YOU (Review)

Title: The Start of Me and You

Author: Emery Lord

Star Rating: 4* out of 5*

Would I Recommend It? ABSOLUTELY.

In all honesty, I was apprehensive about this book. The first book I read by Emery Lord was WHEN WE COLLIDED, and that still remains one of my all-time favourite contemporary books, even from back in 2016. I adored it. Late last year, I read THE NAMES THEY GAVE US and was a little disappointed, even though I really enjoyed most parts of the book. For me, it didn't live up to WHEN WE COLLIDED. But THE START OF ME AND YOU, a YA contemporary like her others, lifted my expectations right back up, and I adored every single page.

***

Paige starts a new year of school right after the loss of her short-term boyfriend, Aaron. After a summer of grieving him, suffering with anxiety and depression, she is determined to start a fresh year surrounded by friends and taking chances. The book opens with her talking with Ryan Chase, who understands her pain, but advises her that everyone has to go on, their life still exists to be lived. As her long-standing, recently single, crush, Paige hangs on his words. So, she devises a plan--to date, to take up an extracurricular activity, to participate and to socialise. Her dating plan is a very touch-and-go and guilt thing for Paige, after losing Aaron. The grief she feels is deep, despite only dating him for two months. For her, I think the grief was more about how young he was and whether he died with a smile on his face after jumping off a bridge with friends, more than the love lost.

Her plan interconnects so many things. Through her dating plan, she finds herself sitting near Ryan Chase in one of her classes. There's always that one class in high school based contemporaries that sets the timeline of the book, a trope I love. For this book, it was English Lit. By chance, Ryan is moved, and switched with his "nerdy" cousin, Max. Max is not only the gateway to Paige's other checklist item--an extracurricular activity--but also the rock she needs for her grief. Through Ryan, she meets Max. Through Max, she joins the QuizBowl team, an activity that really brings Paige out of her grief-formed shell. Through socialising, Paige attends a party where she realises that Max may actually be a great friend for her, and not just a way to get to Ryan.

Something I adore in this book is the constant support system. Not only are her friends there for her, but Paige has a deep bond and loyalty to her friends to always be there for them. When one of her friends goes through a breakup, they all go comfort her together. Outside of her friends, Paige has a grandmother whose dementia takes strong grips on her, but she writes down everything important that Paige speaks about. As her friendship group and support grows in this book, so does Paige's faith in life again.

Aaron died in a lake accident. He was messing around with his friends, jumping into the water, and so this brings symptoms of PTSD for Paige. But she's always liked swimming, and the aftermath of Aaron's death tries to overrule that. Another item on her list is to swim again, to conquer her fear of the water.

Over the course of the book, it comes to Paige's attention that Max isn't just a friend. He's there for her the most; the understanding character to every problem she has. Despite being surrounded by her group of three friends, Max is something else for her. An element that I loved about this book is Paige's home life. Her parents begin dating again after divorcing years before. This becomes a complicated thing, and as a child whose parents divorced when I was younger, I can confirm Paige's resentment and hostility towards the idea. It would be awful but it added so much more to the story. It added strength to the family when they went through their own hardships. It added different confidantes for Paige.

The book takes place roughly over a year, and during that time, Paige learns, little by little, that life really is worth living even after parts of what you know leave for good. As someone who suffers with a lack of motivation and anxiety, this is a book I needed to read. I got to see an incredible, realistic protagonist fear a lot but still try. I got to see the incredible support system that she has. Hope has a way of staying alive in this book.

My lack of five stars is down to the fact that there was little diversity in the characters, and how Ryan Chase is a very cliche name for the popular boy, and was quite cliche in his ways, even though he had his relatable side. I'd like to have seen more about Paige's interest in script-writing, too. There was a lot of backstory to how she got into it, but not so much of the interest happening in the present duration of the book. Otherwise, I would recommend THE START OF ME AND YOU to any contemporary reader. Emery Lord has a way of total immersion with her characters on the page, and it's impossible not to get lost in her stories.

An Itch You Can't Scratch (A Creative, or lack of, Process.)

I know a lot of writers post about their own creative processes and how they cope with deadlines/life stresses, and lately I've been feeling my own life obstacles when it comes to writing, and needed to vent it out.

First, a mini timeline:

In 2017, I had no job despite my endless trying but I somehow had depthless bouts of creativity. Over the span of twelve months, I drafted and edited three full-length novels. I then drafted another two, leaving them be. I read a lot more; I had all the time in the world to let my mind run absolutely free, even though I very rarely left the depressive comfort of my bedroom. 2017 in every other way but creatively, was an awful year. But I got at least five varied manuscripts out of it.

In the summer of 2017, I got told, "I can't wait for you to get a job so writing goes back to just being a hobby." This was said by someone who knows how desperately I want to make a career out of writing novels, and so stuck painfully with me. And oh, how they are the damning words.

In December 2017, I finally got a job after twelve failed interviews. I worked only eight hours every weekend, and had the entire week to myself, to still craft and create. I wrote another manuscript over the course of December/January.

Going back to those damning words, I'm now working full, late shifts three/four days a week, and am finding my brain has such less room and energy for writing. I've been told that's what I need: a distraction from striving so hard, but it's not. It's more a hindrance. Since the beginning of February, when my hours were upped, I've toyed with five different novel ideas, wrote scraps of where they could go, who my characters would be, a loose premise, but once I sit down to write them, everything that I creatively had in 2017 evaporates. (See title, ha.) This is life, right? We have to work--work comes first; that's what is making my money right now. Not writing.

But here's the thing: throughout the god-awful 2017, writing was my crutch, my anchor. I depend on creatively venting. I depend on completing and editing manuscripts because I need to write to keep striving for that career I want. So as a writer who needs to write but can't? I am literally in mental turmoil. I participated in Pit Mad this year and received no requests, which was overwhelmingly disheartening at the time. I still have those polished manuscripts, which I'm querying with. I feel like I'm putting my all into striving and getting nothing back, which also drains me mentally.

I read a Twitter post this morning about how although writing is a great release, it's also quite bad for mental health. That's been proven personally to me time and time again. My mind is an array of open tabs, filled with half-formed premises that won't come alive on the page. I'm trying to edit other stories but currently I'm putting in so much mental effort with work and trying with that, and enduring so many failing expectations regarding pretty much everything, my brain just isn't connecting with my writing. I don't want to stop working; I feel lazy for cutting any hours I currently do to get that time back for what I love more than anything, and other than that, I don't know where to go. I didn't realise that getting a job meant trading in my biggest love in life. I don't know quite how to make it any other way; how to balance both. My job is mentally demanding, leaving little thought for anything else, even once I'm away from it.

A break is good for the brain, and I suppose that's what I'm getting, but I'm also increasingly frustrated by my lack of ability these days. Writing was always my escape, a place I could build and work on, and create somewhere better, and do something I'm passionate about. Now I've sort of lost that, and it's a struggle.

If anyone has any tips at all--anything that isn't walking, listening to music, self-care (because I've tried all of this), come find me on Twitter at @ShaneDReid and yell advice at me, please.

Sincerely,
A Lost Writer.