Why the villain?

I speak in fiction, of course. There's the cute little saying about how you should pick a villain over a hero because a hero would pick the masses while a villain would pick you and let the world burn.

Romantic, isn't it?

Is it?

Women are both simple and complex creatures. But we are each different to such a degree that a partner cannot carbon copy their behavior from one relationship to the next. Even if their type is sporty. That could mean fishing, kayaking, climbing a mountain, running, biking, etc. 

We come in different flavors.

But yet...throw a bad boy in front of us, and we are on board.

And he doesn't have to look a certain way. Because this "villain" is all about the confidence. The arrogance. Oh. He can do what he says he can do? 😳 Yes, please.

But let me back it up a second. 

Let's take my favorite sociopath, Sherlock Holmes, specifically--Benedict's version. A sociopath lacks empathy for others. Sociopaths now have "Antisocial Personality Disorder" which rather spells out the issue. They must have lifelong treatment to adjust behavior and reduce the risks of harm to those around them. Sherlock is grey area. He IS anti-hero. He's the drug-addicted, risk-addicted genius who steps on those around him without a second thought. But the magnetism is unholy.

Nonetheless, Sherlock is not the "villain" I refer.

A fictional villain doesn't belong on a psychological spectrum, in my opinion. These villains aren't true sociopaths nor psychopaths. If they were...there would BE no redemption unless chemical interference or something of the sort. They simply COULD NOT CHANGE. The Joker, being a great example.

A fictional villain, the kind a reader flocks to, is damaged. They may be armored, but there are cracks in that armor which have been tended to and reinforced. Nice was two decades back. Nice didn't work. Kind was for idiots. Only power. Only cruelty. Only madness prevails. 

The villain, no matter the gender, buried that piece of humanity deep inside the armor. They actually told themselves they've purged it. But the tiniest bit of their soul clutched it tightly. Held it deep.

And that's the part, dear readers, we connect with.   

Executive Dysfunction

Putting the "fun" in ADHD.

"Executive dysfunction" is a term used to describe faults or weaknesses in the cognitive process that organizes thoughts and activities, prioritizes tasks, manages time efficiently, and makes decisions.

Executive function skills are used to establish structures and strategies for managing projects and to determine the actions required to move each project forward.

In other words, let's say I have an appt at one o'clock. I am up at nine. Eat breakfast. Shower. Get dressed. I am worthless until said appt. I will do absolutely nothing until the appt because I am frozen until then. I literally an UNABLE to do anything else but wait for that appt. 

I have no idea why.

Science. 

I didn't know there was a term for this bullshit.

Surprise! There so is.

This is also the term for my short ass needing to write but unable to do so. I will alphabetize my tchotchkes before I open a Word document. *pulls out hair in author*

The frustration level, right now, is nearly at crying jag point. It's not simply "writer's block". No. This is some next-level cognitive fucked-up shit.

Now.

I've consulted with my mental med doc. We're going to start me on some ADHD meds, but they are CONTROLLED because Hey! Of course they fucking are. And she's not a "doctor" but a practitioner, so I must attend a fifteen minute meeting in three weeks, from a "doctor" warning me of the addictive nature of the med I want to try for this brain fuck.

Never mind the fact I took myself off Oxycodone after the hip surgery because I hated it, and I've gone cold turkey off Tramadol and Percocet because my prescribing PCP passed away. (She prescribed pain meds for my fibro. Good woman.)

ANYWAY...I feel like I'm spinning wheels with the barest of tread, and I'm fucking so over it, I could probably write a book about THAT.

 

Deep breath now that I've vented my spleen. WOOSAHHHHHHH

I need to calm down.

I'm a roller coaster, on a good day. But since my ADHD diagnosis, I've been like the granddaddy of roller coasters. You know, those bitches where you think you've caught your breath...only to plunge down again...heart in throat?

Yeah. That.

My med doc moved. I don't have one right now so I haven't started with any of that. I had therapy a day before I found out about the diagnosis, so I haven't really had a chance to unpack mentally. 

Knowing has somehow made it worse? Is that possible?

*ROLLS EYES AT SELF REALLY REALLY REALLY HARD*

My focus right now is zero point shit. I want to: clean out the fridge. Shop at Sam's. Pick up my meds. Not do anything. Watch CNN (masochism at its finest). And I'm stuck sitting at my desk with absolutely zero energy and a brain that's doing the splits in eighteen different directions.

The Cube and I don't have ANY idea what's going on. Part of me wants to crawl back into bed because I'm damn tired. Wait.

FATIGUED. I am fucking FATIGUED. 

Still have allergies that are kicking my ass and waking me up every three hours. Wait. And I need to do dishes, too. 😒

Ope.

Bed.

Bed won.

Maybe the two wolves in my mind need a nap. Probably more like a rave of squirrels. 🤔 A murder of crows? 😶 A mishap of meerkats? 😑

Writing weather

Rainy weather is best for writing. Gloomy, overcast, with rain driving at my Sanctuary window makes me a happy author.

For once, the Oklahoma weather delivered.

We're supposed to have rainy weather through Sunday morning. 🥳

I'm around a third of the way through "Canary: Out of the Shadows" and hope to be about half finished by the end of the weekend.

I told you--lofty goals. 

Saturday, Middle Daughter and heathen granddaughters are coming up. That's a no-writing day. I'll get back to it on Sunday.

Something about the darkness. Room only lit by a couple of lamps. Fairy lights atop my desk. Both monitors glowing in anticipation. The sound of rain hitting the window. Slippers on. 

The vibe is vibing.

The author is writing.

Nice.