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.

I had myself tested.

I like to take my own temperature. Sometimes it gets lost in the day-to-day minutiae and daily rote. Because life is so damn busy. I had four appts this last damn week, and I couldn't tell you the calendar day, or day of the week, but I could tell you what appt it was.

Such is my life.

In all the wonderfulness of my physical and mental journey, I felt as though I missed something. Or perhaps, instead, something was missed.

I tell this horrible story to my therapists because it highlights how neurodivergent boys were treated back in the early eighties.

I moved in fifth grade to a different elementary and had the good fortune to be seated next to the most hyperactive, out-of-control, FUNNIEST, redheaded young man named Scott Schmidlkofer. He was wired for sound. When he became a bit much too handle, he went out in the hall---in a big refrigerator box. 😡

Horrifying, yes?

Honestly, there are still MILES to go for all the sexes.

But females weren't diagnosed. I didn't know what ADD, ADHD, or Autism was. I barely knew, in the mid-nineties through the two thousands, raising my own kids.

However, I've always been different. I embrace it now. I have for quite some time. I don't think like other people. Or react. Could chalk it up to some mental or physical factors. But still. But...still... 

WHAT IS GOING ON?

So I had myself tested. 😊😌  

You don't know until you know.

Now I know.

I have ADHD Combined. Combined type ADHD is the most common manifestation of ADHD, including symptoms of both inattentive type and hyperactive-impulsive type.

Ta-da! 🥳

Currently dealing with research overload because I want to know all about it and how to deal and find others with it and how they deal and...and...and...😂

The one thing I'm trying hard NOT to do is pastflect. Try to see if I could bend the past if I'd only known. 

It does me no good, and it's bothersome, guys. It's...bothersome.

Now I know. And you know. And whoever knows. All good.

Always writing*

...and being neurodivergent...

Eliciting emotions

Elicit: to draw forth into existence.

What a word. What a feeling.

It's my job, of course. It's what writers strive to do, or at least good writers, in my opinion. I write for myself and the satisfaction of it, but I want to grab as many people as I can to bring them along into the story. That's my purpose. 

Come with me. Feel with me. Be with me.

I want you to feel pleasure, relief, and angst. Love. Betrayal. The dark and the light. 

Readers live a million lives through the eyes of others. 

Making it happen is a massive responsibility.

"Meh writing" is a travesty. We've all had books that we've cracked open the cover with anticipation and then chunked it at the nearest wall.

It's heartbreaking and all-around disappointment. Leaves a bad taste in our mouth, and we're not soon over it.

Makes us a bit book-shy.

But when we crack open a book and our hearts and minds are filled with a story which takes us on an adventure we don't want to end?

It fills us up in ways even we aren't aware.

I strive to make readers laugh aloud. Cry. Curse. Reread the sexy parts. I want full immersion. Sink into it. Full saturation.

I'm either writing a massacre today or a long-awaited sex scene. Both will be deeply emotional and satisfying. 

Loss? Love?

Whichever I choose, I'll put my heart and soul into it.

It's no less than any writer should do.

Always writing*

...I think I'm killing people today...  

 

 

Rewired

Trauma changes you. Trite but true. 

I used to write chronologically, before my house burned to the ground December 9, 2006.

Also, funny thing (not haha-in this case), I can't remember dates for shit. Also, it was a Saturday.

Before HF (house fire), my story would unfold for me. Like carefully taking apart an origami animal. I had just signed a contract for my four-book Elemental Guardian Series. I only finished two before the ashes. I believe I stated I would release one every three months but changed it to four, at the last minute.

After the HF? I still had two to write. Quickly.

I've stated previously I'm a mood writer. 

My world, and my children's, fell apart. We lost everything, including the person I was with at the time, and their son. So...half our family. And also, someone I considered family.

Devastating would be putting it mildly.

When I tried to write again...I started at the beginning, but my Muse didn't appear to agree with the same ol' methodology. Scenes came to me out of order. Dialogue would pop into my head whenever the hell it wanted, and I adjusted. Wasn't easy. I didn't like it.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't turn a corner quickly. But I learned if I didn't jot what came to me down, it would disappear, and that was the biggest loss.  

I cranked out Wind Goddess on time, and I feel bad to this day I don't remember writing bits of it. I believe I was still in shock and dealing with trauma for several months after the event. Honestly, there are moments, even now, that trigger me with simple things such as smelling wood burning.

I wrote Earth Goddess as I settled back into myself. Accepted the new normal. 

I love that book. 

Even now, I'll start a book and think I'll continue chronologically, but it never happens. I suppose that event rewired my brain in some way which is incredibly interesting and wholly terrifying. We are at the mercy of our grey matter. Thankfully mine is still giving. We simply like to play a bit of hide-and-seek and Clue and Guess What I Know and You Don't? 😂  

Be easy with yourself. Even small things can throw you off for a bit. 

Like right now. I understand trees are helping me breathe, but they are NOT helping me breathe. They are being incredibly hateful, and we are not friends. 

Dendron non grata

Always writing*

...except for last week, which was Spring Break, and I had two of my heathen granddaughters, and Sweet Baby Jesus...they gave this Mimi a run for her money...