“The Reject Demon: Toko” is a free kinetic Visual Novel and it will be out February 14th. No writing from me on it, but the music is heavy and volume two should be enough indication I’m all for girl rock/metal bands.
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Now I can afford to write even less when I want to let you guys know that I’m still alive. Isn’t that nice?
Publishing will occur in a serial manner with one chapter at week for five weeks and considering the sections are kind of huge, it’s probably for the best. This week’s would be the prologue for d.m.c. an it takes from the Monday after the end of the previous volume.
Stuff happens. Psychological issues surface. Characters show their fangs. People die. One chapter was written from Kouma Yon’s perspective so you can finally get an insight on how other characters perceive Shin-tsu and decide for yourself whether to believe him or not, or rather, when.
This second story was deliciously painful to write. You can read it here:
PS: Sorry for taking so long to update. Still love you guys.
That’s how many words you can do in a year if you commit to writing mere 500 a day. It’s ridiculous, to think that by writing no more than the wordcount equivalent of exactly one of those writing exercises I took so often when fired up, back when I had hopes and dreams and stuff, I could have at least three, I say three novels in a year.
The moment I realized I was wasting even more of my life by not doing it, I got back.
As I told my editor, who for some reason didn’t give up on me yet, self-hatred is for the very first time making me do something rather than stopping me from. So today I started my writing goal routine with 500 words in mind. Then I went and wrote three times more than that in a row and would have written more if I wasn’t too afraid of just churning out such bad text I’ll spend weeks editing instead of, well, days.
Surprisingly, it didn’t feel like a burden. Actually, after I hit 500 words, it was pure magic: once the goal for the day was done, anything I did was on me. I could write or not, watch a movie or read something, just chat… my job was done. So I kept writing for myself until I finished the scene. And then some more.
Writing never felt this good to me. I have a problem with words, in the sense that I love them so much it’s hard to have a functional relationship: using them just doesn’t feel right. There are times when they run from me as if playing tag, and chasing them is just too hard on my brain who thinks of concepts only. In other occasions, the little fiends just throw themselves at me with a desire that would be hard to fend off even if I wanted to: when words want to be written down they tend to be absolutely irresistible, to the point where they will find a way into your prose and paint it so purple it might fade into slipshod, overweening hipster poetry. Happened more than once during articles that were, contrary to what my hypothesis implied, accepted although never properly paid for, cunning fellas that News Site owners can be.
So writing for today is done and I backspaced more than a half of what this post was supposed to be because if I’m going to shove my depression down anyone’s throat let it be through fiction they wouldn’t pay for even if it was actually published.
At least 500 more tomorrow.
Which is something I’d do, given the circumstances: a writer should have some form of communication with his public, even though counting on the presence or existence of the audience would be optimistic, silly and eventually soul-crushing to me but still a necessary evil based on principles and morals we carved on stone not to forget who we are or rather should strive to become. Either way, whether I’ll maintain it or leave it to rot as I usually do with any sort of diary it’s up to fate, and by that I mean it’s so unlikely it might actually work.
Hah, who am I kidding?
Greetings, I’m That guy !!D/txAIyjx+4, also known as Ryuno. I am afraid my week-day based rehearsals took my hikikomori status, but I remain a first class NEET: regardless of how many “professions” I perform or am able to (and as I’m sure you know by now, those things are certainly not the same), I remain without a job or contract of sorts.
I have been called a writer on occasion before, but it saddens me to say that statement is not precise at all; as I mentioned on a MeNaSe Pubs post, novelists hardly ever write but plan and scheme all day like fluffy cats on a villain’s lap instead. The reason why people mistakenly assume I am a writer is because I did write something, a light novel that started as a joke and now consumes my dreams and life with its desperate, devilish desire of becoming a franchise. The second volume has been coming along nicely, which means that in a sense it’s nowhere near completion and in other I could simply finish it today if I really, really felt like it (which I wanted to but don’t). The story for volume two of The Longing of Shiina Ryo has been planned and outlined for a while, emphasis on relationships as usual.
Clashing morals, internal and multi-layered conflicts, mutual misunderstandings, real pain treated as teenage drama and vice-versa: this is what fiction is all about. And while I don’t believe I’m a good writer, I am fully aware of this fact: I know fiction. Not genres, not styles: fiction, raw and dirty as the first caveman’s, survives until this day and is established on the same ideals. It just learned to make use of clothing as the glorified primates that walk over the earth like they own it did, possibly for the same reasons. Never underestimate the values of protection and appeal. Most people would go so far as to get involved with others because of those two things.
As you must have noticed by now I digress easily. It comes with Asperger’s syndrome, to get an interest and start working on something only to find out it’s been seven hours, you did a doctorate thesis worth of research over nothing in a day, you barely remember why you started in the first place and if you did you’d probably walk the same path once again, your cat needs to be fed and it’s time for bed. It does sound slightly sad, you might wish you were dead.
I’ll try and avoid being too personal (and by that I mean mushy) here, but I have been happy for a little while now and I must admit that, while it remains an unusual situation to me, I enjoy it. Being happy, I mean.
Not to say bad things aren’t happening to me, pretty much the other way around. It could be said I’ve been living my darkest hour, especially if the subject regards finances. No more than faint, unintelligible cloud signs of positive change are present anywhere. It doesn’t bother me that much. It might, but it doesn’t right now and I’m glad for it.
In all honesty, I have no idea where I’m going and I don’t mean it with my life, but with this blog. I might fill it with my deepest thoughts, or at least the few of them that can be transcribed from waves to words. With music, with novel reports, with rants (and this is what my editor is hoping on, I’m sure) and hipster babble on Madoka. I might talk about pairings, which I do a lot and possibly too much for my own good. I might talk about me being sick and I might never post again, too.
For now, I’ll just have fun.