As most of you know, I’m autistic. As fewer of you know, I’m 23, and just moved out of my mother’s house into my own apartment. It is a lovely apartment, and (silverfish and noisy neighbors aside) I couldn’t be happier with it.
Unfortunately, this whole living-on-my-own gig also comes with a lot more responsibility than I’m used to, so it’s taking me a while to adjust. Because of the autism, I handle some things better than others would, and some things, notsomuch. All the chaos around the move and adjusting meant I couldn’t start my new novel until late December.
The good was that that novel? Went so damn fast. I’m a speedy drafter, so I was comfortably past 56k words in record time.
The bad was that that novel was also not right, so I had to scrap everything I’d written and rework my outline from scratch.
The also bad is that now my brain is too tired from drafting the wrong words to start drafting the right ones. Combine that with adjusting to the house, a messed up sleep schedule, and other obligations, and I’m having a hell of a time getting my life in order.
What’s tricky about mental disorders and illnesses is that you have to monitor yourself carefully. Push yourself too hard, and things snap. You can–you need to–pick up on the warning signs, but it’s more complicated than that. You’ll always ask yourself questions. Am I taking things too easy on myself? Could I write this novel now if I pushed myself, or would pushing myself just result in a breakdown? If I did succeed, would I have enough mental energy left for all the things I have to do next month? Should I take it slowly so I’ll at least get some work done, or should I stop entirely so that I have time to recharge?
That’s where I am right now: exhausted and figuring out my next move. It’s not conducive to either writing or blog posts. (It’s very conducive to ‘sleeping in until 2PM’ and ‘playing Pokémon’ and ‘staring at the vacuum cleaner but being unable to bring myself to pick it up.’)
On the bright side, there is a chance a lot of this will improve over the coming years. For one, I’ll get more used to managing the apartment. For another, I’ve known for a couple of years that I likely have ADD in addition to the autism, but never pursued a diagnosis. Now that I have to deal with deadlines and an apartment, I think it’s worth looking into a diagnosis and medication to see if that will help me manage my time and energy levels better.
I’m saying all of this in part because I am a chronic over-explainer, but also because I think it’s important to talk about. There’s no shame in having a brain that works differently from other people, or struggling with that on occasion. No one should think they’re alone or a failure because they can’t manage everything the rest of the world seems to manage.
I’m around on Twitter if you want to see what I’m up to, and hopefully I’ll be back in business soon. Until then, please excuse the blog silence. I’m alive, I promise!
Today was Queensday in the Netherlands. There’s a detailed description on Wikipedia–where else?–but in short, it’s a national holiday celebrating our queen (though it’s held on the birthday of the previous queen for reasons of weather).
It’s funny, because the Dutch pride themselves on being a very practical, level-headed people. We don’t really do the patriotism thing. Three exceptions:
Queensday. BREAK OUT THE GIANT ORANGE WIGS.
Soccer. BREAK OUT THE FACEPAINT.
When we’re criticized. We’ll be all, “Oh, nah, we’re not really that patriotic, we’re way too sober for that,” and then someone goes, “You know, the Netherlands have a real problem with this-and-that” and then this orange haze of pure rage covers our vision and we wake up three hours later asking “WHAT JUST HAPPENED.”
That said, I don’t think Queensday is that much about patriotism, though it looks like it on the surface–there’s flags and facepaint and “I LOVE HOLLAND” shirts. It’s an excuse to… well, here’s how we celebrate it:
Nationwide garage sales held on the streets. Everything from ten-year-old sunglasses to brand-new clothes to stained My Little Ponies cover every conceivable foot of pavement.
ORANGE. Jeans and hats and hair dye.
Getting the day off work. We’re so keen on this, in fact, that if April 30th falls on a Sunday, we’ll move Queensday to April 29th instead.
Partying. Lots of clubs organize Queensnight parties and the beer consumption is through the freaking roof.
ORANGE. Flags and socks and shirts and wigs and coats and flowers and and and and…
Because of how busy the Amsterdam city center is, they lock it off from most traffic, trams included. This makes the streets a free-for-all, with tourists, people hawking their wares, drunk partygoers, cyclists, and regular visitors all sharing the streets with taxis and buses.
CHAOS REIGNS.
I did mention the orange, didn't I?
Since today is the official opening to my stepmom’s new restaurant, I headed towards the bus stop, which was already filled with orange-wearing neighbors and tourists waiting for the bus. We dutifully chatted about the weather, which was awesome–after a week of rain, today was T-shirt-and-ice-cream weather, with rain picking up where it left off tomorrow–until the bus drove past without slowing down. The driver threw up his hands in apology. Orange-clad passengers with Dutch flags painted on their cheeks waved at us through the windows.
“To the trams!” we shouted, figuring we’d see where we ended up and walk from there. We kidnapped a handful of confused tourists and marched towards the other bus stop. On the way there, I changed my mind and swerved towards home, where I climbed onto my bike for the fifty-minute ride into town.
Pay special attention to the feet of the girl on the left.
Once arrived, I spent some time at my stepmom’s restaurant, took people’s money when they needed to use the bathrooms, and nibbled on some delicious chicken saté before heading back out to Purchase Junk, as is my duty as a Dutchwoman on Queensday.
JUNK: There was lots of it.
For the record, I bought a) ice cream and b) this cute little spool to wind up the cord for my earphones. VICTORY IS MINE.
Cute spool aside, there are a lot of good reasons to dislike Queensday. Criticize the trash people leave behind. The drunken partygoers screwing things up for everyone else. The noise. The damage caused. Criticize the monarchy, the capitalism, the patriotism… I can go on.
But most of the time, I like Queensday. I like people being in a good mood. I like people enjoying themselves and being completely, utterly ridiculous, wearing huge orange clogs and orange dresses and sparkly tiaras. There’s music on every other street corner, people dancing and laughing and starting conversations with total strangers. The streets are packed with people just out to have a good time. Friends will take their boat out for a boat ride through the canals, just putting on their music and basking in the sun. Entire streets will congregate around single cafes.
On Queensday, the city is one big party, and sometimes, there’s nothing better than wandering around and soaking up the atmosphere.
I’ve been quiet on chat/Twitter/this here blog lately, for two significant reasons: one, I’m lazy; two, the lovely Helen Corcoran decided to grace me with her presence. After spending several days getting up early, feeding her silly, and dragging her all across town, I’m back to sitting around in my PJs and trying desperately to catch up on chores and missed sleep.
I love playing tour guide, but sometimes the line blurs between tourist and tour guide. When I took Helen to see places I’d never visited before, speaking another language, I knew anyone overseeing me would assume I were a tourist. I felt like a tourist, too: obsessively planning my day, constantly checking the map, thinking of where to eat and which bus to take. One moment, I’d be standing in line for the Anne Frank House and be offered an English flyer; the next, I’d be dragging Helen past the house where I grew up so she could see the old, overgrown graveyard where I used to play as a kid.
Being so immersed in American culture–American friends; American books; American television–has given me a very foreign perspective of the city I grew up in. I see everything in a new light. I appreciate the history, the context. Buildings I passed every day suddenly represent so much more. Food I snacked on as a kid is suddenly unique. Little details–the lights fixed around the bridges, the bike-only tickets for trains–stand out in a way they never did before.
It means I can point out fascinating details to visiting friends, because I know it’ll be special to them, but it also means it’s not as much a part of everyday life as it used to be. The normalcy is gone. It may be a good thing: It makes me appreciate my city more. At the same time, I’m not American, I’m not foreign, I am–or should be–Dutch through and through. There’s a fine line between appreciation and feeling like a tourist in your home town.
When I bike to the supermarket, I’ll catch myself thinking about how smooth and flat the bike paths are, I’ll marvel at how natural biking comes to me, I’ll smile at a mother balancing heavy groceries on the handlebars and two kids perched on the rack. Five years ago, I’d just be cursing myself for not checking if I needed to get milk.
It’s an odd feeling to have, and I’m not sure I like it.
Is it just a part of growing older and looking at things differently? Have you ever felt similarly?
Well, two weeks, at this point. I’m such a slacker.
In lieu of actual blog content, let me show you what I’ve been up to…
… witnessed my dad and stepmom’s new Thai restaurant being blessed by a Buddhist monk. (My stepmom is the lady in blue–my dad’s not in these photos. All the elderly people are family, though. The man setting next to me is my granddad.)
… revised BLINK and sent it back out to betas. Here’s a comparison of different versions of the first few chapters. I… very badly want to be done with this book.
… started “The Tales of Sigma City”–a pulpy ’50s superhero novella–from scratch. This is how I envision my main character, Joan. She needs a hug.
… biked into town so I could work on the above novella in the Central Library. On the way there, I encountered this bike parking boat, which is the coolest thing ever. It is out-Dutched only by our habit of pointing at a significant body of water and going, “That. That right there is where I’m going to build a house.”
(The floating flower market visible in this picture is also high up there, though.)
You know that thing where you spend your days (beta) reading so you don’t have anything interesting happening to blog about, and then this friend comes over for the US so all of a sudden you’re busy dragging her around to the Dam and the Red Light District and the Central Station and canal tours and crappy steakhouses and NSFW souvenir shops and windmills and snackbars and the Van Gogh museum and the Anne Frank house and pancake restaurants and Japanese restaurants and even more NSFW souvenir shops and monkey zoos?
‘Cause that’s the thing that just happened to me.
It’s a thing that doesn’t make for a lot of blogging.
It’s also a thing that makes one very tired, and since I need to rest up for Clarion West — and may I point out that it’s less than two days until I’ll be on a plane to Seattle? — I honestly can’t work up much of a blog post right now.
Which is why you get links.
Adam Heine’s post, Opinions on Piracy (and Some Data), was a pleasant surprise in my Google Reader. While I’m leaning more and more towards — well, not yay piracy! but at least I’m okay with piracy! — I’m always interested in reading other people’s informed opinions on the matter, and Adam’s posts tend to be measured and well-written.
Both K. Tempest Bradford and Rachel Swirsky have posts up encouraging people to join this year’s Clarion West write-a-thon — Tempest is even offering a Kobo eReader to one lucky participant who enters her drawing!
Basically, the gist of the write-a-thon is that you commit to a goal for six weeks of writing — big or small, doesn’t matter — and convince people to sponsor you for whatever amount they want. That money goes to Clarion West, which, in case you hadn’t heard, is a pretty damn nifty SF/F writing workshop yours truly will be participating in.
Starting, um, Sunday.
Hold me.
In other news: You know how I’m a giant comics nerd? Specifically, an X-Men nerd? Well, I watched X-Men: First Class in the opening weekend with a friend and thoroughly enjoyed it, but was irritated beyond belief at the same time. For a movie that’s all about combating bigotry, they sure managed to squeeze a lot of racism and sexism into a two-hour space. I particularly enjoyed N.K. Jemisin’s rant about the movie. (Warning: Cursing abounds. Delicious, justified cursing.)
Fassbender was still freaking awesome, though. <3
And now I ought to go and work on further preparations for my trip. I don’t think I’ll be around much these next few days, but expect a number of delightful interviews and guest posts to go up during my absence!
Or the utter lack of it, depending on how you look at it.
Either way, my house is very, very empty right now, and will stay that way until late next week. The floor is getting redone, which means that all the furniture is stacked in the backyard, that my fridge is full of soda cans as nourishment for the workers, and that the cat and I are restricted to the upstairs.
In other words, I’m spending all day lying on the bed and reading. Most evenings I’ll have access to the kitchen (though not anything fancy like a dining table or trashcan), and the rest of the day I’m stuck with a sandwich press, water cooker, and lots and lots of candy.
There’s worse things.
Since I’m still on my mission to read ALL the books (but especially the ones by my future instructors), I try to keep my computer off most of the time so I’ll have an easier time focusing. Even with awesome books, the lure of the Interwebs is strong.
Or rather, Corinne’s attention span is terribly weak.
In my experience, these kinds of forced changes to one’s everyday life are either very, very good for productivity, or very, very bad. I’m determined to turn this into the former.
I have all kinds of interesting things I want to write posts about… but I’m not gonna.
Instead, I’m sharing some bullet point updates.
Plotting is going OK. Still need some breakthroughs, but I’m feeling more comfortable with what I have so far.
Have sidelined plotting for now in order to work on a short story R&R from a major market. (Excited: I am it.)
That post about Merel/Femke/Imke/whatsherface? My mother is absolutely insistent that I return her to her Merel-y state. “So rename the other M-chick!” she keeps exclaiming. “Merel is PERFECT for her. None of those other names fit.” I will take it under consideration, Mom.
Cat brought in a dead bird yesterday. That’s a first.
Semi-hard at work acquiring a netbook to install the Pixel Qi screen I ordered — then I’ll be able to get work done outside. It’ll be magical.
Yesterday I tried contacts for the first time in years. Getting them in took about 30-40 minutes. Taking them out… um…
Did you know last night ended with my returning home from the doctor’s while totally high on anesthetic eye drops? Trufax.
Have her panic, by, say, taking a long drive with her
In an overheated car
People. I didn’t know cats could make those sounds. The kind that break your heart and make you want to smother the cat all at once.
Now, my right ear has Issues with a capital I; it’s oversensitive to loud volume, noise from multiple sources, and certain frequencies, and makes it basically impossible for me to function under those circumstances.
Which means that for most of the ride I was going, “Cat. CAT. I love you. PLEASE WAIL AT A DIFFERENT FREQUENCY.”
Within a minute of arriving home, my left eye was throbbing. I’m still tensed up, even hours later. I guess it’s Milla’s version of revenge.
Also, the car broke down five minutes from the clinic.
To be serious for a minute, it really did break my heart to see her panicking so much, especially since it exacerbated her symptoms. She was panting the entire ride home. That’s not good, for a cat, especially one who’s already short of breath.
TL;DR version: this was not a fun road trip. I would like a refund, please.
As for the results of the echocardiogram… it’s not great. Nor is it as bad as it could’ve been. Her myocardium is 60% thicker than it ought to be; the cause of this is unknown, but irrelevant as far as treatment goes. She’ll need a pill a day for the rest of her life, and the length and quality of this life depends entirely on how she responds to the medication. It could just be a few days, if her condition worsens suddenly (like it did last week), but she could last years.
I’m mostly relieved, because it could’ve been much, much worse; on the other hand, I’m concerned about her quality of life. In the few months she’s lived here she’s blossomed into a wonderfully active, playful cat, and I’d hate to see her lose that.
But for now, she’s eating, she’s rolling in the sun, and obsessively licking the spot where the doctor shaved her. I’ll take what I can get!
Though I’ve mentioned krav maga here and there, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about it in-depth. So. Basically. Krav maga is a martial art developed in Israel in the ’30s, with a focus on taking out your enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible. It incorporates the most useful parts of other martial arts and blends them together into an ultra-violent, rule-free mishmash of badassery. You can’t get points. There are no competitions.
Fighting dirty is not just allowed, it’s required. In class, we’ve been taught to bite, gauge out someone’s eyes, fire a gun, and twist someone’s neck. It’s used by the military, FBI, and various government agencies throughout the world. It works for civilians as well, as the techniques can be used by people of any skill level, age, and physique; the body’s instinctive reactions are observed and expanded on so that making the first move in any threatening situation won’t require too much thought or fine motor skills.
It’s pretty neat.
Since our instructors are primarily military/law enforcement types with a lot of practical experience, we also get to hear stories about actual fights. About what it feels like to be stabbed, about how even the most weathered policeman feels like pissing his pants when he’s about to enter a house with an armed criminal inside, about how punching someone can result in every bone in your hand sticking out and you really should consider palm strikes, instead.
Anyway, I started doing this in September ’07, and wasn’t taken seriously for the first few months because I wasn’t very aggressive, I wasn’t very good, I was one of only very few girls, and, um, I’m like 5’4″ and possibly the least intimidating person you’ll ever meet. My instructors were awesome, though, and since I did two classes in a row I steadily improved and eventually learned to just stop being scared and go for it. And, wow. Being aggressive does wonders.
At some point in the first two years, when I was slightly more experienced but not quite there yet, I was paired up with this new guy. It was his first class, so he didn’t have any protective gear yet. When we did our routine, which involved knee strikes, I promised him I’d be careful and not actually hit him.
And yeah. I totally hit him. He spent the rest of the class curled up against the wall, and I spent the rest of the class dying of guilt.
(I never saw him again after. Funny, that. In my defense, dude should’ve worn a cup.)
In a class soon after, I was training with some other guys, and accidentally hit one when I wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t bad, barely hurt, but the guy’s response was, “Yeah. Saw that coming.”
At which point I freaked out and looked up the instructor after class, almost crying because I wasn’t sure if there was any point to this. I was just messing up again and again, and clearly the other students were starting to notice.
The instructor shrugged and said these things happened. The other students know it, he knows it, and I should know it.
I still felt bad, but it passed. In the 2.5+ years I’ve been doing this, I’ve had plenty of injuries of my own. Hell, in my very first class someone stood on my bare foot and twisted around, resulting in me being unable to walk for several days. The bruise lasted weeks. I’ve been punched in the face, kicked in the groin (it hurts for the womenfolk too!), bitten, had a charley horse, bleeding lip, scratched-open arms, torn muscles, so many bruises piled up on each other I couldn’t even tell them apart, all those good things. OH MY GOD THE PAAAIN. No broken bones, though I’ve witnessed a dislocated shouder and torn-off toenail.
Anyway. These days, my wee tiny self is often pulled in front of class to demonstrate the next routine with the instructor, or as an example of how aggressive you’re supposed to be. If I hit someone in the face, I apologize, check if they’re okay, and move on. If someone hits me in the face, I wait a few seconds to assess the damage, and move on. Most of the time, it’s fine.
Take today for example: there were only three students in class. Me, a guy who’s been doing this since September, and a guy who’s pretty new. In turn, they’d attack me with a plastic knife, and I’d block the attack. The new guy had a pretty tough knife, attacked me the wrong way (less icepick grip, more I’m-gonna-slice-you-open), and hurt my arm. Nothing bad. We moved on. Eventually it was September-dude’s turn to be attacked and the instructor decided that maybe I should get the tough knife instead of Newbie. After September-dude, Newbie went in the middle, and within a minute or so the instructor decided we should get rid of the knives entirely and just come at him with our bare hands. We’d coach him if he did something wrong (wrist-to-wrist, bend your arm 90 degrees, don’t make a fist), and we took it slow.
And we didn’t mind. Because the dude was apologetic because he hurt someone, not because he messed up; because he listened to criticism; because he tried to do better. Because he took it seriously.
Which is a lot better attitude to have than “OH MY GOD I HURT SOMEONE I SUCK.”
Likewise, September-dude’s and my attitude to Newbie? A lot better than “Yeah. Saw that coming.”
In writing, the odds of accidentally kicking someone in the groin and turning them off martial arts forever are pretty low. (If they’re not, I don’t want to know how you write. Holy crap.)
And yet, I still freak myself out over possibly making a mistake. Even though I can fix it later, unlike accidental knee-strikes. Even though I have supportive critique partners, unlike certain people I used to train with. Even though… right, I just ran out of similarities, but whatever.
I think this is what it all comes down to:
Krav maga is awesome
Sometimes it really hurts, though
Also, I should be nicer to myself when it comes to making mistakes
Do I have an excuse for not posting for over a month?
… Good question.
Can I distract you with pictures of the new dog?
Meet Bo. She’s 14 months old and enjoys escaping the house, running through busy traffic, and very nearly giving me a heart attack chasing after her. (This was my afternoon.)
She’s Razzi’s new girlfriend. It’s True Doggy Love.
It feels almost wrong to put those in the same entry as the next snippet from my current WIP, which features a devout cynophobe as PoV character. It’s from a short story I’ve been working on, set in the same ‘verse as Always Read the Fae Print and my upcoming NaNoWriMo novel. (More on that later.)
I spun on my heels. “Dude,” I said. “Dude.” “Is there a problem?” saccharine voices rang out in unison. One face glanced past the book piles, bone-thin fingers splayed out on the spines as if to steady itself, its eyes gleaming like the beads of mom’s hematite necklace; a dry, ash-grey tongue ran over its lips, nearly reaching the wart-like bump on the very tip of its nose. I almost preferred the creepy ear-less dude. “Please tell me you guys didn’t spike his drink.” “We would never!” they exclaimed, their eyes opening wide. “Your accusations! We are offended, deeply offended!” “Mm-hmm.” “We misplaced our cup,” one of the fae insisted, shooting forward to perch on all fours on the pile of books closest to me; the scent of damp earth intermingled with those of aging paper and dust and the dubious foodstall across the path. “He did not bother to see if it was his, did he? His fault. His fault, never ours.” “Right, well, it’s very funny, can you reverse it now?” “Reverse? Of course, of course. For a price.”
Otherbound, a YA fantasy novel about a boy from our world who's spent ten years involuntarily witnessing the life of a servant girl from another world every time he blinks--and what happens when he finally learns to communicate with her.
Forthcoming from Amulet Books, an imprint of Abrams Books, in 2014! more || Goodreads
Also, quick thing because I've been hearing it a lot lately: my last name is not pronounced the French way. The S is very much audible. 7 hours ago
It's so awesome when you calculate exactly what you can order without having to deal with customs only to end up paying twice the $ anyway. 7 hours ago
A less good thing about today: having to deal with UK customs instead of NL customs. And of course they have steeper rules. And fees. 7 hours ago
@mariekeyn It will give me lots of opportunities to figure out creative answers with double meanings :D 10 hours ago
