You Cut What Off???
My hair.
I cut my hair off. I shaved 90% of my head. POW POW POW! and perhaps ZAP! Maybe even a ZAP POW.
Because? Because WHY THE HELL NOT? o.o! Because it'll grow back if I don't like it and I have to say, it's pretty damn ok. I mean, WOW! I have a decent shaped head. It ain't like I shaved it all off and then OH NO! PUMPKIN GROWTHS or strange HORNS or SOFT DIVOTS or ARCANE NOSTRADAMUS MOLES were hiding under there. It's been about two weeks and I'm already rather fuzzy and wanting to shave it down to no guard again. Which means - HOLY CRAP, PEOPLE! - my hair is growing. Which, anyone who has known me a smidge plus, knows I have had issues with my hair being a stubborn bitch on the growth front. I mean, it ain't never gonna be Cleopatra thick, but at least I know that it GROWS. Bastard hair.
Hey look. Here I am:
*
In other news, I FINISHED MY NOVEL! Most complete draft EVER. DOUBLE EVER. EVER EVER TRIPLE EVER!
It's weird. It was supposed to be about Sarah Winchester. Instead it is more about the medium who told her to move West. It is bloody and gritty and I like it. I am sick of it, but I like it. And so does my mom. She is reading it and told me so. Huzzah.
And it is with beta readers. I'm telling you, folks, it is like at least 80% FUCKING AWESOME! I mean, I know. I know. I will need to tighten it. I will need to fix some things - and if I sell it, I will have to fix it all over again for an editor or publisher - BUT HEY! It is done and I am proud of myself. I have done drafts before...but never this FULL. It is... It is... 603 pages and now it is done and I'm like FUCK IT! FINALLY! I can move on to other shit.
Like.
Like.
There is that grindhouse Exorcist meets Last Picture Show play I've always wanted to write (which is gonna be a radio play in its first format).
There's a Jo and Fenn novel I want to write. Those two broads that fight monsters together and are best friends? Yeah, them. I want to write that novel and I can guaran-damn-tee you it ain't gonna take no seven years. I am shooting for 4 months. If that. BUT I don't know. I even have...ahem...a small, but rad publisher's interest -ish. That's another story for another time. Not now.
I don't know, kind and lovely people. I feel so FREE. I have not felt this weightless in AGES. I can do any damn thing I want to do. I can write whatever I want and not feel bad that I am neglecting The Novel. I can move on to Other Things. It is frikkin faboosh.
I cut my hair off. I shaved 90% of my head. POW POW POW! and perhaps ZAP! Maybe even a ZAP POW.
Because? Because WHY THE HELL NOT? o.o! Because it'll grow back if I don't like it and I have to say, it's pretty damn ok. I mean, WOW! I have a decent shaped head. It ain't like I shaved it all off and then OH NO! PUMPKIN GROWTHS or strange HORNS or SOFT DIVOTS or ARCANE NOSTRADAMUS MOLES were hiding under there. It's been about two weeks and I'm already rather fuzzy and wanting to shave it down to no guard again. Which means - HOLY CRAP, PEOPLE! - my hair is growing. Which, anyone who has known me a smidge plus, knows I have had issues with my hair being a stubborn bitch on the growth front. I mean, it ain't never gonna be Cleopatra thick, but at least I know that it GROWS. Bastard hair.
Hey look. Here I am:
*
In other news, I FINISHED MY NOVEL! Most complete draft EVER. DOUBLE EVER. EVER EVER TRIPLE EVER!
It's weird. It was supposed to be about Sarah Winchester. Instead it is more about the medium who told her to move West. It is bloody and gritty and I like it. I am sick of it, but I like it. And so does my mom. She is reading it and told me so. Huzzah.
And it is with beta readers. I'm telling you, folks, it is like at least 80% FUCKING AWESOME! I mean, I know. I know. I will need to tighten it. I will need to fix some things - and if I sell it, I will have to fix it all over again for an editor or publisher - BUT HEY! It is done and I am proud of myself. I have done drafts before...but never this FULL. It is... It is... 603 pages and now it is done and I'm like FUCK IT! FINALLY! I can move on to other shit.
Like.
Like.
There is that grindhouse Exorcist meets Last Picture Show play I've always wanted to write (which is gonna be a radio play in its first format).
There's a Jo and Fenn novel I want to write. Those two broads that fight monsters together and are best friends? Yeah, them. I want to write that novel and I can guaran-damn-tee you it ain't gonna take no seven years. I am shooting for 4 months. If that. BUT I don't know. I even have...ahem...a small, but rad publisher's interest -ish. That's another story for another time. Not now.
I don't know, kind and lovely people. I feel so FREE. I have not felt this weightless in AGES. I can do any damn thing I want to do. I can write whatever I want and not feel bad that I am neglecting The Novel. I can move on to Other Things. It is frikkin faboosh.