Iron Composition and Motivational Core

Projects and Updates

The heat of spring has been thawing my freeze rather quickly.

It helps that today I got about half of the blood results back, and they definitely are heading in the direction that I need them to be. The one scary one isn’t back yet. But, there’s much to be hopeful with given what I found out today.

The light has met me on the stage of focus and determination.

My goals are reflecting through a deranged prism. Not just light shining through it, but also a second, and quick third, address to my own mortality. And a few other’s who are somewhat close to me in life. The haphazard colouring along the pathway in my life is as much a warning as an invitation. An invocation to journey beside fear and use it the way it has me for all of this time.

"I am a quick study. I know all of your games now.”

Fear, old friends now, on a familiar reopened pathway when you were for a time just a vague dark shadow behind the trees. Now, I know what has to be done. I have to wrestle you to the ground, pin you, and suck the life in to generate something that can resemble one for me with whatever time I have left. Succubus energy to absorb all of the power that has kept me down, to bring me back up. Hell, let’s do better than back, let’s just see what can happen when I can again find my way back onto that exciting pathway.

Iron strong, burning hot. A key frozen in ice gets warmer than you might expect. It doesn’t just heat up, it vibrates as it thaws. It screams into its confines and kinetically expands to burst its jail wide open.

In December I was monitored by my family doctor for having high iron. Then I learned of brown fat. People look at my tiny frame, and assume that I would be cold all the time. The heat that radiates from my body has at times, out of the shower, sent steam to blind my already disrupted vision.

Squealing for fulfilment.

This may be an odd decision given all of my other writing goals, however, next weekend, I plan on challenging myself to a ‘weekend novel’. My goal is novella length, maybe about 30K words. And I’m going to just do something fun. Maybe a ‘spicy romance’. Whatever it is, I will share it if anyone is interested in reading it. I’ll have to investigate if it makes sense to do that on substack. If not, I’ll do a quick ebook on amazon or something just so people can start reading something I’ve written that embraces the character building that I am ultimately passionate about. I know 30K words sounds like a lot - and it is - but I can easily write about 6-7.5K in a writing session that lasts about 3 hours.

I meant to do NaNoWriMo this past year, but I was in the hospital, and not having the best of times. I did get about 8K words written, but then I had the biopsy and my eye was taped shut for basically a week. So yes, it was a bit of a bad time for that commitment, to say the least. But I now need to meet a quick writing goal to boost my confidence.

Just another example of thermal expansion pushing against my fears and my mortality and my shitty self talk of being a failure at everything I do. My lack of confidence that has been a trend with things I actually care about if given enough time to consider them. Stopping me in place. The iron core strength inside of me, with all of its dislocations and deformations hardening it as much against itself as what would weaken it. This project, a tensile test to prove my invincibility to myself alone.

3 days, 30K words, a week from now.

Let’s get pounded out. (I’m not filthy, you are.)

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Since this post is uncharacteristically short for me…

Peacock updates:

The working title for my illness journey is Peacock. It will not be the final title, but I’m going to take to calling it that as I update my substack with my progress, just to make it easier. (The machine on my feeding tube had a familiar beat, and I eventually realized it was the song Peacock, by Katy Perry.)

Trigger warning below if you have issues with the concept of miscarriages. I say that because it is a trigger for me, which the following might give you some perspective around.

I had originally started with my diagnosis. I wanted to add in some elements of the illness that made me recognise something was wrong. Add to that, a misdiagnosis which is all too common in rare autoimmune diseases. The original chapter two was about my fertility. That will be just prior now, as the reason I was diagnosed so quickly was due to a miscarriage that happened 4-5 months before diagnosis and because they didn’t know what was wrong with me, it was a very difficult journey in, and of, itself. I have so much poetry written to that baby, and the others that were murdered by the very killer that almost took me. In that, I can relate to them, if nothing else. But like all serial killers, you aren’t aware of what the murderer looks like until you are in a field alone with it, being strangled out in the dark. You look it in the eyes and realize that it really means to take your life. All the time, housed in my body, betraying any hope of ever having the basic genetic immortality that most people are given, whether they like it or not. The first thing I had to mourn after that last dead baby, was the possibility of there ever being a living one. So yes, writing is difficult for a wide variety of reasons. The things of nightmares, in truth. For anyone intending to read it, know that I promise to create the balance of misery and positive energy, stick-welded together haphazardly.

Reminder of the earlier trigger warning.

An example of my poetry: (ignore the odd Dot - form editing substack is more complicated for me, than I’d like it to be.)

Stolen Life

• Little loves and attempts, lost

  Life on a permanent hold.

  Babies never held, never known

  Stolen lives, along with my own.

  Cries of pain and unwitnessed life

  Suckling at my soured milk

  Spoiled

  Voiceless secrets to my heart
  The only shared thing between us

  Them & me, all tortured
  By this murderer.