Michael had never been a fan of going to summer camp, and every year he tried to convince his parents that there were better things he could be doing with that week, or that he was getting too old, or that they should be saving their money. But every year, without fail, he was sent to Camp Chinawuakee with a frown on his face and a hunch in his back, and every year he came home hoping to never have to return.
There was something different in the air this year, however, as he got off the bus. He couldn't quite say what it was, and no one else on his bus seemed to notice, but there was a... thickness to it that he did not recall. But perhaps they could not tell it was there because he was the only one who had been there so many years running. Chinawuakee wasn't exactly a popular camp, and most parents sent their kids around to different places every summer so that they could get new experiences. They weren't like Michael's parents, consistently sending him to the same place year after year. But then again, maybe he was just starting to lose it after doing this so many times.
The day was a mad rush of introductions and camp set up, learning the rules, meeting their bunkmates, and eating their first crappy camp meal. Michael lay in his bed at the end of the day, staring at the cloth "roof" above his head, unable to sleep thanks to the obnoxious snoring of all three of his bunkmates. He had had bad ones before, but this was excessive. He wasn't sure if he was going to be able sleep at all this week.
That was when he heard a strange shuffling echo through the camp, and thickness he had felt in the air as he got off the bus grew thicker. He sat upright, trying to listen and hear where the noise was coming from, but it came from all around. In every direction he heard the strange shuffling. He poked his head out of the tent, barely able to see in the pitch blackness of the night, but he could see a strange outline of orange that surrounded the entire area. He tried to focus on it, to see the shape or any kind of details, and he watched in horror as the outline become more solid, with harsh scales and long claws, and the camp was abruptly in the arms of a massive, hideous creature.
Michael could only describe what he saw as a demon. Its eyes scanned over the camp, hunger apparent within them, and a wicked grin on its face. It didn't seem to notice Michael's head poking out of the tent, or if it did it chose to ignore him, because Michael was frozen in fear and could not move. He watched the demon open its massive jaw, could see the rows of razor sharp teeth within its mouth, and then there was gas pouring out of it and over the camp.
Ramisiel picked Michael up off of the camp floor on one of his claws, smiling down at the boy who had so drastically changed. He had taken in the most of Ramisiel's mind control gas that night three days prior, and the stubborn, hateful boy was little more than the demon's pet now. Michael informed Ramisiel of how the control was fading on one of the girls in camp - the one Michael had confided he had a crush on - and that if there was anything Ramisiel could do to prevent her from going into his gullet, he would appreciate that. Ramisiel promised he would consider it, but...
He was hungry.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Go
It had started innocently enough, as just a game. A game that captivated the hearts and minds of everyone who came across its path, save for a small few who saw the danger and confusion. They tried to warn the people around them, that it would need to be different if they were to continue, and that if they should play the game they must be careful, but the people did not listen. It only took a matter of days before the chaos began.
The reports were small, and evidence of the games involvement were excluded. Crime rates began to climb. Car accidents became more frequent. But even as the news was reported, it was ignored by the people, too involved in the game. They couldn't stop playing. They stopped sleeping so as to gain more time. Then they stopped eating. People began to drop dead in the streets, their phones still clutched in their hands with the game still running. The others merely stepped over their corpses.
The uninitiated could do nothing but watch on in horror as the world seemingly collapsed around them. At first they tried to clean up the carnage of bodies and flaming wrecks, but it built faster than they could clean it. Eventually they, too, gave up. They could only watch on as their friends and loved ones descended into madness, desperately clawing at one another's throats for the chance to capture one of the rarer, pixelated monsters on their screens. Anything to make it one step closer to completion of their collection.
It was a month before someone managed it. To collect every single kind of digital monster. The frees prayed that that meant the game would come to an end, and that the players would look up from their screens and see the madness that they had caused and the world might return to the way it was. But then another completed theirs. And another. And it stopped being a competition to see who could collect them all, as they all did, and rather became a competition to see who could make them strongest. And as they defeated one another in virtual battle, the violence began.
It became a ritual. That, when defeated, one was slain, and their phone was forfeited to the victor, who could then collect in two games simultaneously, collecting and training at twice the speed and capacity. The population dwindled, and the power of the mighty grew ever higher. The frees began to hide in fear, cowering so that there lives might not be needlessly taken. It was becoming ever clearer that they could not and would not escape the game's wrath.
The most powerful players became like gods, towering over the world. People joined forces in attempts to take them down, and were slaughtered by the handfuls. Even when they managed to conquer a god, the greed fell next upon them, and they turned against one another until a new god arose from their ashes.
The frees could do nothing. It had been only a year since the release of the game, yet the world they had known could not be further from the reality they faced. Their numbers had dwindled, as some were caught in the battles, and others could no longer resist the temptation of the game. The ones who remained questioned if they would even make it another year. They no longer believed in the future. They only prayed that they might live to see tomorrow.
The game had come, as it had once been promised. But the friendships and camaraderie it promised could not have been further from the truth.
The reports were small, and evidence of the games involvement were excluded. Crime rates began to climb. Car accidents became more frequent. But even as the news was reported, it was ignored by the people, too involved in the game. They couldn't stop playing. They stopped sleeping so as to gain more time. Then they stopped eating. People began to drop dead in the streets, their phones still clutched in their hands with the game still running. The others merely stepped over their corpses.
The uninitiated could do nothing but watch on in horror as the world seemingly collapsed around them. At first they tried to clean up the carnage of bodies and flaming wrecks, but it built faster than they could clean it. Eventually they, too, gave up. They could only watch on as their friends and loved ones descended into madness, desperately clawing at one another's throats for the chance to capture one of the rarer, pixelated monsters on their screens. Anything to make it one step closer to completion of their collection.
It was a month before someone managed it. To collect every single kind of digital monster. The frees prayed that that meant the game would come to an end, and that the players would look up from their screens and see the madness that they had caused and the world might return to the way it was. But then another completed theirs. And another. And it stopped being a competition to see who could collect them all, as they all did, and rather became a competition to see who could make them strongest. And as they defeated one another in virtual battle, the violence began.
It became a ritual. That, when defeated, one was slain, and their phone was forfeited to the victor, who could then collect in two games simultaneously, collecting and training at twice the speed and capacity. The population dwindled, and the power of the mighty grew ever higher. The frees began to hide in fear, cowering so that there lives might not be needlessly taken. It was becoming ever clearer that they could not and would not escape the game's wrath.
The most powerful players became like gods, towering over the world. People joined forces in attempts to take them down, and were slaughtered by the handfuls. Even when they managed to conquer a god, the greed fell next upon them, and they turned against one another until a new god arose from their ashes.
The frees could do nothing. It had been only a year since the release of the game, yet the world they had known could not be further from the reality they faced. Their numbers had dwindled, as some were caught in the battles, and others could no longer resist the temptation of the game. The ones who remained questioned if they would even make it another year. They no longer believed in the future. They only prayed that they might live to see tomorrow.
The game had come, as it had once been promised. But the friendships and camaraderie it promised could not have been further from the truth.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Dice roll
Marth was drinking at the bar when he heard a commotion stirring behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder to see two larger men - both in weight and muscle - shouting at each other and standing from their table, raising fists and preparing to fight. He rolled his eyes to himself and turned back to his drink. Always fighting. Never able to just talk things out. How incredibly dull.
They must have seen his look, however, because before he could finish his next swig, there were hands on either side of him. He set the drink down and looked first over his left shoulder, seeing one man, and then over the right to see the other. He sighed and stood, turning to face the two. "May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked, sounding far more bored than frightened.
The one on the left threw a punch hard at Marth's stomach, but Marth was quick, and moved out of the way, making the fist slam into the other man's stomach instead. There was a loud growl of pain, but it only made the two angrier at him. One after the other they swung their fists, and each one he snaked his way around, causing the two to beat mercilessly upon one another instead of himself. With each swing they got more and more furious, singing more wildly, as Marth danced his way around the bar and their fists and the patrons stared in wonder at what was happening before their eyes.
When they made their way back to where Marth had been sitting, Marth directed one of their blows towards the table, rather than the other brawler. His fist smashed into the wood, just beside a twenty sided dice that had been resting next to Marth's drink, the number twenty facing up. The shock of the blow sent the dice through the air and bouncing along the ground, and the three followed it until it came to a stop.
Marth ducked under another blow and glanced at the die. "Oh, how unfortunate," he said clearly and loudly. "You know, chances are quite low to roll a 1 like that. I believe that's called a critical failure." A fist was coming down on him, coming from the man whom he had tricked into rolling the dice, but Marth was ready. His own arm shot upwards, slamming into the inside of the man's elbow, and the combined momentum of the blows sent a loud crack through the air. Marth's hand pulled straight back, ready to strike again, but his assailant's arm dropped dead, the elbow shattered, and the arm now useless.
Before he could even cry out in pain, Marth was swinging again, striking the man's throat. He gasped once for air, only managing half a gulp, and stumbled backwards, his one good hand reaching for his throat, uselessly trying to fix the now collapsed windpipe. The other man stood shocked, unbelieving of what he had just witnessed.
Marth turned to face him and bent down, scooping up the dice and offering it to him. "Would you like to test your odds?" he asked. "Surely you won't get a critical failure as well."
But the man turned on his heels instead and ran.
They must have seen his look, however, because before he could finish his next swig, there were hands on either side of him. He set the drink down and looked first over his left shoulder, seeing one man, and then over the right to see the other. He sighed and stood, turning to face the two. "May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked, sounding far more bored than frightened.
The one on the left threw a punch hard at Marth's stomach, but Marth was quick, and moved out of the way, making the fist slam into the other man's stomach instead. There was a loud growl of pain, but it only made the two angrier at him. One after the other they swung their fists, and each one he snaked his way around, causing the two to beat mercilessly upon one another instead of himself. With each swing they got more and more furious, singing more wildly, as Marth danced his way around the bar and their fists and the patrons stared in wonder at what was happening before their eyes.
When they made their way back to where Marth had been sitting, Marth directed one of their blows towards the table, rather than the other brawler. His fist smashed into the wood, just beside a twenty sided dice that had been resting next to Marth's drink, the number twenty facing up. The shock of the blow sent the dice through the air and bouncing along the ground, and the three followed it until it came to a stop.
Marth ducked under another blow and glanced at the die. "Oh, how unfortunate," he said clearly and loudly. "You know, chances are quite low to roll a 1 like that. I believe that's called a critical failure." A fist was coming down on him, coming from the man whom he had tricked into rolling the dice, but Marth was ready. His own arm shot upwards, slamming into the inside of the man's elbow, and the combined momentum of the blows sent a loud crack through the air. Marth's hand pulled straight back, ready to strike again, but his assailant's arm dropped dead, the elbow shattered, and the arm now useless.
Before he could even cry out in pain, Marth was swinging again, striking the man's throat. He gasped once for air, only managing half a gulp, and stumbled backwards, his one good hand reaching for his throat, uselessly trying to fix the now collapsed windpipe. The other man stood shocked, unbelieving of what he had just witnessed.
Marth turned to face him and bent down, scooping up the dice and offering it to him. "Would you like to test your odds?" he asked. "Surely you won't get a critical failure as well."
But the man turned on his heels instead and ran.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Gender
Jeremy was sitting at one of the park's picnic tables, waiting for Sam to show up. They had arranged a meeting there the day prior, so that they could talk about what had been going on. They'd met a few months ago for the first time, and in that short time, Jeremy had found that there were very few people he felt more comfortable around than Sam. There was just something that about Sam that made it possible for him to relax, and feel comfortable about who he was. But after realizing that, it made it harder for him to be without...
He felt a pat on his back and looked up with a smile to see Sam standing there. "Hey, you," she said. "Got something on your mind? You look all off in the clouds again."
Jeremy just smiled and patted the table, and Sam took a seat across from him. He had been thinking. Thinking about how things used to be, back before he had met Sam. As much as he loved Sam and everything she did for him, he missed those days. Things were less... confusing then. He felt like he understood the world around him. But now, he felt as though everything had changed, and he didn't quite belong anymore. It made him feel more alone than he ever had.
"Yeah, I kinda do," he said. "Same thing I always do, really."
"It's hard to believe there ever a time like that, Geraldine."
Jeremy sighed and nodded. It had been a year since he had woken up as a woman. There was no explanation for why. No recollection of the change. One night he had gone to bed a man, and the next day he had woken up a woman. Every picture of him throughout his life had been changed. His driver's license. His birth certificate. Jeremy no longer existed, and now there was only Geraldine. But he still remembered what it was like to be a man. Though the world around him had changed, his mind had not. That had made it very hard.
"But you do, don't you?"
Sam smiled. "I do. I'm just saying. It's hard to think of you as a man. I've only ever known you as a woman."
Jeremy nodded. He understood. "If I was still a man, do you think we'd still be friends?"
Sam shrugged, but her smile stayed on her face. "Hard to say. But I'd hope so."
"Yeah. Me too."
He felt a pat on his back and looked up with a smile to see Sam standing there. "Hey, you," she said. "Got something on your mind? You look all off in the clouds again."
Jeremy just smiled and patted the table, and Sam took a seat across from him. He had been thinking. Thinking about how things used to be, back before he had met Sam. As much as he loved Sam and everything she did for him, he missed those days. Things were less... confusing then. He felt like he understood the world around him. But now, he felt as though everything had changed, and he didn't quite belong anymore. It made him feel more alone than he ever had.
"Yeah, I kinda do," he said. "Same thing I always do, really."
"It's hard to believe there ever a time like that, Geraldine."
Jeremy sighed and nodded. It had been a year since he had woken up as a woman. There was no explanation for why. No recollection of the change. One night he had gone to bed a man, and the next day he had woken up a woman. Every picture of him throughout his life had been changed. His driver's license. His birth certificate. Jeremy no longer existed, and now there was only Geraldine. But he still remembered what it was like to be a man. Though the world around him had changed, his mind had not. That had made it very hard.
"But you do, don't you?"
Sam smiled. "I do. I'm just saying. It's hard to think of you as a man. I've only ever known you as a woman."
Jeremy nodded. He understood. "If I was still a man, do you think we'd still be friends?"
Sam shrugged, but her smile stayed on her face. "Hard to say. But I'd hope so."
"Yeah. Me too."
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Poetry
I was thinking about what writers and artists were like when I was young - and I mean the people around me, not the professionals - and I remember two things, neither of which I ever really understood or participated in. The artists were always drawing what I now know to be furries (which are anthropomorphic animals, if you don't know), while the writers wrote poetry. This was a very consistent thing, regardless of how many of each I came across. Perhaps it was just the area I grew up in, or the time, but that's just how things were.
I don't intend to talk much about the artists and their furries. I was mostly uninvolved, and I've stated before that I am hardly an artist. Instead, I'm going to talk a bit about poetry.
Now, for the most part, I like poetry. The amount of talent it takes to tell a story within such strict limitations is remarkable, and when people can accomplish saying so much with so few words, it's hard not to be jealous. Honestly, my vocabulary isn't good enough to be able to make rhymes without losing meaning. It's barely good enough to write the stories that I try to write. Trying to write poems would and has ended very poorly for me the few times I have attempted it.
But the thing is, I have never enjoyed the poetry that those around me have written. For two reasons: either the poem doesn't make any sense and is about some kind of darkness that, typically, the person doesn't even really understand, or it was some sort of free form poetry. Now, I don't mean to say that free form poetry is by nature bad. Plenty of people love it. I just don't. I don't really think that it should classify as poetry just because you put emphasis on words in ways that you wouldn't normally during conversation. But I guess that's why I'm not really into the scene.
Nowadays, I don't know that many people who acted in these ways who are still acting on their creative side like they said they were going to when they were kids and pre-teens. Granted, my involvement with these people isn't what it used to be, but from what I've seen they've fallen out. At the very least, they haven't embraced it to anywhere near the levels that I have. And I wonder if that has anything to do with what it was they were writing as opposed to what I've been writing.
I'm not trying to say that I'm better then those people, as much as it may sound like I am. I'm genuinely curious if there is some kind of correlation, or if I'm just a weird exception. I'm willing to lean towards the latter, but I think it would be interesting to find out. Of course, how you'd ever figure out something like that, I have no idea.
I don't intend to talk much about the artists and their furries. I was mostly uninvolved, and I've stated before that I am hardly an artist. Instead, I'm going to talk a bit about poetry.
Now, for the most part, I like poetry. The amount of talent it takes to tell a story within such strict limitations is remarkable, and when people can accomplish saying so much with so few words, it's hard not to be jealous. Honestly, my vocabulary isn't good enough to be able to make rhymes without losing meaning. It's barely good enough to write the stories that I try to write. Trying to write poems would and has ended very poorly for me the few times I have attempted it.
But the thing is, I have never enjoyed the poetry that those around me have written. For two reasons: either the poem doesn't make any sense and is about some kind of darkness that, typically, the person doesn't even really understand, or it was some sort of free form poetry. Now, I don't mean to say that free form poetry is by nature bad. Plenty of people love it. I just don't. I don't really think that it should classify as poetry just because you put emphasis on words in ways that you wouldn't normally during conversation. But I guess that's why I'm not really into the scene.
Nowadays, I don't know that many people who acted in these ways who are still acting on their creative side like they said they were going to when they were kids and pre-teens. Granted, my involvement with these people isn't what it used to be, but from what I've seen they've fallen out. At the very least, they haven't embraced it to anywhere near the levels that I have. And I wonder if that has anything to do with what it was they were writing as opposed to what I've been writing.
I'm not trying to say that I'm better then those people, as much as it may sound like I am. I'm genuinely curious if there is some kind of correlation, or if I'm just a weird exception. I'm willing to lean towards the latter, but I think it would be interesting to find out. Of course, how you'd ever figure out something like that, I have no idea.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Guardian
Erick approached the temple, the sun hanging high in the sky, a gentle breeze blowing through the grass and loosing some of the leaves off the trees to spiral softly to the ground. There was hardly a cloud to be seen. It was a beautiful day. A good day to be traveling to visit the shrines, if you wanted to pray to the gods, or even just to sightsee. Or, if one were traveling the lands to eliminate the shrines to the gods, it wouldn't really matter to them one way or the other if it was a nice day, other than that the air would be fresh as they made they're final ascent.
Erick took a deep breath of that fresh, morning air.
The temple guardian was standing the in the doorway at the top of the steps, waiting for him. The man stood, his sword already drawn and resting loosely by his side, and as Erick drew closer, he could feel the wind begin to pull in around the man. Many of the guardians before him had looked upon him with a smile, welcoming him freely into their shrines. This man would not be so kind. Which was not unexpected - there weren't many people left who visited the shrines after Erick had slaughtered their guardians and burned them to the ground.
Erick's own blade was still sheathed on his back, and he waved toward the guardian, a coy smile on his face. "Stand down," the guardian called out to him, the anger plain on his face. "I will not permit you to assault this holy ground as you have."
Erick merely smiled up at the man, slowing his steps as he reached the top of the stairs, but not stopping. "You know, I've heard that a few times now," he replied calmly. "And yet, here I stand. What makes you think you will be any different from the others? What makes you think that you can stop me when no one else could?"
The man's sword seemed to crackle with energy, and the draw of the wind grew stronger. "I am not like my brothers," he stated, holding out his hand, inviting Erick to battle. "I was assigned to this shrine because I am the strongest of the guardians. If there is anyone who can stop you, it will be me."
"I will be more than pleased to wipe that confidence off of the face of this earth."
The blade sparked to life, lines of red, green, and blue shooting across its surface as the power of the elements came to it. The wind gathered in the guardian's hand, like a sort of bomb that he could throw as a secondary weapon. Erick smiled and pulled forth his own blade, already coated in black shadows that dripped from its surface like thick poison, ready to chew out the life of his foe.
This would be fun.
Erick took a deep breath of that fresh, morning air.
The temple guardian was standing the in the doorway at the top of the steps, waiting for him. The man stood, his sword already drawn and resting loosely by his side, and as Erick drew closer, he could feel the wind begin to pull in around the man. Many of the guardians before him had looked upon him with a smile, welcoming him freely into their shrines. This man would not be so kind. Which was not unexpected - there weren't many people left who visited the shrines after Erick had slaughtered their guardians and burned them to the ground.
Erick's own blade was still sheathed on his back, and he waved toward the guardian, a coy smile on his face. "Stand down," the guardian called out to him, the anger plain on his face. "I will not permit you to assault this holy ground as you have."
Erick merely smiled up at the man, slowing his steps as he reached the top of the stairs, but not stopping. "You know, I've heard that a few times now," he replied calmly. "And yet, here I stand. What makes you think you will be any different from the others? What makes you think that you can stop me when no one else could?"
The man's sword seemed to crackle with energy, and the draw of the wind grew stronger. "I am not like my brothers," he stated, holding out his hand, inviting Erick to battle. "I was assigned to this shrine because I am the strongest of the guardians. If there is anyone who can stop you, it will be me."
"I will be more than pleased to wipe that confidence off of the face of this earth."
The blade sparked to life, lines of red, green, and blue shooting across its surface as the power of the elements came to it. The wind gathered in the guardian's hand, like a sort of bomb that he could throw as a secondary weapon. Erick smiled and pulled forth his own blade, already coated in black shadows that dripped from its surface like thick poison, ready to chew out the life of his foe.
This would be fun.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Update
This is perhaps a more relevant post to me than anyone else, as I'm fairly certain that of the few people who read my blog, no one reads it daily. That being said, my writing this is of much importance to me for a number of reasons, so you'll have to excuse me for not writing fiction today, and instead electing to update you a little about the state of the blog.
When I set out to make this blog, my goal was to write every day, and my only time limit was midnight. It was supposed to be an incentive for me to write daily, and to give myself some wiggle room on getting my writing done in the day. And it very much so served its purpose. However, like most things I do, I very quickly fell into waiting until the last possible minute to do my writing, which lead to me frequently hitting post at 11:59. Which was problematic for a number of reasons that I imagine are quite obvious.
Recently, my life has gotten a little crazy, and not necessarily in the good way. But, thanks to that, I've found myself inspired to make changes that I really should have made a long time ago. On the levels of fitness, health, music, and most importantly writing, I intend over the next days, weeks, and months to work at bettering myself. Some of these I've already begun working on. A few months ago I decided that I would do my exercising at 4, in order to give myself a set time to do so with enough time after I got off from work to rest, rejuvenating my legs from the eight hours of standing and regaining some of my energy. Last week, I drastically changed my diet to combat the fat that has accumulated on my body which has irritated me to no end for well over a year. A few days ago I picked up my guitar for the first time in a couple years.
And, starting today, I intend to change my writing schedule for the blog. Not to stop doing daily writing, as I would gain nothing from doing so and lose much, but to change my time limit from midnight to 4. You may notice that that's the same time that I chose for my exercising. By having something set as my end point - my time for working out - I'm hoping to create incentive for me to write earlier. This way I'm not stressing about it later in the day, and keeping myself up later than I want in order to finish.
I cannot and will not promise that this will improve the quality of my writing. But, seeing as I will be more awake when I'm doing my writing, and I should hopefully be able to get more sleep, I'm hopeful that that will be happy consequence. At any rate, it should afford me more time and less stress throughout my day, which if it does not affect the blog directly, should at least affect my own happiness.
It's also worth noting quickly that the 4 o'clock timing is based on my current job, which I don't expect to last me more than a few more months. After that, the timing will more than likely change, though I don't anticipate writing another post like this to speak about it. But I will do my best to adjust my timings when that happens, so as not to revert back to where I was before.
Here's hoping.
When I set out to make this blog, my goal was to write every day, and my only time limit was midnight. It was supposed to be an incentive for me to write daily, and to give myself some wiggle room on getting my writing done in the day. And it very much so served its purpose. However, like most things I do, I very quickly fell into waiting until the last possible minute to do my writing, which lead to me frequently hitting post at 11:59. Which was problematic for a number of reasons that I imagine are quite obvious.
Recently, my life has gotten a little crazy, and not necessarily in the good way. But, thanks to that, I've found myself inspired to make changes that I really should have made a long time ago. On the levels of fitness, health, music, and most importantly writing, I intend over the next days, weeks, and months to work at bettering myself. Some of these I've already begun working on. A few months ago I decided that I would do my exercising at 4, in order to give myself a set time to do so with enough time after I got off from work to rest, rejuvenating my legs from the eight hours of standing and regaining some of my energy. Last week, I drastically changed my diet to combat the fat that has accumulated on my body which has irritated me to no end for well over a year. A few days ago I picked up my guitar for the first time in a couple years.
And, starting today, I intend to change my writing schedule for the blog. Not to stop doing daily writing, as I would gain nothing from doing so and lose much, but to change my time limit from midnight to 4. You may notice that that's the same time that I chose for my exercising. By having something set as my end point - my time for working out - I'm hoping to create incentive for me to write earlier. This way I'm not stressing about it later in the day, and keeping myself up later than I want in order to finish.
I cannot and will not promise that this will improve the quality of my writing. But, seeing as I will be more awake when I'm doing my writing, and I should hopefully be able to get more sleep, I'm hopeful that that will be happy consequence. At any rate, it should afford me more time and less stress throughout my day, which if it does not affect the blog directly, should at least affect my own happiness.
It's also worth noting quickly that the 4 o'clock timing is based on my current job, which I don't expect to last me more than a few more months. After that, the timing will more than likely change, though I don't anticipate writing another post like this to speak about it. But I will do my best to adjust my timings when that happens, so as not to revert back to where I was before.
Here's hoping.
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