Author: Autumn

I write 'n stuff.
About Writing

Lovecraft Quote

Autumn

The convention of assumed pity spilt mawkishness on his characters, while the myth of an important reality and significant human events and emotions debased all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. His new novels were successful as his old ones had never been; and because he knew how empty they must be to please an empty herd, he burned them and ceased his writing. They were very graceful novels, in which he urbanely laughed at the dreams he lightly sketched; but he saw that their sophistication had sapped all their life away.


“The Silver Key” by H.P. Lovecraft

About Me

YouTube Kids

Autumn

I don’t let my kids watch YouTube.

I used to.

Once upon a time I had a three-year-old who liked to let herself out the front door and go on grand adventures down the street, until her panicked mom came running to find her. Those “baby proofing” door handles didn’t cut it, and I needed to keep her occupied so I could shower or wash the dishes. Enter YouTube.

I found a bunch of children’s music videos that I thought were cute, so I pulled them up whenever I needed turn my back for a few minutes. It didn’t take her very long to figure out how to navigate to other videos, and before I knew it “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” had turned into overly-hyper people playing Roblox.

I let it be for awhile. It wasn’t until the kids started finding Elsa x Spiderman videos that I started to feel uncomfortable, especially the ones that featured “pregnant Elsa.” Something about them really didn’t sit well with me, so I stepped in and put an end to it. I mandated that the kids were only allowed to watch YouTube as long as I was there with them, and they had to get my permission before they clicked on a video.

Shortly afterwards, I learned that a number of those Elsa x Spiderman videos were being used to imitate porn and other questionable activities. That further solidified my decision to never let them watch anything unsupervised. (See Elsagate)

Thankfully, by this point my daughter had stopped letting herself out of the house, so that little problem had become a non-issue and I could shower in peace.

However, the more I watched YouTube with them, the more intense my anxiety about it grew. To top it off, the kids were turning into materialistic little snots, and I was growing tired of constantly explaining to them why we were never going to buy them any of the toys they saw on YouTube. I felt that I was becoming a paranoid nervous wreck, so I eventually declared that the kids were only allowed to watch one channel.

As time went by, I realized that the children were much better behaved when they didn’t spend any time at all on YouTube. They slept better, fought less, and listened more. My husband and I decided to block YouTube entirely on our main computer, and our children settled down into manageable little monsters instead of psychotic tyrants.

I’m a crazy strict mom amongst my peers for it, but that decision has improved our lives. I strongly believe that it would benefit most families if they “unplugged” more and started interacting with each other and the real world instead of being constantly glued to the Internet. We need to teach our children how to fully engage with life, instead of dealing with parenting issues the easy way. I had to learn that through experience, but I’m glad I figured it out.

About Me

Slow movement

Autumn

I was first exposed to the “Slow movement” through sewing, when I skimmed through a book that was all about stitching by hand because of aforementioned movement. Hilariously, the author also advised using knit fabrics instead of woven, and I was all like, “NOOO WAAAY,” and put the book back down.

Now that I’ve lost you . . . Lol.

Basically, I don’t align myself with any movements, because I strongly feel that it’s putting my identity second to whatever ideals the “leaders” of the movement promote, irregardless of whether or not they actually fit with my individual lifestyle/circumstances. In other words, “labels label me not.”

Now that you REALLY don’t have a clue what’s going on . . . LAWL.

ANYwho, the Slow movement is the counter swing to the break-neck pace of modern society. It’s savoring the process of cooking instead of going to the microwave. It’s having a timeless wardrobe of well-made garments, instead of getting an entirely new set of clothes every season. It’s giving yourself time to do whatever suits your whim in the moment, instead of scheduling every second of every day. It’s “stopping to smell the roses,” so to speak.

It’s also how I have naturally lived my life.

And it’s a major reason why I don’t fit in with my peers.

I’ve learned that there is exactly as much (or as little) time as you make for yourself. It’s one of those “secrets of the Universe” sorts of things. The result is that I get A LOT done, and all my peers think that I’m privileged/lazy. My secret? I enjoy the journey.

I have no clue what exactly it is that everyone else spends all day doing, but I have observed two major differences between myself and others:

1) I don’t use social media. When I first quit Facebook, I would crochet every time I felt the urge to check the site. It was eye-opening, because while I was a “lite” user compared to everyone else I know, I was completing crochet projects at a surprising pace. And I only used one site.

Even with blogging, I don’t put any effort into networking or promoting myself. My “traffic” is “growing” at a snail’s pace, but who cares? I barely check the stats anyway, because it’s not like I hinged my self-worth on it or anything.

2) I’m at home most of the time. This one is a pretty big difference, since NONE of my neighborhood peers spend time at home. I have often sat outside and watched them come and go as fast as possible, with all of their group meetings, lessons, memberships, and free lance jobs to keep up with. The kicker is that they don’t realize that it’s a choice that they are making every single day. Trust me, Jimmy doesn’t need ballet and tuba lessons at three-years-old, and you don’t need to buy memberships for every children’s activity in a 20-mile radius. Chill out and let them play in the mud in the backyard — kids like doing stuff like that.

And no, I don’t neglect my own kids so I can run off and sew or whatever. My one-year-old might as well be glued to me, because I am very much not allowed to sneeze without her accompaniment. I actually keep a drawer with markers and paper in my atelier, and the kids help themselves to it whenever I’m at the sewing machine. We’ve learned how to coexist peacefully.

So, anyway, I guess my ultimate point is this: What the heck is up with that Instant Pot thing, and why is it so popular? I can’t imagine it producing the same complexity and depth of flavors as a slow-cooker, but it’s not like it takes any less prep time.

About Me

Food

Autumn

I love food.

When I say that, I mean that putting an hour or more into making dinner is typical for me, and words like “quick,” “convenient,” or “frozen,” don’t have a place in my kitchen. I strongly believe that food should be a celebration, not a punishment. Eating should make your heart sing with joy, not feel like a chore.

So it’s killing me that I’ve had morning sickness for over a month now. I don’t want toast and peanut butter, I want real food. Preferably without vomiting afterwards.

I’m starting to have the irrational fear that this will drag on forever and I’ll never be able to eat properly again. Are those blissful afternoons spent cruising around a kitchen filled with scrumptious smells over with forever?

Logically, no. But pregnancy isn’t meant to be experienced logically, and I really just want to eat something delicious for once. I’ve been living on bland for far too many weeks now. It’s wearing me down, and I’m more than ready for this phase to be over.

I could really go for a hearty Irish stew, with lots of potato and onion. Or chicken paprikash with spaetzle. Heck, I would even love some simple homemade bread with enough gluten to make the neighbors cry. I just want to be back in the kitchen.

Barefoot, of course. I wouldn’t want to suffocate my feet and interrupt my connection with the elements. I’m far too free spirited for shoes.

I just wish I could eat fo’ realz, instead of tiptoeing around random nausea triggers.

About Writing

Pet Peeve

Autumn

A couple years ago I read Petals on the Wind by V. C. Andrews. I confess that her first book, Flowers in the Attic, is something of a morbid fascination for me, but the sequel was … excessive.

SPOILER: Every man the main character sleeps with conveniently dies at the perfect moment.

I suppose that there was something of a generation gap going on as well, because the incest didn’t bother me at all (it was the only relationship that was actually built on genuine emotional connection), but the pedophilia was extremely disturbing — especially because it was a contributing factor to one of the characters committing suicide — yet all the other characters were like, “Lol, whatev’s.”

ANYway, part of the way through the book the main character has a baby and is left as a single mother, because, you know, every man she sleeps with dies. In her determination to prove her independence, she gets a job and has her younger sister move in with her for daily babysitting.

Then her sister commits suicide and she finds another man to sleep with. All of those normally time consuming things like toddlers and work fade into the background so she can go catting around instead. Childcare and paying the bills? Pshaw! No where near as important as those sex scenes.

This is one of my biggest pet peeves in fiction: when activities that normally require massive amounts of time in the real world are completely ignored with no explanations.

Children in particular are often used as handy little props that disappear when they aren’t required, and as a mom, I find this irksome. In the real world, they are always there, calling for you, following you everywhere you go, watching you poop. Whenever you realize the room is unnaturally quiet, you panic and start yelling for them. THAT is the true nature of children.

As for jobs … it sure would be a fantasy if my husband could take time off whenever the whim struck him, but that would probably get him fired fairly quick. Work takes up enormous amounts of time and energy, and it’s necessary for things like food and shelter. You can’t just decide that you’re bored of it and not suffer any consequences.

Which is why it annoys me so much when fictional characters have it unrealistically easy for no reason — other than those juicy sex scenes I guess.

Stories

Angel

Autumn

This is something else out of my archives, written ages ago when I was on the cusp of maturity but Not Quite There Yet.

I think it is hilariously over-the-top melodramatic, but it sure is fun to reminisce on how my writing skills have changed over the years.

The heartache gripped her again, painfully constricting her throat as she watched the familiar scene pass her by for the last time. She wasn’t going back. She knew that no matter how her parents reacted, she couldn’t force herself back into the world that they had chosen for her. Yet she grieved at how badly she had failed their expectations.

Angel was now officially a college dropout. After two years, she succumbed to the overwhelming anxiety and depression produced by homework and exams, and admitted to herself that she couldn’t do it. Higher education just wasn’t meant to be part of her.

Her parents had pushed her into enrolling that first Autumn, despite the doubts that she had tried to share with them. They provided her with very little financial support, and made it clear that her continuing to live with them was dependent on her going to school. The thought caused Angel’s throat to hurt again. How was she going to survive? Another thought, dark and unwanted, hoped for a catastrophic falling out, leaving her free from their cold demands.

She was frightened. She was excited. She had asserted herself, and the ax was now poised to fall. It was comforting to know that her parents were away for the weekend, giving her time to collect herself before being struck by the blow.

Thoroughly distracted by the conflicting emotions surging through her, Angel got up automatically when the bus pulled over, and stepped off. As it drove away, she looked around her for the first time, then realized that she had gotten off too early. It would be a long walk to her house. With a sigh, she started down the street.

The sun was touching the western horizon, adding deeper golden tones to the yellow Autumn leaves. Although Angel enjoyed the stillness of the moment, she was worried that it would be dark soon. She had never been outside alone after dark, and didn’t know what to expect, other than the horror stories that her mother had told her. She berated herself for messing up again.

By the time she reached the bridge, the sun had fully set and the streetlights were flickering on. Angel’s heart was pounding, and she was glad to reach the landmark that signified that she was only a mile away from home. During the day she would often come to the bridge to watch the river flowing by, but at night the place seemed menacing. The river was dark, and seemed louder and swifter. Angel stopped in the middle of the bridge, and followed the compulsion to look down into the unknown. The sound of water seemed to deafen her, and for a moment she wanted to throw herself into the swirling depths, unconsciously stepping onto the bottom rung of the rail to lean over farther, yearning to answer the call from below her. Realizing what she was doing, she pushed herself forcefully away from the edge, then turned and hit something soft and warm. She stood stunned, and only when the figure spoke did she realize that it was a person.

“Pardon me,” a deep voice resonated, and Angel’s cheeks burned red as she quickly stepped back.

“Pardon me,” she repeated with a weak voice, then quickly tried to dodge around the man to continue on her way home. He caught her arm in his hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Angel avoided looking at him, focusing on his shiny black shoes.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she answered quickly, making a slight attempt to pull away. “Please, let me go.”

He watched her silently for a moment, his hand never relaxing. Angel began to quietly panic, certain that the horror stories she had grown up with were about to come true. After a moment, the stranger said, “I’m certain that you aren’t telling me the truth. A moment ago you acted like you wanted to commit suicide, and now you look like you’re about to faint. Tell me the truth now: are you all right?”

Something in his words made Angel look up with a start, and their eyes met. He wasn’t old, though Angel couldn’t guess what his age was, and his face was stern. His black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his eyes were dark. He scared and exhilarated Angel all at once, causing her heart to leap and burn with unfamiliar sensations. She felt driven by some unknown force to obey him.

“No, not really,” she said, and he let her go, keeping her in place with his gaze.

“What has you so frightened?” His voice commanded the same obedience; stern, calculating, but not unfriendly or harsh.

Angel’s bottom lip trembled. She was ashamed of the fearful thoughts that raced through her mind, and of the failures that the day’s events culminated in. Even though she badly wanted to, she couldn’t open up to this man. She didn’t have the strength to.

“Don’t cry,” he said in a much softer tone. “It’s okay if you can’t tell me.” Angel nodded, but her refusal to relax perturbed the man. He stared off into the distance, frowning slightly, before saying, “I’m going to get you something to eat to make this up to you. I had no intention of making you feel worse, and it’s now my obligation to fix it.”

“No, no.” Angel resisted feebly. She liked the idea that he had proposed, but she felt like she couldn’t accept it. After she said the words, however, she realized that choosing to drop out of college had changed the course of her life, and that after rebelling against her parents’ wishes in that regard, there was no reason for her to keep following them in this case either. She liked the man, and the way that he exuded strength and self-assurance. She liked that he had noticed her. So, after a pause, she said, “Yes.”

“Are there any places that you would like to go?” he asked.

Angel thought for a moment. There was a diner nearby that she liked, though she had only been there a couple of times before. She gave the name of it and pointed in its general direction, then felt embarrassed for choosing such a casual place. The man was dressed too nicely to want to go to somewhere like that, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. He set off down the sidewalk, then looked back and summoned Angel to follow with his eyes.

“My name is Murrich,” he said as they went.

“Angel,” she replied.

“Very fitting.” Murrich glanced over at her, and Angel blushed.

“I-I bleach my hair,” she stammered. “It’s naturally dark blonde.”

“Your eyes are a beautiful shade of blue.”

She didn’t know how to reply, so she didn’t say anything at all. Murrich seemed to understand how uncomfortable she felt, and remained silent. Their footfalls echoed as they walked, and a cold night breeze pierced through Angel’s sweater, causing her to shiver. He took off his long coat, and draped it over her shoulders. She liked the way it smelled.

When they reached the diner, Murrich held open the door and Angel scurried inside then waited. After a quick glance around, he led her to a booth by the window and motioned for her to sit down, before taking his place across the table from her. The waitress came a minute later, handing them menus and saying something that Angel didn’t quite understand, though she nodded anyway before burying her face in the menu.

“Can I get a dessert?” she asked, then felt childish for doing so. She was worried that she was coming across as immature and needy, and she didn’t want him to dislike her. For some strange reason, she felt that his opinion of her mattered more than anyone else’s.

“You may.” She couldn’t read his tone at all. “Have you thought about what to drink?”

“Chocolate milk.” She was being childish again. Angel hated herself for acting that way. Everyone told her that she was supposed to be strong and mature, but she couldn’t force herself to be something that she didn’t feel. She was inexperienced and easily overwhelmed, so that was the best that she could do.

“Tell me when you decide which dessert you would like.” Murrich looked at her. “I’ll order for you.”

Relief swept through Angel, and she liked Murrich even more for saying that. He was acting like a buffer for her, taking the pressure of having to speak to the waitress off of her, and making it seem like the most natural thing in the world for him to do it. She felt warm at the thought that he was reading her cues, and accepting them without judging her.

“Cheesecake,” she said, her embarrassment fading.

Several minutes later, with a glass of chocolate milk in front of her, Angel felt comfortable enough to say, “I dropped out of college today.”

“Did you like school?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then that’s a good thing.” He spoke resolutely, without a hint of doubt. Despite everything that Angel had been told about the virtues of higher education, she believed Murrich above them all. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Angel bit her lip and looked out the window. “I need to find out if my parents are going to kick me out first.”

“I see. I suppose that’s why you went to college in the first place.” Murrich’s expression became unpleasant for a moment, then unreadable again.

“They might not,” Angel quickly said. “They’ve told me things like that before, but then never actually followed through with it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

Angel became silent as her throat started to hurt again. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t come up with the words. She knew, deep within her heart that she hated the way her parents treated her, and had never been able to say a word in defense of them when past friends had commented on it. She didn’t have friends anymore though.

“Miss Angel,” Murrich said, his voice somehow sounding like soft velvet, “is that why you were going to jump off the bridge?”

“No!” Angel’s face burned with shame at the memory, uncertain of what had happened. “I just . . . felt pulled . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to kill myself.” The way that Murrich was watching her made her even more uncomfortable, and she hated it. She wanted to make him like her, and she was sure that her ineptitude at handling the conversation was putting him off, but she didn’t know how to act better.

“Come.” Murrich stood up. “We’re both finished, and the night is beautiful. We should go for a walk.”

Complying, Angel felt panic surging through her as she walked through the door and out into the world again. She wanted to protest, demand to be taken to the safety of her home, but she felt too weak to do so. She remained quiet, keeping her turmoil inside.

“I’m sorry for distressing you, but I want to show you that the world isn’t as dangerous as you seem to think.”

Shocked, Angel quickly looked at him and exclaimed, “How did you know?!” Embarrassed by the inadvertent admission, she looked away.

He chuckled, stopping to put his hand under her chin and direct her gaze to meet his. “My Angel,” he whispered, “your face is not as blank as you seem to think. It’s in your eyes, the curve of you mouth, and the shade of your skin. All I had to do was look.” Then his hand dropped away, and he continued walking. “I’m certain that I’m not going to enjoy this, but I must ask you: what sorts of things are you expecting to happen, out here in the unprotected dark?”

Skipping to catch up, Angel clenched her jaw as she thought about the answer. Then, forcing the words out until they started to flow on their own, she repeated all of the stories that her mother had told her, shying away from the details but giving the general picture. Sharing such horrible things made her tremble, so Murrich put an arm around her shoulders, holding her protectively as she talked.

When she was done, he said, “I’m not going to lie to you, bad things like that do happen.” He squeezed her slightly. “But not as often as you think. It certainly won’t happen tonight with me here to protect you.”

“I barely know you. For all I know, this could be an elaborate ruse to get me vulnerable!”

Murrich remained calm at Angel’s outburst, answering, “When I deliver you safe and sound at your front door, you’ll know that it’s not.”

Suddenly Angel trusted him completely, assured by his words. Murrich, a man who hadn’t existed for her until a couple of hours ago, had managed to unravel the tangled mess of nerves and insecurity that had been her world for so long, simply by making her feel like he was strong enough for the both of them. Relaxing against his side, Angel murmured, “I hope that never happens.”

“You don’t wish to be safe and sound?”

“I don’t want you to leave me.” Blushing, Angel hid her face. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt safe.”

“Then maybe I shouldn’t.”

“I feel like I was supposed to meet you, supposed to . . .”

Angel was relieved that Murrich seemed to be taking her seriously, and not pointing out the flaws in her articulation. She had never loved anyone before, had never been in a relationship, and she wasn’t sure how they were supposed to start. She was certain that she was doing it all wrong, and moving far too quickly, but she didn’t have any more doubts about whether or not Murrich was meant to be in her life. There was something almost spiritual in the way that she was falling for him, and his acceptance of her confirmed her feelings. She closed her eyes and reveled in the fuzzy warmth that flowed into her from him.

“My Angel,” he whispered, closing his hand around hers. After a moment they began walking again, moving in the direction of Angel’s house.

About Writing

Nauseous vs Nauseated

Autumn

The other day out of desperation, I ate Real Food for lunch, then promptly had to make a run for the toilet. Lawlz.

Fortunately that seems to have been the worst of my morning sickness (knock on wood). Yesterday I managed to eat an ENTIRE baked potato. Oh sure, it was a small one, but I still ate the WHOLE THING. Victory!

My official opinion at this point is that it is way harder to be pregnant in my 30s than it was in my 20s.

So

Something that has irritated me for years and years now is that everyone misuses the word ‘nauseous.’ I mean EVERYONE.

When something is nauseous, it makes people want to throw up. For example, “The nauseous smell of rotten fish permeated the air and caused everyone to turn green.”

If you are nauseous, that means that you make everyone around you want to vomit. Maybe you haven’t practiced any sort of hygiene for a year. Maybe your personality is just that bad.

Nauseated is when you want to throw up yourself, probably because you’re trapped in a small room with the nauseous person and have no escape.

Understand?

Because every single last one of you is misusing ‘nauseous’ when you’re supposed to be saying ‘nauseated.’ It’s not your fault, because the misuse is so ubiquitous that you have no clue that it’s technically wrong.

NAUSEATED.

Not nauseous.

NAUSEATED.

Consider yourselves schooled.

About Me

Spaghetti

Autumn

When I properly get my appetite back, the first thing I’m going to make is spaghetti.

MY spaghetti.

Start with ground beef in a large pot, then throw in lots of onion and garlic, and cook it together. Keep all the fat. Add diced tomatoes and tomato paste. Oregano, basil, a touch of curry, brown sugar, and any other spices that sound good at the time. Bring to a simmer.

Add mushrooms. After they are fully cooked, throw in a sinful amount of mozzarella cheese. Stir in when completely melted.

Go easy on the noodles and don’t make too much. The sauce is meant to be super thick.

So hearty. So delicious. So forbidden by every fad diet. I love it.

But alas, most foods still make me gag, so all I can do is dream.

About Me

Art

Autumn

I like to trash my art skills, but the truth is, I used to do an enormous amount of drawing.

I got a Wacom tablet as a teenager, and spent hours and hours in Corel Photo-Paint, learning the ins and outs of how creating art on the computer — I even won an award for it during my Senior year of high school. All told, I wasn’t really that bad. I had that Wacom tablet for years, until my cat tried to get into my desktop fish tank and killed it with a good soaking of water.

One of my relatives gave me her old set of Prismacolor pencils for Christmas, and I started exploring different techniques of coloring, growing to favor heavy blending. Naturally from there, I stepped into watercolor painting.

But, as it is often put so eloquently, shit happens.

Resuming “being yourself” after trauma is a process, and it takes a lot time. I started with sewing and crochet, learned how to knit and cook-with-passion, and made several ventures into writing before I was ready to commit myself to the craft once again, but art never grew to be anything more than the occasional silly doodle. Every time I thought about it, I felt strained at the time it would take to practice, practice, practice. I just didn’t want to draw the same thing over and over and over, when I had so many other things to do.

Besides, there are lots of amazing artists out there that I enjoy, who do things that I never would have thought of. I had always been frustrated with how limited my imagination was when it came to drawing, even as a teenager. So, I let that part of me go, at peace with the idea that it would never return.

Every now and then, I see something that makes me ache to start drawing again, and it’s been happening a lot lately. Things like watching Bernadette Banner create fashion portraits, or marveling at how beautiful Hollow Knight is. I’ve started thinking that I could start drawing again.

I’m at that part of pregnancy where I’m dead tired of watching movies and endlessly playing video games, but my low blood pressure won’t permit the up-and-down of sewing, my morning sickness protests at the back-and-forth of cooking  (I wouldn’t be able to eat much anyway), and I’m far too forgetful to hold a story in my head. How long does the first trimester last? Eternity.

Anyway, drawing would be something for my hyperactive brain to play with. I could get my husband to dig out my old reference books from the basement, dust off my mad skillz, and fight the kids for the computer. I can always start with character portraits for my latest novel, to keep it active in my mind as I slog my way through the latter half of the first trimester.

Now that I’ve written all this, watch something come up that prevents me from following through, lol. Life is far too often like that for me.