It's Friday, Friday~

Well, not really, but let's visualize for a moment that it is, because I'd like to dissect what makes Friday one of my most productive creative writing days, after which I'll briefly touch on Thursday, since I arguably wrote more on that day this past week, but we'll cover that later.

To begin tangentially, and for anybody who may relate with their most practiced craft(s), I am somebody who struggles with entering a writing flow. I've entered flow states for drawing, organizing schedules, managing finances, composing music, and then some, but writing? I'd have a better chance of watching a meteor shower in the city.

Oh, I've researched methods for finding that optimal time. From chronotyping to tracking the whole shebang--word count, time spent, time of day, etc...--to trying different techniques like the Pomodoro Timer, I've tested my fair share of strategies for finding that sweet, sweet golden zone. More often than not, the results would just depress me. 500 words in an hour? Pathetic. Writing a bunch of gobbledygook that's just going to need to be rewritten? Waste of time. You get the idea.

Occasionally, the rare anomaly appeared like a wild shiny Pokemon, but in the end I always resorted to beating my head against a wall.

Except recently on Fridays.

An interesting cocktail of new habits and schedule changes have, in a way, turned Fridays into one of the most productive writing days each week. The most notable change is that my fiancé's work schedule shifted.

• Other work days: primarily 7:00-16:00

• Fridays: 10:00-19:00

Okay, the time frame has shifted. Big deal. So what?

Well, let's magnify it under a microscope.

• Other work days (me):

  • 7-8: Morning routine & eat breakfast

  • Between 8:30 & 9: Walk #1 (recent)

  • ~10: Begin writing, but brain tends to be pulled in multiple directions, like Morph trying to decide whether to take the map to Jim or Captain Silver (Treasure Planet reference)

  • 11: Lunchtime

  • 12: Work out

  • 13:45: Walk #2 to complete 12k step goal

  • 14:30: Lighter tasks to work through afternoon slump

  • 15: Write until fiancé returns home

This, of course, is a gross simplification of my day and only accounts for the times I try to write instead of learning or designing or researching, etc... It also does not account for the years I've spent measuring and altering the times I write, the locations, and all of these other little factors that add to a more conducive session.

• Fridays, routine shakeup:

  • 7:30: Morning routine

  • 8:30: Eat breakfast w/ fiancé & watch something together (as of writing this, that would be Netflix's adaptation of "Avatar the Last Airbender")

  • 9:30: Chat w/ fiancé before he leaves for work

  • 10: Write

  • Before 14: Walk #1

  • 14: Lunchtime

  • 15: Work out

  • 16: Walk #2

  • 17: Blog post (I over-scheduled this week by meal planning instead)

  • 19: Fiancé returns home

For the most part, the two schedules look almost identical, don't they? Aside from the time, what else, really, is different?

8:30: Eat breakfast w/ fiancé & watch something together (as of writing this, that would be Netflix's adaptation of "Avatar the Last Airbender")

Stimulating the mind.

In the past, as the temperatures cooled, I would do what I've been doing the last week or so and walk in the morning, because it's rare--possible but rare--I'll be able to dedicate my full attention to just writing. Again, concrete tasks such as transcribing are no problem. It's the craft of taking a nebulous, abstract idea and making it tangible that I find difficult, especially if I start immediately after my morning routine most days.

Yet, before I started recording my progress in productivity journals, I would notice these occasions where I would watch or read or play something, and if I limited myself to a block of time equaling about an hour, my brain would be in this unique state where words seem to flow more smoothly if I could wrench myself away from the activity to write. I'm not referring to learning something either, though I could see that yielding a similar result, but more the practice of ingesting creativity through other mediums.

As many of you probably know, however, it's hard to stop at just one. On my own, I would likely exceed that hour block, which thus pulls the needle from, "My fingertips are filled with the raw potential of the universe!" to, "My brain is a raisin and now I don't want to do anything but binge more of this thing, because I just gotta know what happens next, and it's already mid-afternoon anyway, so I'll just try again tomorrow."

Yeeeeeaaaaah. Fine line, that.

Because I'm limited on Fridays to roughly 60 minutes of watching something, however, and can then subsequently chat with my fiancé about it before he leaves, there's a clear delineation between warming up the mind in a way, and then segueing into work with that tempered focus.

It's minor, but I also have a theory that Fridays shake up my routine just enough to insert an additional layer of focus. I suspect that if every day were like Friday, it would become "same old, same old," and my concentration would slip, but unless I test that hypothesis, I won't know for sure! My sample size is still small, since this change has only taken effect within the past few weeks, but the results are noticeable. Only the future will tell whether or not this remains true.

One of the anomalies I mentioned earlier happened to land on Thursday this week. It's going to sound backwards, but creative writing tends to be less creative for me and more technical. I'm trying to evoke specific images or a particular tone, so writing during my most "creative" times isn't usually productive, which is why ~9:30 on days where I don't walk first thing in the morning or ~15:00 as I'm climbing out of my afternoon slump work best. I produced ~1800 words on Thursday and ~1500 Friday to finish out another journal for Cael.

It also helped that I decided to write the journal for the most recent in-game day, since it's fresher in my mind than writing a journal for a session that occurred months and months ago. Again, all of these little factors add up to direct that needle. The challenge is optimizing it, and generic writing advice found on the internet typically doesn't help, at least it never has for me. I enjoy detailed breakdowns of the process, even if the process is different for every single person. The more data there is, the higher the probability someone can find a framework that works best for them and then augment it to further enhance their output.

This week's rough draft:

Year 5, Day #
Toilday the 8th of Uros (Ilasara): Night

It’s been a long day, Valen. It’s been a really, really long day.

I was awake for barely an hour when one of Father Ambien’s…cohorts? Peers? Colleagues?…when one of the clergy approached and delivered me a letter written by Father Ambien detailing his departure ahead of Dalos and myself to visit and confront Lorelei. He encouraged us to travel to the Akryna stronghold ahead of him and discouraged us from following him because of the danger posed by this long-lived vampire. Given that he knows my previous experience with traveling companions promising me their aid in saving you, Valen, and then breaking said promise, it feels like a kick in the teeth, even taking into consideration that Father Ambien was simply concerned for our safety. The only reason I did not instantly lose faith in him—and everybody henceforth, let’s be honest—is because he did provide the location for the structure that would take us to Lorelei’s current place of residence. He left the choice up to us whether or not to follow him.

Yet no sooner had I recovered from the cinching disappointment, none other than Brod entered into the sanctuary, his clothes askew, his hair grungy and disheveled, his expression haunted…but still the same fiercely loyal Brod. He doesn’t remember the span of time between his departure and waking in a cell in Shipton. Apparently he attacked some of the guards while in that state, thankfully not killing anybody before they detained him. Once he came to, Aler was summoned, and after a brief conversation, Brod was equipped with a means of returning to us more quickly and then was sent on his way.

A tension hung in the air between us, an uncertainty of how to move forward. While I was relieved to see him safe and sound, his return dredged up many unexpected emotions. I knew his departure was not his fault, but I still blamed him for not being there with me when I returned home. I wanted to yell at him even though he did not deserve such treatment. I did not know how to convey my twisted feelings of betrayal and relief.

“I broke my vow…” he said, his head hanging low. His eye was once again hidden by the eyepatch.

An idea clicked for me then, and so, I bid Brod to follow me a short distance away from the church, whereupon I drew my weapon and faced him. I finally understood why those who wronged Jaz had to face her in the pit. Sometimes a confusing knot of conflicting emotions can be easily unwound through a simple duel. Both parties work through their emotions, both parties shoulder their respective responsibility for acting or not acting accordingly, and both parties come back stronger for it.

Brod refused.

“Would you dishonor me?” I challenged. “Captain Brodigan Branhurst the Brave, Protector of the Eye of Rev, Shield of the Shadow Regent, Guardian of the Secret of Nim, and Chief Representative of the Zhiltan Mercenary’s Guild Abroad, draw your weapon and do not hold back, lest you sully that title of yours!”

He begrudgingly drew his longsword and kukri and said, “This is the last time that I will do this,” to which I replied, “We’ll see.”

I’ll be counting down the days to when he invites me to spar with him again, but in the meantime, as promised, I did not pull my punches. Jaz would have been so proud of me, Valen. I did not hesitate in the least, and I walloped Brod with every tool in my arsenal until he fell.

Oh, he hesitated at first, but as I suspected he just couldn’t help himself. He is a fighter through and through and loves the thrill of a good battle. While he himself may have been fine undergoing a thrashing without retort, his pride couldn’t allow such disgrace, and so he fought but not before I could complete my necessary setup to have even the slightest chance at defeating him. One or two good hits on his end would have done me in, and that would have been anticlimactic for everybody, now wouldn’t it? But it’s difficult to hit an invisible, flying target, and you bet I exploited Brod’s weaknesses to their fullest.

The bout itself lasted maybe a minute total. As soon as Brod collapsed, I was at his side casting my only healing spell and holding him in my arms as I said, “I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but I don’t forgive myself yet.”

I didn’t expect he would. I just hope he does not punish himself for too long. Though that journey is ultimately one he has to take, I’ll do what I can to support him along the way. 

Brod and Dalos briefly exchanged introductions, and then we set out to pursue Father Ambien. Along the way, I regaled Brod with stories of our adventures while he was away, though I choked when it came to talking about home. I still felt that twinge of remorse and could hear the question whispering its accusation in the recesses of my mind, “Why weren’t you there when I needed you?”

We hustled best we could, but because I tired more quickly than the other two, I resigned myself to riding on Henry so we could keep up a more steadfast pace. I know my limitations! Yet despite moving as quickly as we could, we still did not arrive at the standing stones until evening. There was no trace of Father Ambien, only his coffin with a note attached containing the password into Lorelei’s home.

I admit, I was not expecting a multi-storey stone castle on its own demiplane, but looking back at it now, I cannot help but think, ‘Of course such a powerful vampire would live in a lavish castle complete with its own demiplane. Why wouldn’t she?’

And of course the moment we arrived, Brod, in typical Brod fashion, shouted Father Ambien’s name at the top of his lungs, thus attracting the notice of a few thralls. I trusted Dalos and Brod to handle the skirmish just fine on their own without my aid, so I used that time to contact Father Ambien myself.

We located him in the dungeon after descending a secret staircase hidden by some illusory bushes. He was chained to the wall with silver manacles. Nothing a vial of Ankhrav Queen acid couldn’t handle.

“I understand why you left ahead,” I murmured to him. “I understand you are concerned for our safety. But friends stay together as long as they are able. Next time, should you need to leave, please tell me to my face.”

Ahh, how the memory of my verbiage stings. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose, but there is yet much I need record until we arrive at that unfortunate conclusion.

Across the way we freed a group of goblins from their cell, four of them in total, which will prove important later, but we instructed them to wait there until we confirmed the location of the exit. All that remained was exploring this massive castle to find and stop Lorelei from casting a Ritual that would augment her own power via the sacrifice of a mature vampire under the light of a full Blood Moon. Oh, and avoiding traps, navigating a mirror maze, collecting five different orbs depicting different phases of the moon, and, without knowing precisely how much time remained, sequestering ourselves away in Father Ambien’s quarters to theorize a Ritual using some books we’d found that would counter hers and hopefully weaken her enough so we could somehow revert her to her old self! Easy, right?

Somehow, even when we were accosted by three Greater Barghests that had been disguising themselves as the goblins we’d freed, we did it. Somehow, Valen, it only took me two hours—two hours!—to develop not only the inverse of the formulas she would be using but to also add conditions that would diminish her blood lust and clear her mind. I have little doubt that without Father Ambien’s expertise as resident vampire, the task would have proved either too time consuming or difficult to complete.

Ready to implement our strategy, we separated. Father Ambien returned to the dungeon to serve as a distraction and to stall for time, while Brod, Dalos, and I waited on the third floor across from the Ritual chamber, biding our time until Lorelei and Drevon departed to collect Father Ambien.

We…miscalculated that particular detail. Only Drevon, Lorelei’s current vampire lover, left the room, but we hadn’t time to contemplate a change in plans, so we rushed into the Ritual chamber to confront Lorelei ourselves. We trusted Father Ambien to distract Drevon in the meantime.

Except there was just one problem. Valen, you remember how I mentioned previously that there were four goblins in that cell and we dealt with three of them when they transformed into Greater Barghests? Ja, well, the fourth one was still in the chamber a floor below us where we had disposed of the other three, and it warned Drevon of our plan. Thus, it became a race of who could reach us first: Father Ambien down in the dungeon or Drevon just a floor below us, but we were already in the middle of our skirmish with Lorelei, so it’s not as though we could retreat and regroup.

I don’t…remember much of that fight. I remember the Blood Moon suspended above us in the sky, bathing the chamber in this deep, ominous red. There were trees, no doubt beautiful once upon a time, since twisted and gnarled and pulsating with unnatural magic. I met Lorelei in the center of the Ritual circle and began the counter Ritual while Brod and Dalos harried her. Henry stood guarding the doorway.

Every second that passed was torture, because it was not just a battle between my magic and hers but also a battle of wills. To make matters worse, some aspect of her Ritual siphoned away my vitality. Though my mind was strong enough to brush away her attempts at manipulating it, my body gradually weakened. Both Brod and I tried to appeal to her better nature, but she boldly claimed that mortals knew nothing of loss.

How dare she? I—she—augh! Recounting her presumptuous declarations makes me so angry! 

I know. I know. It’s fine. I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done about it now, because despite our best efforts, despite getting within a hair’s breadth from finishing the counter Ritual…we failed.

Father Ambien miraculously returned to us shortly before Drevon could make it past Henry, but the moment Drevon joined the fray, everything fell apart. My very life sapped, I was the easiest target, and Drevon focused every effort on taking me out of the picture. Brod did his best to reach me in time to protect me, and it was a valiant effort, but a hard hit knocked me unconscious.

Next thing I know, I’m coming to outside of the Ritual circle. As I’m starting to sit up, Father Ambien unleashes a final blow to Drevon with his whip, the same whip Lorelei had left for him in his room as a means of killing her, and Drevon crumbled to ash as the circle pulsed and began glowing a brighter red. Brod and Dalos were immediately knocked out of the circle as Father Ambien unintentionally completed the Ritual for himself.

In a last ditch effort to reverse the flow of power, I threw myself at the circle and released as a single burst all of the magic I had been gathering.

Pain rent through me, carving into my spirit—I can feel the throb of agony even now if I focus on it—and I collapsed in a useless heap at the bottom of a crater I unwittingly created with the burst.

When I awoke again, a few hours later according to Brod, I could scarcely move. It felt like my outbursts at the College and before the Lurros Family all over again but worse somehow. I was genuinely hoping Father Ambien’s ascension and cruel words to us had been a nightmare, that the timepiece he had tossed me wasn’t meant as a weapon.

He weaponized my love of gifts, Valen. He weaponized one of the two forms of love most precious to me before he left with Lorelei, and now I just feel so heartbroken looking at it. Gods be damned, pull yourself together, Cael, you’re not even through the worst of it yet.

To add salt to the wound, you know who showed up to, “Save the day”? I’ll give you a hint: it was the last person I ever wanted to see again in this lifetime since he abandoned us, and he had the gall to—No, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Flink, Valen. Flink returned. Gods only know how he pieced together the password to this place. I was asleep when an explosion startled me awake. Stumbling to the threshold of the room we previously hid in during our wait, I peered into the hallway just in time to witness Flink standing over Brod, whose ankles were wrapped with bolas, his gun trained on him.

Risking further damage to my already battered spirit, I sped through the shadows with a spell and tore through Flink’s, re-emerging with the tip of my blade pressed to his back. I’m ashamed to admit, I wanted to end him then and there. Already I was grieving the loss of a friend, and then it seemed like I was going to lose Brod, too, to the last person I wanted to see.

A tense moment passed between all of us as we stood off against one another, Flink waving around his empty gun—we thought it was loaded at the time—like a maniac as he demanded answers. Gods, what a headache.

I still don’t know how to act around him, but seeing as how it was him, I sheathed my weapon and helped remove the bolas from Brod’s ankles. Casting magic again before I’d fully rested had some repercussions. A thick line of blood rolled from my nose, but it wasn’t as detrimental as the streams. I was grateful for the piece of cloth Brod handed me, but I did not want to be the one who had to babysit Flink while Brod communed with his god. It couldn’t be helped.

I led Flink to the Ritual chamber and slammed the door shut behind us to make my displeasure known.

“So, you all stopped the Ritual?” Flink asked.

“Almost,” I replied.

“Almost. Almost means no.”

“Are you going to lecture me on my ineptitudes, or—?”

“No. No lectures needed. I’m just getting an idea of what happened.”

Just trying to get an idea of what happened. Ja, sure, by needling me with subtle accusations, like you’ve always done. So, I deflected. Like I’ve always done.

It turns out three years passed in the First World compared to the eighteen or nineteen days here. He’d had time to…Let’s face it, Valen, there was no, ‘moving on,’ for him. He never missed us. We were just tools then and that’s all we are now, tools to fulfill his desire to go adventuring again. Whereas Brod and I haven’t had the time to fully process and move past our grievances concerning his departure.

He asked how long it had been here, but I couldn’t help myself. “Did you just return and decide to go hunt vampires all of a sudden?”

“No. As fun as that would have been, I specifically came back to…” He paused awkwardly, rubbed a hand against the back of his head. “…Rescue you all.”

I laughed. Still so arrogant.

“We don’t need you. If you could get your head out of your derriere long enough, you’d realize that.”

“A completed Ritual. Speaks to differ.”

“I would have liked to have seen you do better.”

“I would have liked that, too.”

“Yes, because only you are able to do anything perfectly around here.”

Why I answered him when he asked how it succeeded is beyond me. You’d think I would have learned by now, but no, apparently I am an emotional masochist, given how the next bit of conversation ended.

“You trusted…a vampire,” he said.

“Trusted him more than I do you.”

“And what made you think you could trust him?”

“Follower of Phusyn—”

“He was a follower of Phusyn?” He laughed. “What did you think was gonna happen?!”

“I do not need you to lecture me, Flink.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, we’re trusting vampires now!”

I left. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Everything hurt, and if I stayed there, I would have attacked him.

“Efial, hold on,” Flink called.

The audacity! I didn’t want to speak to him. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him again. Why couldn’t he leave me alone?!

“Honestly, do you know how much seeing you actually hurts right now?” I shouted, angry at him, angry at myself for crying yet again. “No, don’t answer, because you don’t.”

He wouldn’t let me storm off. He continued to follow me down into the starlit chamber where we had disposed of the three Greater Barghests. Only the orb occupied the pedestal now, no stars to be seen. In my fury, I punched it with magic and sent it flying into the opposite wall like a cannonball.

“We cared about you!” I continued. “And you? You never once cared about how your treatment affected us and how we felt. We didn’t matter, because to you, we were just monsters in waiting!”

“…And so, you ended up making friends with a monster.”

“You know nothing about Father Ambien.”

To his credit, he stopped himself before digging a deeper grave.

“Allow me to rephrase.”

“By all means,” I snarled, my bow mocking. 

“You may have said that this Father Ambien was a good man, and I have no reason to disbelieve you on that, but a vampire is a monster. I assume you plan to save him?”

I couldn’t answer, because I did not want to suffer further mockery from him.

“Well, there’s only one thing we can do then. We’re gonna have to cure him.”

I…Even now I’m unsure I heard him correctly even though he repeated it. I don’t trust him, but I want to believe him. I still loathe him, but I want everything to be okay between us. He’s inflicted so many wounds on my psyche, and I begrudge him for that, but I want to forgive him, except I feel like none of these wounds will heal, because he will never apologize for any of the insecurities he exploited. It’ll be up to me to choose whether or not I move past it all, and I just don’t know if I’m that good a person anymore.

It’s just too soon. Until I know for sure he won’t break his promise to help me save Thane, I cannot afford to trust him. If Brod wants to put his faith in Flink again, fine, but then again, Flink never seemed to have the same issues with Brod’s eye that he does toward my magic. I know I have no right to feel this way because it’s hypocritical, but how readily Flink returns Brod’s hugs stings. I want a hug, too, but I couldn’t handle it if that, too, was used to manipulate my feelings.

My apologies, Valen. There’s much yet for me to unpack in regards to how all of this is affecting me. On top of that, we’re no longer on the continent of Ezhiltea. The final Greater Barghest tackled Dalos through a teleportation portal, and by the time we went through ourselves, it had switched locations. I believe Dalos may be in the deserts of the Aran Region because it’s roughly the same time between his and our location in the Ilason Region.

We’re near Brod’s home, and it’s a three-week ship ride back to Zhilta, not to mention the time it would take for us to secure passage in Ilason as well as the time it’ll take to deal with Brod’s curse once and for all. We’re looking at a month. Another month. Then, traveling from Zhilta to Ezada, I…I’m sorry. I sincerely hope you can forgive me for always falling short and for failing to save you with each passing day.

But hey, silver linings, ja? We have a magical orb on us that should, theoretically speaking, teleport us back to the castle. The only issue is that one of us must keep it on our person for a week before we can use it. In addition to that, the tincture hasn’t affected me anymore than numbing my mouth, and it no longer seems to affect Nim. I would drink it all now just to see if I can stave off its effects, but I don’t have a backup tincture, and the one who promised to help me on that front is gone, too…. I’m back to relying on Professor Wyse’s contacts, unless I can glean anything of use from your alchemical journal, which…wait. It’d better be in the Bag of Holding.

Okay, good. I was afraid it was still with Father Ambien. I don’t know what I would have done…

Regardless, just know that I’m still clawing my way toward you. I always will, no matter how far away I’m flung. I just wish I could send you a sign to give you hope as well. Maybe I should give prayer a try, for all the good the Divine has shown me in the past. Still, I know how much it would mean to Brod for me to try, and after our conversation this evening, I’m more inclined to explore the faith that guides him.

Don’t tell him I said that, Valen. He’d just let it go to his head. 

Of course, with what lies ahead of him, perhaps he could use the confidence boost. Maybe if there’s time tomorrow evening, I’ll ask him to send a prayer to Fillos, the name of his god, and humble myself enough to request aid in sending you a sign.

How I’m feeling: Aside from the above, compassion toward Brod’s struggle. Out of respect, I will not go into detail, but we share many similar traumas, Brod and I. It is my hope that, moving forward, he will heed my request, and I, of course, will try to reciprocate:

     "Next time you need to cry, come to me, and I’ll cry with you. Next    
     time you are scared, my hand will reach out to take hold of yours. 
     And next time you feel self-loathing or anger or agony or anguish at 
     something that you failed to do and you need to find some way to vent 
     that anger without hurting yourself, come to me, and we’ll work 
     through it together.

     Because that is what family does."

Days since last Zoning: 0 (Restarting the count because of my blunder with the Ritual)

Other Notable Accomplishments:

• Started compiling meal plans again for each week

• Used a nail heated via candle flame to pull out the broken prong of an RCA cable from inside the jack of my bookshelf speakers; that's a first

• Lowered my resistance band for pull-ups & chin-ups; I underestimated the rise in difficulty though

• Reached ~12k steps every day, minus Monday

• Reorganized some finances, which I find enjoyable for some reason???

• Trying out new recipes

• Listened to a couple of podcasts: N4 & N5 ながラジオ and Huberman Lab

• The Saturday before last, I painted some pottery for my fiancé's birthday! I received it just this week! It's a ramen bowl. You can't see it in this picture, but there are a couple holes for resting chopsticks. This was my first time painting pottery, so it's a mess 'cause I wanted to experiment a lot, but it's a fun mess.

This Week's Obligatory Cat Pic: Salad