Am I Bonkers?

 I was holding a conversation with one of my non Tea Spitter friends, and we were discussing State of Mind (now renamed, "Sweet Madness"), Gardner, Ina, Assylums, and the peculiar habit of Gardner's that is, breaking glass.

She asked me, "but why does he do that?"

"Do what?"

"Break glass just to break it. It seems pretty shallow"

"...........I did mention he was mentally insane, right?"

I eventually DID get it through to her, that those who are mad don't need an excuse to do such things.


With another friend, she questioned me about "Thornwood" (A currently in-the-planning mode novel about a nurse in victorian England, and a most peculiar house call to a reclusive gentleman) and we were discussing the good Lord Sebastian Thornwood (of Thornwood Manor) and I said he hadn't left his estate for years.
Naturally, she asked why, and I had say 1) he is physically ill. And 2) he is mentally ill and 3) He isn't a dumbbell. The townspeople think he killed his fiancée, and he doesn't want to hear their criticism.
(I will admit, when she first asked, "Why does he stay inside? Doesn't he have a life?" My first instinct was to reply with, "no, actually. He is an early model of a tumblr fanboy, and spends all his time on there, reblogging images of Rose and Ten, Writing Sherlock Fanfics, Crying over Loki's past, squealing over various Supernatural and The Walking Dead characters and thinking up evil Moffat plots". But that would have been a lie, and I try not to do that...besides, that sort of fanboys scare me, and computers hadn't been invented yet).

But it got me to thinking, I love madness, so it would seem, by the amount of it I have in my novels.

In fact, I'm most at home writing madness, writing mentally injured characters with scars you can't see.

But this got me to thinking even more, does what we write about say something about ourselves?

I tried looking up on google something, but, for the first time, google failed me. I found nothing.
Has no brilliant mind ever wondered this? Am I the first? Oh how lonely this is....

But surely there must be some weight to this idiotic idea of mine? I enjoy writing about mad people, about people who have empty smiles, and have hidden scars. People who pretend, or sometimes don't pretend, to be ok on the outside, when on the inside, are a broken mess of tangles.

It makes me a little scared of myself, to be honest.

So, what do you think? Do you think the things we write about say something about the people we won't admit to being? Or am I just spouting utter nonsense? (In which case, I might be mad, which still proves my point....)

And what does your writing say about you, if so?

Chamomile, The Insane.

(Remember, all the best people are. ;D).

what is chamomile?

" a medicinal beverage made from the fragrant leaves and flowers of the plant by the same name" 

 But, I, friends, am not a tea, or a flowering plant. I am a girl, very much a she-child, in fact. 

  

'Ello! I'm Ashley, or, Chamoline, as I'm to be known here on this place of sweet insanity. 

I'm always a little bit clueless on just where to start when it comes to talking about myself, so, if it looks like I'm winging it, don't worry. I probably am.

So, eh...to start with I guess, I'll talk about my writing experience? 

My my my, what an experience it has been indeed! 

the first true writing I can remember doing is in a little garden decorated journal with a little sunflower clasp, when I was around...

hold on. I still have it. let me check the date. 

I started in in 2005, which would have made me 8.  The spelling is enough to make me shirk in shame, and I tend to just discuss absolutely everything under this merry sun.  And I made lists, I made a LOT of lists.  

I've always been a bookworm. I read "Great Expectations" when I was just a wee twelve year old.  I guess that spilled over, and I truly can't remember when I first started writing.  

I think, think being the keyword, the first thing I wrote was a small inkling written on rough, grey construction paper titled, "I love my cat". I basically documented why I loved my cat, and in all the ways she was incredible. My mom still has it saved somewhere.

The next thing I can remember, was a 'Alphabet book' where I basically wrote various things and words that began with each letter on their designated page.  It was simple, and I took a week to write all 26 pages. I was rather proud of it, and even stuck it on our bookshelf. 

And then, I somehow moved up in the writing world.

I discovered plots, and characters; I discovered REAL writing. 

 The first true novel I wrote was titled, "The Adventures of Danny Fox" where this mischievous fox upset all his friends by pestering them to play with him. But, alas, they are all too busy. So poor Danny is left quite alone, until, a equally mischievous girl fox happens upon him.  And it was a happily ever after. 

That was the opening of the door for me, and I haven't stopped the words since.  From age 9-12, I wrote in probably near 20 various books, all fairly the same. You see, I seemed to have an obsession with Orphans, and cattle farms. And prairies. And wagon trains, and you can imagine the rest. Two childhood favorites was Laura Ingalls' books, as well as pretty much anything involving orphans, so I just borrowed.

When I got into my thirteenth, and even my fourteenth year, I started having emotional problems, and really critiquing myself. I ended up really hurting myself by the harsh judgement, and I stopped writing for those two years. (Excepts journals. I cringe at how brutal I was to myself and everything around me during that time period). I thought I wasn't 'good enough' at writing, and was just wasting my time.

I don't really remember what inspired me to pick up the pen again, but my return came in the form of a novel called, "The Key to D'Lair". I recall telling myself, "if I can't make this work, I won't ever write again". D'Lair (as I called it) was my last hope. I poured everything into that book. Everything.
It was roughly about a girl who is given a key by a stranger, and is given a map and told she "is the guardian" before the stranger died of wounds.
She, the girl was named Tarine, goes on a quest to discover just what she was guardian of, meeting a Seer, an exiled Prince, and a jack of all trades along the way.
Basically, she is guardian of the last two dragons, and must use them to recover the throne from the evil king and his son and return Miles (the prince) to his rightful place.
D'Lair didn't work out. It had too many holes, cliches and character flaws. but it restarted the passion for writing, and I'm afraid I haven't stopped since.
I still have the hundreds of notes, and notebooks I filled with D'Lair. Sadly, most of my pre age 13 writing was disposed of during my hating time. And so I cling to D'Lair as the first thing I really wrote.

The next writing landmark came with November 2012, NaNoWriMo. I, firstly, met all the lovely lasses on this blog through Pepper's group. They have made writing 10000000% more enjoyable.
And secondly, something just clicked that November. I began taking writing so much more seriously, and even though I can't put my finger on it, I can just tell "something has changed within me, somehow, I'm not the same". (You should know this, I will randomly slip into lyrics or quotes. Don't be disturbed if I put parentheses around random things. I'm just quoting).

Right now, I actually have several WIPs, as I can't seem to just sit still on one. But my favorite of the four stories hashing around would be "For the Last Time". 

It's a very different novel than anything I've written before (it has a very John Green style). And it simultaneously breaks and gladdens my heart.
The rough and short of it, it starts with the funeral of the heroine, Avian. Her boyfriend, Benson, is at the open casket, with a ring, as he had planned to ask her to marry him that weekend, and brokenly voices his desire to "have one last chance to be worth you". (I'm quoting Myself there. That's real smart aleck of me....) quite suddenly, and for seemingly no reason, he is brought back in time to the days before they had met.
Benson has to win her heart all over again while still trying to be better for her. Throughout the book, he realizes she will just die again, unless he can stop the cause of her death before it has a chance to happen.
Basically, the whole book is a lot of bittersweet sad happiness.
And I haven't decided if Avian dies a second time or not. 
I got the idea while listening to random coldplay songs. the sad beauty of them inspired me to write something of...well, sad beauty. 

So....uh, yeah. This is me, Chamomile. It's gonna be a blast, ok? 

“Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea! How did it exist? I am glad I was not born before tea.”

-Sydney Smith