etchings to a lost god

this is a blog for no one. really. just some attempt to write, write, write and pray one day the fates will shine on me.

if you've for some reason stumbled upon this blog then hello i'm nektari (he/him) and dyslexic which i say just to apologize in advanced for the spelling/grammar mistakes

♥♥♥ welcome home ♥♥♥ stick around if you wish or leave as soon as going gets tough...

you can find versions of this blog:

neocities

here we go again..

tell me that you really love me...

we wanted our names in lights...

post(work)party depression.

I didn’t write much in 2024. I hardly consider myself much of writer even in the years where I wrote hundreds of thousands of words. The main reason being I have never felt very good at it. Bad chefs are still chefs. Bad plumbers are still plumbers. Bad writers are still…

Failed writers?

I get it in theory. But I suppose I've never really taken writing that seriously like the way I do painting. I do want to improve my craft and all but I found I had an ultimatum: painter or novelist? I chose painter. I don’t regret my decision I love painting and perhaps it comes more naturally than it does writing but I can't help but miss it. Theres something about relationships, narrative and conflict consuming my mind that really does it for me, in a way that pigments can't.

As I am typing this Brandon Sanderson is releasing his writing science fiction and fantasy lectures series again. His pervious lectures changed my life. I am not here to gush about the resource that those are to writers of any level however I am here to say that, I tried to follow a piece of advice that he gave, you need to be consistently writing and finishing novels. It's important to finish them.

This is obviously great advice, yes if you want to be a professional novelist, you indeed to write, edited and finish novels. Ideas are only as good as your skill and all that. So that’s what I tried to do when I had an idea. I tried to see it through to the end. The problem is I didn’t want to be a fulltime writer, at least at the moment.

The novel would consume my life. I would write and think, and write and think some more and keep doing that until I just didn't anymore and I felt I had my life back. I have finished quite a few short stories and only one first draft to a novel.

It's hard to finish a novel. Like really hard.  It took me a long time to figure out that a novel is not just a collection of scene a way an album, poetry collection or painting solo show can be. There needs to be narrative or purpose to why your writing these particular scenes in this particular order. There are just so many things to juggle and so many things to think about. It's why I love novel writing, however, it just takes so much time.

Novels are self-portraits of the author at a particular time in many ways. When I had time apart from a novel, I found that I wanted to change everything about the it ship of theseus style.

In the writing world, I am a considered a panser which means I don’t follow outlines or much plans for my novels. One would think that I would plans as I love to categories, track and put into lists everything else in my life. But in same way, it's obvious when someone tries to script a social interaction, it's obvious when I writer uses an outline. Not that it's always a bad thing, but to me narrative is the consequence for the character actions and how am I to know how these characters are going to act before they do.

Even the novels I have tried to outline are hard to come back too. I've tried to write through it but it comes a point where I was just writing a different book where nothing of the old would stay, so what was the point of not abandoning it?

I can write a novel consistently or not at all.

Short stories seem like the next obvious choice. That’s my goal to write a lot more of. But short stories are a different beast to novels. Being concise is hard and evidently, I am not well versed in that.

I've written short stories before but I fall into the trap that a lot of novelist find with short stories, that their short story turns into a larger and larger stories until they are just novels. That’s how a lot of my novels start.

Having said that, I do need to study short story structure more and just write ones that are bad and unresolved. Fleeting moments, scenes, endings, beginnings, unfulfilled promises, all that stuff. I need more practice. My short stories always seem to be in need of saving, so I write and write and write and before I know it. Bam. It's just chapter one.

I've been focusing so much on visual arts I haven't found a place for my writing in my life. With art school, I don’t find a lot of time for refined paintings but I have found a lot of success in drawing in my sketchbook so much so that I complete well over ten a year, probably more around fifteen. And so I wondered do writers have sketchbooks? Are those notebooks? What do writers even put in them?

This is partly why this blog exist to find that out. A sketchbook for a writer. A place where I can experiment and develop my craft before using it for something more intensive again.

Afterward: a bunch of these 2024 year in review have been sitting in my onenote for over a year mostly written. in January I had more to say than this but now as you might imagine, I have no idea what I wished to say. Some of them were meant to have goals attached to them either I didn’t write them or didn’t find them. Its funny how so little has changed yet so much

Written: 27/01/2025

lost god journals: #5

Dear Lost God,

After writing the previous entry, I decide to add a bunch of my old teen writings on to this blog. Rather than letting them rot in the depth of google keep and word docs, I've decide to share them here. Some of the mcr fanfiction, well a lot of a the my chemical romance fanfiction, I'm not going to share. Most of it is way too bad, cringe and unedited to ever see the light of day on even a personal blog but anything else I can salvage will be useful.

The idea of this blog is being anything I want, not just weird prose that could be contemporary poetry but I put it into paragraphs. I can do whatever I want and I want that freedom. It also shows how much I have written over the years or a hint of it. Most of it is unedited and I think that was really holding me back but I'm glad it has more of a home now.

I want to put a bunch of unfinished stories onto here as I have many. I might edited them, though, I don’t know how much. My teen stuff I mainly just formatted it to put on this blog and fixed some spelling and grammar but I did not do anything major just copy edits. With other stuff, I'm into the idea of editing old things and I can just even post both versions.

I'm not putting my teen writings on ao3 for obvious reasons. Not only do I not want people to read my teen writings first but I mostly have the ao3 blog to keep track of my word count for my goals and how many new posts I've made. So the teen shit will only live here for me to laugh at.

I've mostly abandoned live journal because I didn’t realise that their terms of services banned any lgbt content and it feel unprincipled to post on there, even though I'm sure no one cares about gay posting but anyway. It's why everything left.

I'm thinking of making a neo cities but I don’t know If I want anyone to read this yet. Like should I make a substack? I post on tumblr sometimes but there's way less people on there and I like the idea of the occasion person stumbling upon this blog but I don’t know I really want to even try to get a following you know. It's just for me and me alone.

What if I just did morning pages here for a month? I've been struggling to write them, well, I'm always struggling to write them. But on second thought, I don’t think I'll put morning pages here. The thing is I just can't be as personal, not that I think anyone will read this, but there is a non-zero chance because it's on the internet and if I complain about Sally from Sunday school and if Sally from Sunday school reads it, well you know… But Sally from Sunday school can't read my physical journals unless she breaks into my home and steals them from me. So I do think that journaling on paper is the way to go with morning pages.

I like the idea of typing them for a month and seeing what happens but morning pages are mostly boring so I don’t know. I don’t edit them but I would for the blog so are they really even morning pages then? Glam morning pages? Glamorning pages?

I can obviously type way faster than I write but I think that’s the beauty in morning pages is actually writing, so you can't write as fast as your thoughts are coming but with typing, you can't do as much thinking.

I've been itching to write so much and not just diary entries, I mean ficiton. Real fiction. I haven't written much in the past year, really two, hence this blog. I just want to write. Maybe I'll even finish my fics (I doubt it).

I like typing on my laptop better than my computer which I think is pretty strange. I don’t know maybe I like the smaller keyboard? Or maybe it's just cold in my study. Its either too hot or too cold and nothing in between at least for my body.

How personal do I want to be on this blog? I'm not sure. The question is what if my parents read it one day? I'm not sure if they are going to like what they're going to see. Since I have no other irl friends (well yet, there's always hope), I don’t have to worry about them. Its more just my parents. I don’t think I want to be too specific I like the vagueness and I like lying a bit to make the prose sound more dramatic but there's some stuff I don’t think I can tell you. I hope you understand.

It's something you should think about.

Forever The Phantom in Your Wardrobe,

Nektariiiii

Written: 12/06/2025

Dear Lost God,

Should I add my teen writings to this blog? I think that could be fun to document and where else are they going to live? I want to be part writer sketchbook, part journal. I know you're not meant to over share on the internet, I feel it's more context than over sharing. Plus, you don’t know when I lie. artists should lie more, especially when they write autofiction or memoirs. It's not about the specifics, it's about the emotions.

Your Little Baby Boy,

Nektari

Written: 11/6/2025

Tree stumps in empty parking lots readying to take on the world if only they had a bit of weed killer and a bit more water. Tap dancing on a stage made of old sinks and bath matts because this is what we do now to recycle and it might even help us get funding. I want to make work that matters but I fear that my body only thinks about how it's going function when my parents get to old to help. I never know what to say because I feel too grateful to ever disagree and it feels too painful when I know how much you've done for me. I'm not scared of dying but I fear I'll never create anything before I do and I know that sketches don’t make an artists but one song with enough sales can but I think I want a bit more than that and I think my thoughts are going too far.

Why can't I do if this, else that all day rather than carve picking up a stick and scratching my sorrows into every wall for decades? Can't you just do both? After the jump, if no one comes to save them, well, they just pack their bags and go back to their quite town and I seem to have lost my donkey home. All these black mountain cakes are disconcerting and ominous and that should stop me but I have no other options, do I? I know I can call my uncles but my greek isn't enough to tell that I'm the one who needs help so desperately and not them.

Sorry, for being the worst, I promise I think about my faults more than you ever do.

Written: 26/04/2025

Dear Lost God,

It's been awhile.

I'm sick again, so that’s fun. I've been so unproductive this year.

What have I done?

I don’t know… Like nothing? Completely nothing really this year. It's been quite annoying.

I wanted to do things. I had so many grand plans now that my vitamin d exists again but the migraines are getting worse or maybe they're always been this bad? I don’t know. I can't remember, well, not things like that. I don’t remember so many specifics to make a scientific analysis of my migraines. Well, they get worse in the heat, that's clear. They are worse when I do things and thus get tired. I'm more tired in the heat. And currently so hot and I just can't do anything. I don’t know. I wish I could do something anything. All my time slips away and I wish I had to power to bring it right back.

Your Boy,

Nektari

Written: 11/04/2025

Am I happy or am I just on the verge of a manic episode? Like should it be just another pill to add to the  little list. Do I want to even know what I would be like if I was? Seeing a therapist is just too fucking embarrassing and too much leaving the house for my liking. It's pretty bad at the moment I don’t know what the fuck to actually do or if I want to change but that’s too hard and freaks me out.

Can you give yourself mania? I don’t know if you can but if you can, then I think I just might.

Written: 23/03/2025

He walks in pride into the book shop by the ocean with poems about girls who just want a few less dishes to clean and a whole lot more sunflowers to wither.

The cashier turns a page in an empty little yellow book and points behind Him at the bookshelf of orange books next to door, "If you buy three, you get two free,"

"I'd rather see them all burn." He says.

The orange books are filled with way too many descriptions of nude ladies organising dinner parties and much too little contemplation on why the ancients left us alone.

No wonder those books never sold next to oceans.

The cashier shrugs, "Well," she turns a to a bright pink page. "No one's stopping you."

However, He was stopping Him.

He was no arsonist. He's never even lit a fire in His little godforsaken life. What was He supposed to do? Rub beach pebbles until they ignite? What if it spread to the ocean or the sky? He had read a lot about that in those big green books at the libraries in mountain caves.

He couldn't. No, He couldn't at all. He decided.

Leave that to the experts. They knew how to properly dispose of filth like that.

Written: 5/12/2024

Everything seems o so fabulous in one's little brain of theirs, but, when the water drains and all I'm left with is a dry sponge narrative, it seems like the one was playing such devious tricks in the mind. Keys needing a good bash and boards asking for slap but who wants to go to jail for something like that, plus I don’t really have the energy for anything of the sort. The transistors and prose just love to keep smooching yet the quill and verbs could never be closer to divorce court. The stream of brain goop on paper is just never same, never understood and never really getting anything across. I fear I must pick one, forever a jack--no a taster, yes, a taster, a taster of all and jack of none.

I don’t know if I have the rhythm today, perhaps I haven't had for a while, however, if the one does not play the drums, the one will never learn.

Does the one have something worthy to say or merely wish that the one did…

Written: 24/01/2025, 20/11/2025