Megan Wong's Blog

This is probably my favorite flash fiction from my writing vault. I wrote this for an

undergrad writing class and getting to read it in front of all my fellow writers was an

enlivening experience. Part of what made it fun was the accent. When I read this story,

the child's voice has a very distinct southern accent, something that I have had off and

on through my youth. You may know someone like this, or perhaps this is you, but

there are sounds and voices that we just mimic - getting caught up in their sounds and

they just flow out naturally when they fit the moment.

So, if you can, imagine a southern drawl as you read.

Glowbutts 

Mommy calls them fireflies.

Daddy calls them lightning bugs.

I’m not really sure yet. I don’t want to choose between them. They argue so often that I

want to help them settle one thing. If I can make them agree on one thing, then maybe they

won’t be so mad at each other.

People glow when they’re happy. That’s what mommy and daddy told me a long time ago.

They aren’t glowing right now.

Mommy is yelling at daddy and they don’t notice as I slip outside.

The backyard is a small square of grass with one lonely tree. It’s cooler now and I wonder

if mommy and daddy will cool down too. Maybe they just need time. Maybe they just need

to sit in the grass like me. The grass is wet and short, but I lay in it anyway. I’m waiting

for the bugs. The sky is darkening like a bruise and then I’ll see them. They like to come

when it’s nearly dark. They flit and flicker with their yellow lights. They dance and play

together.

Mommy and daddy used to both come outside with me. They used to play together.

They used to tell me about happy things.

Maybe they just need to remember. I run back inside and they don’t notice as I grab a jar

from the cabinet. The bugs are out, or are they flies? Either way, they’re glowing and

sending messages into the night. 

It’s like the stars came down to flicker amongst the grass. I watch carefully and then…

One.

Two.

I hold my breath as I screw the lid on tight.

Two of my very own. Now I’ll be able to tell if they’re fireflies or lightning bugs.

I stay up late. Way past my bedtime. Mommy and daddy forgot to tuck me in, but it’s okay.

They’ll remember a lot once I tell them what these flying things are. 

Their yelling carries up the stairs and to my room. The jar warms under my hands. Happiness,

I think. My room is in darkness, but I have two stars between my fingers. It’s not scary when

you have two lights that wink at you and tell you that you are not alone.

            Fireflies. I test the word on my tongue. They don’t really look like fire. Up close they’re dark

            little bodies are just...weird. I watch them until my eyes are heavy. They don’t glow so

            much anymore. Their happiness must be leaving. Outside they could be described as lightning,

            but now...not even close. 

            I don’t think either of those names are right. They aren’t fireflies and they aren’t lightning bugs.

        

            So maybe I’ll give them a name.

            Maybe mommy and daddy can agree on something that I give them.

I am quiet. I am soft-footed as I go to the door. They aren’t happy because they’re trapped.

Names and places are heavy. That’s what my glowing friends show me.

Happiness is hard when you’re stuck.

I’ve got a new name for my friends.

It’s a good name too.

A name that feels right when I let them go and watch them fly away into the night.

            The perfect name.

       They’re glowbutts.

 Emotional Reactivity: feeling out of control and sensitive to stimuli.

We all have times where we're not feeling great and maybe the world feels like too much. At this point, we might "blow up" or breakdown over the little things. Something that felt fine or only slightly bothered us on a good day can become the trigger for feeling as if our lives are coming apart. It's not difficult to see why we might explode with anger or dissolve into sadness.

Life is full of stress and we can't always push through it. However, addressing this can be difficult with the feelings of shame or vulnerability plaguing our thoughts. 

It's sometimes easier to view this in literature than to observe it in our own lives, and it can also feel very relatable and safe to read about someone going through an emotional period than to experience it ourselves. 

I'm going to pull from a few of my favorite books to illustrate the process of blowing up and breaking down. Comment below with your own experiences or books that you've read demonstrating this.

Henry H. Neff's The Hound of Rowan - Max yelling at his father after being forced to stay over the winter holiday.Excerpt: "Dad, I'm not coming home!" snapped Max, his frustration and guilt boiling over."
"She's dead, Dad!" Max screamed. "Stop putting up her stocking! Stop putting lipsticks and chocolates and jewelry in that stupid stocking! Mom is DEAD!"
Max is dealing with stress from being homesick. He has also endured years of grief with his father, but while his father has hope for his mother to return, Max has confronted a different reality where she is gone for good. In the past, these different viewpoints probably didn't clash. While Max may have had thoughts about his father acting as if his mother will return, it seems clear that he hadn't addressed his frustration until this point. His stress has made this small act of hope into something he can wield against his father in this emotional blowing up moment.
Now we all say things we don't mean and likely regret afterward. Part of emotional reactivity is reaching the point where the usual checks: empathy and consideration for others, has lost its value. Max is feeling a storm of hurt and frustration which he tries to manage until this part of the dialogue where he can't keep it in. He doesn't want to stay away from his father, but the school has decided for his safety that he must. His father presses against this, unwilling to accept that his son may have a good reason, and adds to the stress Max is feeling. Others can unintentionally make our reactivity worse. Instead of being a comfort, they add pressure to the situation and if we aren't able to communicate what we need or get some space from them - relationships can be damaged.
Naomi Novik's A Deadly Education - El when she thinks everyone has deserted her in the cafeteria.Excerpt: "...and people don't like me enough to help me even if I scream. So I don't bother to scream, but right then in the lunchroom I wanted to stand up on the table and scream at all of them the way I screamed at those bastards in the commune; I wanted to tell all of them I hated them and I'd set them all on fire gladly for five minutes of peace, and why shouldn't I, since they'd all stand by and watch me burn instead."
Sometimes our thoughts get ahead of what's happening. If we've had multiple bad experiences where people have broken our trust, (see all of El's backstory: her father's family, those in the commune, the other students), then we're not going to feel charitable toward others and we can end up with a mindset where it's us vs the world.
However, this is often a cognitive distortion (irrational thoughts which can perpetuate anxiety or depression) and can harm us more because we don't see any other paths in our story. For El, she's dealing with mind reading which is when we start interpreting others thoughts and behaviors without evidence. She sits down and everyone else is sitting at other tables or not looking her way. She's actually used to this, so it's not completely irrational for her to make the conclusion that some of the people who sat at the table during previous meals were doing so to get something from her. However, El overgeneralizes and thinks that every single person must think this way.
This is a silent blowing up/breakdown, but just as important to recognize. When we start to spiral into our thoughts, we increase our likelihood to feel worse and completely hopeless. Then we might disqualify the positives (another cognitive distortion) which means what you think: we don't accept the good things happening and only focus on the hurtful ones. Not great at all.
Sarah J. Maas's A Court of Mist and Fury - Feyre breaking down after Tamlin locked her in the house.Excerpts: "I barely heard him over the roar in my ears."

"I stopped seeing the marble floor, or the paintings on the walls, or the sweeping staircase looming behind me. I stopped hearing the chirping of the spring birds, or the sighing of the breeze through the curtains. And then crushing black pounded down and rose up from beneath, devouring and roaring and shredding. It was all I could do to keep from screaming, to keep from shattering into ten thousand pieces as I sank onto the marble floor...”

At this point, Feyre experiences disassociation (disconnection from yourself and the world around you) and we'd classify this as a breakdown. She's lost hope and doesn't feel heard, so she retreats into herself. If you know the story, then Feyre has experienced multiple traumas and now struggles with the pressure of who everyone wants her to be. Her stressors have only multiplied from the first book and I find that the depth to Maas's storytelling is in the emotional realities of the characters. These aren't easy things to deal with and a victory isn't always what we think it is.

Feyre has come close to break several times in the beginning of ACOMAF and just manages to stifle her feelings. She denies her inner experience and this leads to the accumulating stress. Anytime we deny our emotions or someone else does, we create a division within ourselves and a breakdown of our self-worth. We're basically telling ourselves that what we feel isn't important and so we're not important.

Feyre's emotional reactivity keeps increasing - if she was at a 4 on a scale of (1-10, 1 = non-reactive and 10 = highly reactive), then by the time we get to this point, she's probably around an 8 or 9. The addition of stressors with no relief allows for this to continue to the point where she dissociates and her power manifests as the swirling darkness.

Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind - When Kvothe's instrument is broken and he calls the wind only to be left hollow.Excerpt: "I opened my mouth to howl, to cry, to curse him. But something other tore from my throat, a word I did not know and could not remember."
"My mind was a whirl of confusion and half-formed questions...All around me there was a great numbness, as if I were sealed in wax ten inches thick. There was no Kvothe, only the confusion, the anger, and the numbness wrapping them."
First, Kvothe experiences an emotional blow-up which takes the form of the wind. He has reached a point of detachment from self and similar to Feyre, he reaches dissociation. We can probably assume that it becomes a combination of depersonalization and derealization. First, he dissociates from who he is as a person and loses his sense of self. Second, he is aware of his surroundings but feels separate from them. The numbness and comparison of wax around him really illustrates how far removed he is and how difficult it is for him to interact with others. He is literally in a different state of mental being and can't connect. 
This separation again comes from the amount of stress and in this case, grief. 
Grief is normal and a valuable process for our minds to experience. We can't rush it, so Kvothe's grief itself isn't the problem, but how it takes him away from his self and from others is. When we get to a state where we can't be reached, then we're unable to cope or care for ourselves. We've lost our independence of functioning and that's usually when we strongly need support. Family, friends or mental health services become vital to keep us from going it alone. We're always stronger together.#
What did you think of these characters and their emotional reactivity?  Have you had similar experiences? Comment below with your thoughts!
As a final note, none of these are "bad" or "negative", they're natural. But a blow up or breakdown is a signal to ourselves that something isn't working, so we need to respond in appropriate ways to manage. We can even learn to reduce stressors and lower our emotional reactivity if it's not serving us. Show compassion to yourself by seeking help when you need it and stepping away from unhealthy things.
Next time, I plan to explore the aftermath of these experiences and explore how we can support ourselves and others as we go through tough emotions. See you then!

 Wow, it feels like forever since I've done one of these (if at all) and it's really making me reflect on where I've been these last 3 years. Because 2020 was something - I think most can agree that any established plans were knocked aside and unpredictableness was a hallmark of the times.

I still remember the early musings and confusion. We kept wondering, "Is it serious?" "What do I need to do?" "What does this mean?" "They can't really shut everything down?" 

And then, well... a lot happened. Turned out the world could shut down and most of our lives along with it. It felt surreal to be at home, look outside and see nature looking fine but hearing all the news and feeling terrible. 

I was still in school and ended up finishing my education online. And while I was in school, I was working - in a bookstore to be exact - and for a while we continued and then I was furloughed (It was an interesting experience and my first time hearing the word). 

But let's fast forward, that was 2020 and here we are in 2023.

I graduated as previously mentioned and started working full time in mental health. A field greatly needed during and after the pandemic, so to say we've been busy is an understatement. The interesting thing about mental health is how much we think we know, how much we are currently learning, and how much stigma still remains.

One of my goals is to keep learning, and if you wish to join me, check back in for posts exploring mental health examples in literature. If you have some of your own stories, feel free to comment and share. Each of us has our own experiences, but that doesn't mean we can't learn from each other to find what works for us. 

 You know those sentences in the book that people repeat to each other? The ones that resonate so much with wisdom and empathy that the books become known for those phrases and we put them on t-shirts, mugs, and even our bodies? 

I used to try writing those specifically. They were out of context and pretty in-your-face, but it was fun to imagine these words as ones that people would tell their friends and treasure in their hearts.

None of these made it into actual stories - those quotes just come in the process of writing them - but these were my favorites from the list. Maybe you'll be inspired and find use for something similar:

I’m living my days even if I’m mourning my nights.You could not live off of anger, just get high off its fumes.She may not find it in herself to be kind, but for every tip of the scale, she’d find a way to make it balanced.If the cold ever bothered her, she never let it show. If she had told him she was carved from ice, he would not have disagreed.Impatience was the dog pawing at her heels, patience was the cat that never wanted to be stroked.Death could not be sweeter if it knocked on the door and asked to dine. Castles are always crawling with spies and anyone that thinks otherwise is an idiot.I wield my silence like you wield your words, both are weapons, but which do you think speaks louder?
And my favorite...
My darling, I know flattery well. I worship her on bended knee.

The text below is all an email I sent back in 2019 to a friend who felt hopelessness and who I admired greatly. I hoped this would spur them to do more. (Names have been changed).

Hmm. What to say. I read your chapter, not just skimmed, actually read it and I loved it.

I don't say this lightly. I really did enjoy it. You included the elements of the world into the story so effortlessly that it didn't feel forced.

You wrote Henderson just like the jerk he is, but subtle so that it was a conclusion that a reader could grasp on her own. 

You also made him sympathetic and let me tell you - he was not sympathetic before, but you introduced him so well that even I wanted Fiero to cut him some slack. 

You say that you've lost enthusiasm, well it happens to all of us. It happens to every writer out there.

What would you like me to say? I won't say that magically everything will fall into place that you will come over your anxiety and write as if some idea is burning inside you. I won't say that you should go off on another project and just write what is inspiring you in the moment.

Geez. If we all wrote when we felt productive, there would be no finished books in the world. 

I could see how excited you were when you talked about it, but that doesn't mean that you can't have days where the work feels dull. Days when you just have no interest in what you've written and it all feels pointless. You have to remember that you had those days of lovely inspiration and write anyway. You are a writer, Conn, and perhaps you need that as your mantra. Chant it in your sleep if you have to. But, never forget it.

You think you lost interest because when you write it doesn't feel right. Perhaps it just shows that you have grown in a way and what you wrote before doesn't feel the same because you have matured. Island Whispers felt that way for me. We look back on ourselves and see the parts that weren't strong. So make a choice. 

You say that you're worried that this will become a pattern that you will lose interest in all of your projects before you finish them.

Then commit to this. Show yourself that you can finish something. It's not going to happen overnight and certainly it is not going to appear out of thin air. So even when it feels wrong and when it feels like a struggle, commit yourself to one thing. Write this story.

Stop thinking about what your story could be or all the ways that you could do this or that. Just stop. 

It's not easy to let go of those thoughts, but you need to push past those worries.

Stop setting expectations because you are your own worst critic and you will tear yourself down before you begin.

Set goals. Set milestones. Believe in yourself and know that even if you can't do that, there are others that believe in you.

I'm definitely one of them. If you want to take anything from this semi-rant response email to yours, then know that I do not choose my friends lightly. I do not share my work with just anyone and I do not just give my time for everyone to use. It might seem strange considering I'm an RA, but I am talking about my time not on the job. 

So get a hold of yourself, Waterson. If you wait until the stars align, you'll be staring at the sky forever.  

This is what it means to be a writer:

“Are you trying to be a hero?” he asked.

“I am trying,” I said, spitting the words with my tongue, “to be someone who cares.”

The words spat from my tongue in response. “I am trying to be someone who cares.”

My tongue spat my response upon him in a bitter rain. “I am trying to be someone who cares.”

        "I am trying," I said, "to be someone who cares."

It means to try a thousand words to get the right sound, the right emotion and then to try it all again from the beginning. It means to be a researcher of knowledge beyond us and the bridge between ideas. It is asking a question and trying to find its answer.

 How many times have we heard those words? How many times have we said those words?

It's a well known, not often discussed, truth that we are thinking beings and we need time to process. Our brains can only do so much at once and if we're overwhelmed, less so. If someone has ever told you to "sleep on it," they're not wrong. Many studies and scientific minds have proposed that sleep is a huge factor in our ability to process and a necessary component of our lives. However, many of us face a lack of sleep or inability to sleep due to stress from work, school, social obligations or society as a whole. 

What else can we do then?

I am a firm believer in movement and there is some evidence for physical exercise benefitting our brain. The flow of oxygen and the stimulation provide nutrition to our brain and aide our day-to-day. Walking is definitely a good way to do this, but when I can, I run.

Some people view running like a religion. Some make it their goal with marathons and other races. I honestly see it as a necessary discomfort. Running is rarely easy for me. My consistency is shoddy so my conditioning is poor. My form isn't terrible due to 2 years of high school track, but I'm always finding reasons not to do it.

Yet, it's the one exercise I return to because I feel the most productive afterward. My brain benefits enormously from running. My thoughts seem to accelerate and solve puzzles with every step and by the end I'm brimming with ideas. It's probably one of my best tools for writer's block.

I know the research behind why this is true, but it still amazes me when I hit the trails.

I just wish the self-doubt and criticism didn't catch up to me. While my brain does benefit, my self-esteem suffers. "Look how slow you are!" "See how out of breath you are." "No wonder the doctor says your BMI is overweight." Almost all of these comments are aimed at my physical body. There are some aimed at my motivation and mind, but I'm the best at tearing down my physical nature.

It's a sucker punch and a hand-up all at once which makes me conflicted. Do I keep at it or do I devote myself to something else? 

<Brief Intermission while I take a mouse to the woods. Not that you would know that, but it happened.>

I guess I don't really have an answer for myself, but have you ever had something that helped and hurt you? What would you do? I don't really have any answers today - just thoughts and questions.

 Do you know the halfway point of a story? Can you feel it?

I think we're innately wired for story, not just from the research I've read by Brene Brown or Joseph Campbell's books and essays. There's an intrinsic level of our mind which reads something and forms stories, or describes an event and puts it in a story. We are able to break it down if asked and if we give ourselves time to think about the parts, such as beginning, middle and end.

So, can you say you are able to identify that midway point? I think the answer should be yes and often times we are able to feel it. There's a sense of something turning because that middle place is where change happens, where the shift begins. Sometimes it's obvious, it's where a big event which changes the state of the characters or the course of our lives, and sometimes it's the curtain closing before heralding us to the next act.

At this time, I'm in a few middle points in life and in writing. The change has begun to take hold and I can feel myself swept up in that feeling of something coming. It's both scary and thrilling. I think we often find ourselves in quandaries of emotions when we're vacillating between staying and going, ending and beginning. There's uncertainty and I think that's why we know it's a midpoint too. There are still questions to be answered things are changing for us to find the answers, but we are not there yet.

In writing, it feels like an, "Ah, so now it starts." Not only is the midpoint of my story the pause before the change where it is a turning point in the story - it's a turning point in the narrative as a whole. It's that moment in a hero's arc where they realize there's no going back. If they keep going forward, then the tangled web of their lives will continue reaching outward and become even messier. 

Scary and thrilling.

It can feel intimidating and as many of us can probably attest, we can be the obstacle to our own moving forward. Fear worms a hole into the dreams and the more we think of what could be - we think of where it could all go wrong. This is where comfort gets us and the point about a middle is the moving past comfort. Comfort is where we began and now it is time to shift, to move ourselves forward and know that it will change us.

I drag my heels. Sometimes I firmly plant them and refuse to continue onward. That is when I really need to take a hard look at what I want, why I'm doing this and what I'm so afraid of.

I'm a sprinter when it comes to change, but only when I am certain in what I'm running toward. If I can't overcome the doubt then I won't even toe the line, but if for one moment I'm able to muster courage then I will start to run - and I won't stop for anything. There is a problem with barreling into a change, but I won't get to that in this post. 

Instead, let's focus on that moment of indecision and when you start to run. There's the middle again. We've had it with our doubts and made-up our mind. Commence the sequence of changes. In life this could be a change in job, a change in relationships, a change in place, a change in mindset or so much more. We've reached our turning point and I suppose now we can answer ourselves the question of who rings the changes: we do. Every moment of our lives there is movement going on in the world and we are ringing the changes.

We can feel the shift as it happens. We know when something clicks. It's not a knowing of good or bad just a knowing of what is and could be. So the midpoint of a story is an important thing. Pay attention. It's where it all begins.

 Sometimes I forget the things I write and when I go back through the documents I'm surprised by what I find. Here is something creepy and I can't remember why I wrote it. There might have been a prompt. There might have been some real reason but all I can say is this chills me to the bone.

Word Count: 768



Perfection
By
Megan Wong





A gum wrapper for Trident mint flavored gum.

A nail file with pink plastic on the end.

A Ticonderoga #2 Pencil still sharp.

#
His smile makes her feel beautiful. It is the kind of smile that is wide enough to show two rows of white teeth, along with a lift in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. It makes her feel good, so she smiles back. He is a stranger. Some random person also waiting for the bus, but she smiles and notices that he has absentmindedly left a pencil behind one ear, like a contractor.

It reminds her that she lost one of her pencils. A touch of her own absentmindedness, when she usually has five pencils on her desk at all times. Five sharpened pencils that she keeps in a line on her desk. She is not usually lackadaisical about her work, but she has been distracted lately.

She lives on her own in a one bedroom apartment with a view of the dumpsters in the alley. She would love to live in one of those apartments by the river, even if it does flood when it rains. She would love to lead the life in romance novels with something exciting happening every moment. She would love these things, but she knows that life does not work that way.

Not for her.

The bus arrives and she gets on, choosing the first seat that is open. The man who smiled sits a few rows behind her. She still feels happy that he smiled at her. Something nice and random, something sweet to think about for the rest of her ride.

It is nice to think of strange men and convince herself that they think she is beautiful. It is nice to be beautiful in someone else’s eyes because, in her own, she is plain. She is a middle aged woman, unmarried, working at an accounting firm, with mousy hair and a jutting chin. She is no one to anybody and invisible among the many faces on the street.

These thoughts lower her spirits, but she reminds herself that the man smiled at her. The man who is still a few rows away and, if she is feeling bold, she might go and speak to him. Such a silly thought to alter her routine and bold behavior is for heroes in stories. So she sits and waits until it is her turn to get off.

The door to her apartment looks gloomy. The paint is chipped and the door knob rattles as she inserts the key. She begins to open the door when she feels a hand on her neck. It is gentle, a caress of soft skin and she turns to see the man. The man on the bus. The man who smiled. He is smiling now as he presses a mask to her face.

She stumbles, but he eases her down as she starts to succumb to whatever she is inhaling. Everything becomes dreamy like that moment before a surgery and she blinks stupidly at that wide smile, now wondering what it really means.

#
She is cold. So cold. Her eyes feel frozen shut and she is losing consciousness again. She struggles to open them, to remember. She should have turned down her air conditioning. She should have grabbed a blanket before she went to sleep. She should have…

#
He smiles. She is saved now. She is saved.

Such a beautiful representation of humanity.

He places her things: the gum wrapper, the nail file and the pencil in a drawer. Mementos of her and her life, her existence before she succumbed to mortality. But, he has saved her beauty. He has saved her from age and a slow death at the hands of the societal wheels. She is a moment in time. A frozen image of beauty.

This is his studio. He brings them all here. All of his masterpieces.

The room itself is freezing. It has to be kept that way. The different coffins of glass and technology need to be protected. Others would not understand. They would be frightened by the frozen people beneath the glass. She is the fifth of his works and he takes time to smile at each body in turn.

He is so happy that he has added this woman to his collection. Humanity through time, he would call it, if he cared to share it with others.

Perhaps one day. For now, he sits in a chair, steepling his fingers together as he watches the breath slowly stop clouding the glass.

She is, in a word, perfect.



###

So this is a bit of old news from December 17th 2019, but it reads well so I've decided to share.
I keep a journal. I don't consistently write in it, but when I feel like it or when I'm bored I'll write something. This particular journal lasted exactly a year. From May of 2019 to May 2020, and boy do things changes in just a short amount of time.
So here is that entry with a few edits:
"Earlier today I felt a surge of anger and hopelessness. I'd just come back from meeting with my advisor about practicum and I felt ill-prepared, unworthy, useless -- take your pick, but I wasn't feeling good and there I was sliding in mud trying to get home.
I had decided to walk to campus and since it had been a wet few days, every trail had a mud pit that could send the unwary into the earth. It's fun at first, but then it's annoying. Your feet go all over. The mud is just waiting to cover you and well, it's just another hassle.
My mood went from a dull evening to a stormy night.
Then I thought of Ruana.
My thoughts had turned to hopelessness so I called on my strong character to save me from myself. Ruana has horrible self-esteem but she does believe that her life is worth something. She would say, "Well, maybe, I didn't make a difference in someone else's life. Maybe, I didn't have some greater purpose. But even if Cossu (the god of the dead) himself came to claim me for the dead. I would not go until I chose to."
Her free will and desire to live is strong. She will not be imposed upon. She will be the guardian of her own fate and those that cross her must beware her wrath. (Very dramatic stuff here).
Ruana doesn't fool herself into thinking she is a kind or even good person. She's hostile and slow to trust, but she is steadfast and unwavering to those she cares about. I think her conviction grounds me. She has little self-pity. The facts of her life stand as they are and she will come out on top.
In a world where everyone is fighting to survive and cruel people seek to conquer, she is forged in shifting sands -- adaptable, relentless and never what she's not.
The desert does not pretend to be a safe place or try to pacify those who enter it. It is a strict force of nature that states, "I am wild abandon. Live or die. I do not care. You are but another speck of dust. I will show you no mercy, no reprieve. I do not regret what I am or wish to change myself. Enter with courage or not at all. Your fate is your own to master."
Which seems eloquent for a geographical biome with varying characteristics across continents. Still it rings true. The desert will suffer no weakling, will spare no one who does not fight to live.
Ruana knows this. She lives by it, and she reminds herself that she is a desert girl and tougher than she looks.
I don't think I could have asked for a better protagonist. She is not perfect, but I don't want her to be. I love her, imperfections and all, she is an inner strength I can rely on.
"One foot in front of the other," she would grumble as I did walking on those slippery trails. "Eventually you'll end up somewhere."
And I did."

Ruana is the MC (main character) from my current work-in-progress. I think I've mentioned her before but just in case you read this and then wonder if you're missing something - you are and I just haven't gotten around to sharing much about it yet. My apologies. If things go as planned, Ruana will make her debut into the world soon.