Writing in Agony
A friend of mine has just finished the first draft of his novel and
because he thinks I might be a good critic, he’s sent me the files. I
thought it’s going to be hard times for me because I abhor reading
books on a monitor (to date, I’ve only finished 1 e-book) but I’m also
too reluctant to waste papers and printer inks.
And so, I’m quite surprised that I was able to make it past a
hundred pages (out of 150, I guess that’s a novella then) without
batting an eye. I’m thoroughly impressed with his work! I would love to
give a brief summary of it here but I promised him not to tell anyone
yet, though I’ll be glad to advertise his book once it gets published.
For now, I commend him and his work (so far).
At the same time, that only leaves me frustrated. I know how hard it
is to write a novel, but it’s also something I’ve wanted to do. Many
people think I’m weird because I often space out and become quiet. What
they don’t know is that I woolgather. A lot. I have plenty of stories
and characters made and stored in my brain, and I would often assert
that my daydreams are productive because I will write about them
someday. I’ve started writing a few, but because of lack of
words/skills, abundance of bad lucks, or sheer dissatisfactions, my
works are either lost or trashed.
When I was a kid, I did write, but I have never considered it
anything more than a pastime. I’ve only started to fall in love with
writing when I’ve started blogging two years ago, which wouldn’t happen
if it wasn’t because of my female best friend’s VERY persistent urgings
(she’s blogged since the late 90’s I think). It’s only then when I
actually spent time developing my writing skills. To be honest, I never
even thought that this would last long - it’s two years now
and still alive, though no one ever comments there. That’s an
achievement, but I fail to find reasons why I should be smug, since I’m
not even close to finishing a book. And in case you’re wondering how I
could want to create stories but not want to write, let’s just say I
used to want to commit those stories to another medium.
The longest I have gone was write four chapters (plus prologue) of a
story involving spirits who combat catastrophes. Unfortunately, I lost
the draft. Apparently those spirits lost to a flashflood of computer
viruses. My other stories didn’t fare better. I would often write the
first chapter, revise it over and over, and finally decide it’s trash
and promptly erase everything. Oftentimes I would blame myself for not
taking writing lessons earlier in my life, but the fact is that I did
but I churned only soulless essays like how Kenny G’s churned soulless
jazz (he still does that). Unlike Kenny G though, I didn’t earn a
penny. I bemoan not falling in love with writing sooner. I could’ve
been more capable. Yet, I don’t stop imagining (there are reasons why I
called my other blog NIGHTDREAMER, and it’s not just because of Wayne
Shorter), and it feels like my heads about to burst with too much ideas
that don’t have any outlet of release.
So here I am, whiny, yet busy, lazy, aging (24 after a month) and
distracted, unable to do what I want, and bitter that my friend has
finished what I’ve barely started. While he’s currently editing his
draft, I am wistful yet lost in inaction.
Le sigh.
