I received some pretty amazing gifts this year for my birthday, but most important to me are the smiles of my friends and the time they spent with me or wishing me a happy birthday. Just a few words doesn't seem like much, but to me, it can mean the world.
Everyone gave me just a little bit of time that day, and thought of me. Nothing is more precious to me.
I thank God for moments like this. May He keep me always like I am: appreciating all the little thoughts.
They count more than gold.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Learning to Write
I sat down today meaning to read a book about how to write. The book, entitled Bird by Bird, came highly recommended to me. When I took it down from my shelf, I looked at it, just simply looked at it. I did not read a single word from within the book chapters. I scanned the table of contents instead. At that moment, I thought to myself, closed the book, and put it back on my bookshelf.
I decided I will not read a book that teaches me how to write until I finished writing my own book.
This sounds foolish and silly, so perhaps I should back up a bit and put things in context. I had been scratching out notes to myself for most of the day about how to write. This was not something new to me. I do this almost all the time. I have notes saved on my computer, notes written in notebooks and note cards and even notes on my iPhone. I have them everywhere.
Somewhere during the day, I thought I was approaching writing like I was approaching any other subject I try to learn and master. Scientifically. I would examine anything related to the art of good writing, be it an example of good writing or bad writing, and I would make observations. I would jot down techniques such as the use of simile's in prose or, if my subject matter was a visual medium, techniques on plot and character development. Today's subject was the TV series Bones. (As a side note, I must say, the show impressed me.)
At first I was ashamed and frustrated at my sudden realization of what I was doing. I dislike the thought of containing all the tools of such a dynamic and creative art with labels, formulas or what have you. I had written labels for every note that I wrote: techniques, analysis, references. Looking upon it, I shuddered in disdain and fear. Writing was the only liberating study I had ever discovered. Science and math had always seemed dead and lifeless. I could study biology, the very basis of life, and feel it limiting me and trapping me. The sciences may let me quantify life but writing let me experience it. More than that, writing allowed me to share life as well.
Writing was alive to me, the sciences dead.
The horror of me turning something alive to something lifeless really paralyzed me. Thankfully, however, it only lasted for a moment. It did not take me long to realize that writing will always and forever be alive to me. It always fills me with a rush. Each moment so sublime it transcends almost any joy that I have ever felt. Inspiration will always be its breath of life, and the feelings I put in will be its heartbeat. Writing is truly the subject for me. I can study it an analyze it, and the more I do so, the better I can write. And the better I can write, the better I feel like I can experience life.
So why did I put the book that taught how to write away? Because writing is my craft. My own from learning it the way I want to learn it to creating it the way I envision it. I do not wish for someone else to take me by the hand to show me how to go about it. It is not ego and pride that makes me like this, it is simply fear. I fear that if I follow someone else's path, I will be writing just like someone else. No matter how famous they are, or how much I may like their writing, I cannot allow my writing to become a copy. It means too much to me. At this point in time, I feel I am quite impressionable and I do not trust myself in reading literature about writing literature with distance. For now, I want to study it on my own in my own way and produce writing on my own with my own means. So that one day, when I publish, be it good or bad literature, I know that it is unique and original.
Although, with a very fond smile, I can say that the stories I write, however, will never be just my own. They contain pieces of me, pieces of stories I heard, and of course, pieces of every person that has walked in my life. No, I would say rather, the stories I write may wholly belong to those I have been so very fortunate enough to meet. It is their enjoyment that brings me inspiration and their support that keeps me going.
Writing may be my art, but stories will always be everyone's.
I decided I will not read a book that teaches me how to write until I finished writing my own book.
This sounds foolish and silly, so perhaps I should back up a bit and put things in context. I had been scratching out notes to myself for most of the day about how to write. This was not something new to me. I do this almost all the time. I have notes saved on my computer, notes written in notebooks and note cards and even notes on my iPhone. I have them everywhere.
Somewhere during the day, I thought I was approaching writing like I was approaching any other subject I try to learn and master. Scientifically. I would examine anything related to the art of good writing, be it an example of good writing or bad writing, and I would make observations. I would jot down techniques such as the use of simile's in prose or, if my subject matter was a visual medium, techniques on plot and character development. Today's subject was the TV series Bones. (As a side note, I must say, the show impressed me.)
At first I was ashamed and frustrated at my sudden realization of what I was doing. I dislike the thought of containing all the tools of such a dynamic and creative art with labels, formulas or what have you. I had written labels for every note that I wrote: techniques, analysis, references. Looking upon it, I shuddered in disdain and fear. Writing was the only liberating study I had ever discovered. Science and math had always seemed dead and lifeless. I could study biology, the very basis of life, and feel it limiting me and trapping me. The sciences may let me quantify life but writing let me experience it. More than that, writing allowed me to share life as well.
Writing was alive to me, the sciences dead.
The horror of me turning something alive to something lifeless really paralyzed me. Thankfully, however, it only lasted for a moment. It did not take me long to realize that writing will always and forever be alive to me. It always fills me with a rush. Each moment so sublime it transcends almost any joy that I have ever felt. Inspiration will always be its breath of life, and the feelings I put in will be its heartbeat. Writing is truly the subject for me. I can study it an analyze it, and the more I do so, the better I can write. And the better I can write, the better I feel like I can experience life.
So why did I put the book that taught how to write away? Because writing is my craft. My own from learning it the way I want to learn it to creating it the way I envision it. I do not wish for someone else to take me by the hand to show me how to go about it. It is not ego and pride that makes me like this, it is simply fear. I fear that if I follow someone else's path, I will be writing just like someone else. No matter how famous they are, or how much I may like their writing, I cannot allow my writing to become a copy. It means too much to me. At this point in time, I feel I am quite impressionable and I do not trust myself in reading literature about writing literature with distance. For now, I want to study it on my own in my own way and produce writing on my own with my own means. So that one day, when I publish, be it good or bad literature, I know that it is unique and original.
Although, with a very fond smile, I can say that the stories I write, however, will never be just my own. They contain pieces of me, pieces of stories I heard, and of course, pieces of every person that has walked in my life. No, I would say rather, the stories I write may wholly belong to those I have been so very fortunate enough to meet. It is their enjoyment that brings me inspiration and their support that keeps me going.
Writing may be my art, but stories will always be everyone's.
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Note from my Past
I had been digging through my old writings today and I found a story I had written during the beginning of my senior year of high school. It was titled "A story loosely based on modern life" or perhaps "Aie Kaan". I remember at one point sending it out in e-mails to my friends as a series of chapters. They had enjoyed it, I believe.
Reading the story again after so long, I had expected myself to react with strong, vehement disdain like I usually do when reading past pieces. Yet, this one managed to escape this anger. In fact, I found myself enjoying the piece, admiring it, and at time, even finding life lessons in it. It joins the only other piece that I had written in my high school days that had managed to do this, Skip and Shuffle.
To be sure, the writing lacked some maturity in places. Some bits of grammar were wrong and some descriptions sub-par or even nonexistent. Yet, as a whole, the story and particularly the voice of the piece stuck out admirably. I was surprised that I could write such a thing. Even more surprising, as I had hinted at earlier, I managed to gain some deeper insight about life that I had perhaps lost touch with since then through this piece. In fact, I could almost say that though the piece was written in a very stream of consciousness fashion, the honesty of it and the inclusiveness of all my thoughts at the time seemed very much like a letter to me from my past to my present self written in story form. At times this simile seemed eerily true.
The story starts out with somewhat of a discourse by the main character about how life felt so very boring to him. He follows this by saying that he wished for adventure, even if, while on the adventure, he starts wishing for a normal life again. The main character understands perfectly well that stories of "wishing for adventure" oftentimes leads to the moral of "be careful of what you wish for", but he wishes to learn this lesson firsthand instead of suffering the monotony and mediocrity of everyday life. Perhaps, he stipulates, he would appreciate it more.
I cannot help but marvel at how clairvoyant the piece was about the future of my life from that point forward. I was indeed thrust into an adventure called college, and indeed, during the turbulent years I wished dearly to return to some ordinary, run of the mill, mediocre life. Truly, I have started to appreciate my past time in high school, and I would often think about it fondly.
Yet, here, the story of "Aie Kaan" seems to antipate this and within, a gem of insight rests for me to gleen here at 21 years of age. I shall not paraphrase here, but rather, just display it. Though I think the virtues of the followinig philosophy to be idealistic, I cannot help but to embrace it. So, in all its unedited, raw form, here is an excerpt of the story that was loosely based on modern life:
Life had these moments that I’d love to replay over and over again. I remember, quite vividly, one beautiful, sunny day. That gorgeous summer day probably could not have been more perfect. The sky shone a deep azure and the wind swept gently along the field. Most of my friends had found their way back from their various travel places. (We threw a surprise party for one that didn’t.) My friends’ eyes sparkled with genuine laughter. The world, full of its stresses, worries and noise, fell away. For that splendid time, the laughing faces, the bright blue sky, the green grass, that was my world.
Sometimes I think about those times or events like it. Sometimes, I’d wish those times would be my world again. I wished to take up that figurative remote control and rewind to those times. I would replay it over and over again. Yet, like I said, I would probably never use that remote control. An overwhelming principle stops me. To live in the past, to wish to go back to those times, can be defined as escapism. It implies a general belief that all that is good has already happened, and it inspires an apathetic attitude to the present. After all, if all my thoughts dwelled in the past, how could I possibly live in the present? By virtue of polarity, if all my thoughts worried about the future, I still could not live in the present.
So, I let go of that remote control. It is not for me to use. God deemed me to be here and now and here and now I shall stay. Like a little toy boat at the mercy of a mighty river, so I float on the mighty river of time. Yet, this is my adventure, my excitement that I was seeking. I would never be able to find the pyramids if I stayed in the harbor of my past. So, I’m swept onward on this river, drinking in each moment.
Indeed, I am reminded by this note from my past to live life to the fullest at this very moment. This is my adventure and I need to live it.
Reading the story again after so long, I had expected myself to react with strong, vehement disdain like I usually do when reading past pieces. Yet, this one managed to escape this anger. In fact, I found myself enjoying the piece, admiring it, and at time, even finding life lessons in it. It joins the only other piece that I had written in my high school days that had managed to do this, Skip and Shuffle.
To be sure, the writing lacked some maturity in places. Some bits of grammar were wrong and some descriptions sub-par or even nonexistent. Yet, as a whole, the story and particularly the voice of the piece stuck out admirably. I was surprised that I could write such a thing. Even more surprising, as I had hinted at earlier, I managed to gain some deeper insight about life that I had perhaps lost touch with since then through this piece. In fact, I could almost say that though the piece was written in a very stream of consciousness fashion, the honesty of it and the inclusiveness of all my thoughts at the time seemed very much like a letter to me from my past to my present self written in story form. At times this simile seemed eerily true.
The story starts out with somewhat of a discourse by the main character about how life felt so very boring to him. He follows this by saying that he wished for adventure, even if, while on the adventure, he starts wishing for a normal life again. The main character understands perfectly well that stories of "wishing for adventure" oftentimes leads to the moral of "be careful of what you wish for", but he wishes to learn this lesson firsthand instead of suffering the monotony and mediocrity of everyday life. Perhaps, he stipulates, he would appreciate it more.
I cannot help but marvel at how clairvoyant the piece was about the future of my life from that point forward. I was indeed thrust into an adventure called college, and indeed, during the turbulent years I wished dearly to return to some ordinary, run of the mill, mediocre life. Truly, I have started to appreciate my past time in high school, and I would often think about it fondly.
Yet, here, the story of "Aie Kaan" seems to antipate this and within, a gem of insight rests for me to gleen here at 21 years of age. I shall not paraphrase here, but rather, just display it. Though I think the virtues of the followinig philosophy to be idealistic, I cannot help but to embrace it. So, in all its unedited, raw form, here is an excerpt of the story that was loosely based on modern life:
Life had these moments that I’d love to replay over and over again. I remember, quite vividly, one beautiful, sunny day. That gorgeous summer day probably could not have been more perfect. The sky shone a deep azure and the wind swept gently along the field. Most of my friends had found their way back from their various travel places. (We threw a surprise party for one that didn’t.) My friends’ eyes sparkled with genuine laughter. The world, full of its stresses, worries and noise, fell away. For that splendid time, the laughing faces, the bright blue sky, the green grass, that was my world.
Sometimes I think about those times or events like it. Sometimes, I’d wish those times would be my world again. I wished to take up that figurative remote control and rewind to those times. I would replay it over and over again. Yet, like I said, I would probably never use that remote control. An overwhelming principle stops me. To live in the past, to wish to go back to those times, can be defined as escapism. It implies a general belief that all that is good has already happened, and it inspires an apathetic attitude to the present. After all, if all my thoughts dwelled in the past, how could I possibly live in the present? By virtue of polarity, if all my thoughts worried about the future, I still could not live in the present.
So, I let go of that remote control. It is not for me to use. God deemed me to be here and now and here and now I shall stay. Like a little toy boat at the mercy of a mighty river, so I float on the mighty river of time. Yet, this is my adventure, my excitement that I was seeking. I would never be able to find the pyramids if I stayed in the harbor of my past. So, I’m swept onward on this river, drinking in each moment.
Indeed, I am reminded by this note from my past to live life to the fullest at this very moment. This is my adventure and I need to live it.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Twenty One Years
Twenty one years of age means adulthood. It means something between young and full of life and mature responsible person. And I am not sure how I feel about tonight.
To be sure, unlike my previous birthdays, on this one I actually feel different, but not in a radical change type of way. Rather, I notice a few small changes about me that had built up over the course of the year to make me a little different. With this observation, I feel oddly reflective, optimistic, and well, different.
I guess in a way, I feel like me, the one that existed back in high school. It took me awhile to find me, and it took me awhile to embrace it, but now I feel wholly like me. This was a feeling that I had achieved in high school, but I had lost it somewhere along the way. Now, I have my optimism again and my exuberance. I have my sappiness back along with my idealism. I feel alive and well.
Yet, at the same time, I'm not the kid I was back in high school. I suppose I could only say that I have matured over the years. My taste in things have become more sophisticated. My optimism leveled somewhat by experience; my idealism weighted with reality. Though, not all things have been merely balanced. Some things have deepened. I do not care as much about other people's judgments about me. Of course, I will appologize if you think I am overly girly or what have you. Yet, I will still love reading books like Pride and Prejudice and watch movies like The Sound of Music. That is me.
And, thinking on this, I find that I like it this way. To me, this is life. I don't mind writing silly stories with the Sex and the City as my background noise and distractor. This is my twenty one years of age picture: cheerful, contemplative, creative, and capricious. Less talking, more listening. Less rambunctious, more appreciative.
Less trudging, more living.
And that is all I can ever hope to be.
To be sure, unlike my previous birthdays, on this one I actually feel different, but not in a radical change type of way. Rather, I notice a few small changes about me that had built up over the course of the year to make me a little different. With this observation, I feel oddly reflective, optimistic, and well, different.
I guess in a way, I feel like me, the one that existed back in high school. It took me awhile to find me, and it took me awhile to embrace it, but now I feel wholly like me. This was a feeling that I had achieved in high school, but I had lost it somewhere along the way. Now, I have my optimism again and my exuberance. I have my sappiness back along with my idealism. I feel alive and well.
Yet, at the same time, I'm not the kid I was back in high school. I suppose I could only say that I have matured over the years. My taste in things have become more sophisticated. My optimism leveled somewhat by experience; my idealism weighted with reality. Though, not all things have been merely balanced. Some things have deepened. I do not care as much about other people's judgments about me. Of course, I will appologize if you think I am overly girly or what have you. Yet, I will still love reading books like Pride and Prejudice and watch movies like The Sound of Music. That is me.
And, thinking on this, I find that I like it this way. To me, this is life. I don't mind writing silly stories with the Sex and the City as my background noise and distractor. This is my twenty one years of age picture: cheerful, contemplative, creative, and capricious. Less talking, more listening. Less rambunctious, more appreciative.
Less trudging, more living.
And that is all I can ever hope to be.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Writing Challenge
I do this every once in awhile to really make sure that my writing skills keep improving. I guess I have learned a lot over this past year, and particularly this quarter. Things about myself, things about life, and most importantly to me, things about writing.
With each new experience, each new memory, and each new elevation, I realize that there are so many stories out in the world. Somehow, it always seems like a daunting task to want to tell each and every one of them. Yet, in my goal to write and publish an inspiring story, I realize I have improved much to reaching it. My grasp of grammar has become better, so too has my word choice (though I still need to expand my vocabulary) and my voice. With this, and many other improving tools, if I can just keep writing everyday, I feel like I can reach the goals I set out to accomplish.
So, I think it's time for another one of my writing challenges. I'm thinking about writing a short story - around 10 pages or less. To make it a truly an inspiring story, I'm shooting for either a "Christmas Story" or a "Children's Story." I'm hoping the tale will be somewhat timeless and feel good.
Before, my challenges have always been broad in the premise, hoping to only hone in one specific skill or another. Themes have always been something like: practice first person writing, understand the use of present and conditional tenses, practice prose, and understand cadence and alliteration, among others. I won't say I have always followed through on these, or have managed to do anything in much success, yet, I believe I did learn from it.
This new challenge is much more specific in the premise, but much more vague on the skill on which I wish to brush up. I guess if I had to name one, it would be just plain storytelling.
Haha, reading this journal entry, it sounds a bit silly. I don't really understand why I want to write so badly. It's not prestigious. It's not safe. It's not a pathway to wealth. Yet, it makes me happy. I had always dreamed that I would be a famous someone in life. Perhaps an actor, or a talkshow host. Perhaps a professor or a diplomat. Yet, writer? They are little known, little heard, except for the little books they leave behind.
Yet, that suits me just fine. The rush of words fills me. It helps me cope with the stresses of life. And it will always feed the dreams that I have. No matter how old I get, I will never lose this one part of my youth: my dreams. They may be impractical. They may be out of my reach. Yet, I will rather die trying to attain this, than settle for anything else.
It's sad because I have no talent for the craft. Math, science and even the social sciences have always come easier to me than writing. I have always grasped those other things with minimal effort. Yet, here, in the field that I have consistently struggled in, I feel the most free and the most like me.
Thinking on this, I cannot help but smile a sad smile. Perhaps it was meant to be this way. With a bittersweet heart, I will quietly, unbeknown to the rest of the world, complete my own writing challenge. It may be useless. It may not affect the world in anyway possible.
Yet, I will do it.
Because this is my craft.
This is my heart.
With each new experience, each new memory, and each new elevation, I realize that there are so many stories out in the world. Somehow, it always seems like a daunting task to want to tell each and every one of them. Yet, in my goal to write and publish an inspiring story, I realize I have improved much to reaching it. My grasp of grammar has become better, so too has my word choice (though I still need to expand my vocabulary) and my voice. With this, and many other improving tools, if I can just keep writing everyday, I feel like I can reach the goals I set out to accomplish.
So, I think it's time for another one of my writing challenges. I'm thinking about writing a short story - around 10 pages or less. To make it a truly an inspiring story, I'm shooting for either a "Christmas Story" or a "Children's Story." I'm hoping the tale will be somewhat timeless and feel good.
Before, my challenges have always been broad in the premise, hoping to only hone in one specific skill or another. Themes have always been something like: practice first person writing, understand the use of present and conditional tenses, practice prose, and understand cadence and alliteration, among others. I won't say I have always followed through on these, or have managed to do anything in much success, yet, I believe I did learn from it.
This new challenge is much more specific in the premise, but much more vague on the skill on which I wish to brush up. I guess if I had to name one, it would be just plain storytelling.
Haha, reading this journal entry, it sounds a bit silly. I don't really understand why I want to write so badly. It's not prestigious. It's not safe. It's not a pathway to wealth. Yet, it makes me happy. I had always dreamed that I would be a famous someone in life. Perhaps an actor, or a talkshow host. Perhaps a professor or a diplomat. Yet, writer? They are little known, little heard, except for the little books they leave behind.
Yet, that suits me just fine. The rush of words fills me. It helps me cope with the stresses of life. And it will always feed the dreams that I have. No matter how old I get, I will never lose this one part of my youth: my dreams. They may be impractical. They may be out of my reach. Yet, I will rather die trying to attain this, than settle for anything else.
It's sad because I have no talent for the craft. Math, science and even the social sciences have always come easier to me than writing. I have always grasped those other things with minimal effort. Yet, here, in the field that I have consistently struggled in, I feel the most free and the most like me.
Thinking on this, I cannot help but smile a sad smile. Perhaps it was meant to be this way. With a bittersweet heart, I will quietly, unbeknown to the rest of the world, complete my own writing challenge. It may be useless. It may not affect the world in anyway possible.
Yet, I will do it.
Because this is my craft.
This is my heart.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Persuing Dreams
Despite all the doubts and fears I have had in the past and those that I will carry with me as I walk into the future, I cannot help but pursue my dreams.
I will become published one day. I will write a book that will be gripping and inspiring.
Then I will write more.
Count on it.
I will become published one day. I will write a book that will be gripping and inspiring.
Then I will write more.
Count on it.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Treading the Line
I hate writers who cannot do it and writing that does not have it.
Treading the line does not mean social or political activism. Treading the line is when a writer has something they like and a narrative that they wish to tell and can write out both without sacrificing either. This usually means that the writer combats his or her own likes, inspirations, or desires in favor of preserving the all sacred narrative.
I write these sentences with some passion because for the past few days now, all I have been reading are stories filled with writers succumbing to their wants and killing the narrative. Ugh, it disgusts me.
Either the writer will like a character too much, or a character's trait too much, or loves pleasing the fans too much, or something and suddenly, character development, storyline flow, insights, and reader inspiration completely dies. The writing becomes mangled, garbled, confused and frustrating for the reader. It does not inspire, it does not even convey. It just simply rests, speaking with wasted words about nothing!
It's like a writer being struck with some muse that whispers an amazing tale filled with wonder, hope, adventure, and the depths of human emotions, and then along the way, the writer says something like: "Yes, this is great, but the story is getting in the way of my glory!" And then, the writer promptly sabotages it with lackluster, cop-out chapters to fill pages and satisfy his or her vanity.
Concrete examples would be something like the show House. Season one and two had been filled incredible writing. The dark, arrogant doctor House that the viewers understand shows an odd, tortured philanthropist side of him. The character builds. Tension rises. The narrative blooms as powerful and unforgiving. Amazing. Then, at the tail end of season three, it seemed like someone at headquarters decided to fire the writers that made this show good. I suppose they did it in an effort to draw in more viewers at a fast rate, and thus resorted to underhanded tactics. Shock and awe became the paradigm of the writing. The show, for me, tanked. Then, upon seeing this drop in ratings, headquarters must have said: "No! It must be the quick wit of the show AND the shock and awe that drove the ratings! Save it! Save it quick!" And thus they focused solely on wit and shock and awe. What happened to character? What happened to development? Inspiration?
Though, now, I hear that the last two episodes may actually have some redeeming qualities, and so I shall give it some more time and patience before utterly abandoning it. Yet, my point comes across clear.
I despise writing that had an opportunity to instruct, uplift, inspire, complex, convey, or deepen but stubbornly pursued other, cheaper, interests. I despise it even more so than just meaningless dribble.
And now here is the kicker, I am not sure where this line lies for me. This is my most profound fear. I bear this in all honesty, grasping for some sort of comfort. I will not have bad literature published, but I have such a deep bias for my own writing I do not know what that could mean. I know I love certain characters, and certain types of characters. I know I cannot help but indulge in writing lengthy sentences wrought with apt, though unusual words. This is probably why I call it treading the line.
It is all too easy to fall one way or another when walking on this line. Too much narrative causes a dry, thin story barely held up by its skeleton, and too much indulgence makes it fat, cumbersome, and grotesque. I need something in between. Something charming and seductive, passionate and sensual, strong and agile. Something compelling. I really hope that I have a good enough handle on my craft to achieve this.
I will never settle for anything less. And this becomes but one of the many dark tortures my craft deals me even while leaving me in raptures.
God help me tread this line!
Treading the line does not mean social or political activism. Treading the line is when a writer has something they like and a narrative that they wish to tell and can write out both without sacrificing either. This usually means that the writer combats his or her own likes, inspirations, or desires in favor of preserving the all sacred narrative.
I write these sentences with some passion because for the past few days now, all I have been reading are stories filled with writers succumbing to their wants and killing the narrative. Ugh, it disgusts me.
Either the writer will like a character too much, or a character's trait too much, or loves pleasing the fans too much, or something and suddenly, character development, storyline flow, insights, and reader inspiration completely dies. The writing becomes mangled, garbled, confused and frustrating for the reader. It does not inspire, it does not even convey. It just simply rests, speaking with wasted words about nothing!
It's like a writer being struck with some muse that whispers an amazing tale filled with wonder, hope, adventure, and the depths of human emotions, and then along the way, the writer says something like: "Yes, this is great, but the story is getting in the way of my glory!" And then, the writer promptly sabotages it with lackluster, cop-out chapters to fill pages and satisfy his or her vanity.
Concrete examples would be something like the show House. Season one and two had been filled incredible writing. The dark, arrogant doctor House that the viewers understand shows an odd, tortured philanthropist side of him. The character builds. Tension rises. The narrative blooms as powerful and unforgiving. Amazing. Then, at the tail end of season three, it seemed like someone at headquarters decided to fire the writers that made this show good. I suppose they did it in an effort to draw in more viewers at a fast rate, and thus resorted to underhanded tactics. Shock and awe became the paradigm of the writing. The show, for me, tanked. Then, upon seeing this drop in ratings, headquarters must have said: "No! It must be the quick wit of the show AND the shock and awe that drove the ratings! Save it! Save it quick!" And thus they focused solely on wit and shock and awe. What happened to character? What happened to development? Inspiration?
Though, now, I hear that the last two episodes may actually have some redeeming qualities, and so I shall give it some more time and patience before utterly abandoning it. Yet, my point comes across clear.
I despise writing that had an opportunity to instruct, uplift, inspire, complex, convey, or deepen but stubbornly pursued other, cheaper, interests. I despise it even more so than just meaningless dribble.
And now here is the kicker, I am not sure where this line lies for me. This is my most profound fear. I bear this in all honesty, grasping for some sort of comfort. I will not have bad literature published, but I have such a deep bias for my own writing I do not know what that could mean. I know I love certain characters, and certain types of characters. I know I cannot help but indulge in writing lengthy sentences wrought with apt, though unusual words. This is probably why I call it treading the line.
It is all too easy to fall one way or another when walking on this line. Too much narrative causes a dry, thin story barely held up by its skeleton, and too much indulgence makes it fat, cumbersome, and grotesque. I need something in between. Something charming and seductive, passionate and sensual, strong and agile. Something compelling. I really hope that I have a good enough handle on my craft to achieve this.
I will never settle for anything less. And this becomes but one of the many dark tortures my craft deals me even while leaving me in raptures.
God help me tread this line!
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Holy Crap, Yao Ming!
I have always had a sort of harsh measure against my own race in terms of athletes. Oftentimes it seems like Chinese athletes just do not have what it takes to become great. Sure, they can be good but not great. Something always hinders them, be it nerves, pride, class, excuses, and all the other usual gambit of reasons.
So, I had always felt that Yao Ming was an overrated player. His popularity being based on nothing more than the sheer number of Chinese fans that exist in the world. To me, he looked slow. He didn't understand aggression, a key element needed for basketball. He had no flare, no flash. He seemed like he was just what any above average Chinese person would be if they had his height: solid fundamentals and a nerdy study of the game. Simply, no inspiration.
That was, of course, a couple of years back. I stopped watching basketball for awhile, but ever since the olympics I had been hearing more and more of Yao Ming. So, with the same prejudices, I started watching again this year.
What I saw was a different Yao. He had energy. He had hunger. I loved it. More than loved it, I started to admire the guy. Yet checking myself, I kept myself back, thinking that perhaps Chinese pride or something was blinding me. He still seemed weak. Once awhile, I would hear a report of how other players can dunk on him.
Of course, tonight, I am able to confess my manlove for this guy. He played truly inspired basketball today. I cannot help but feel proud and swell in admiration for him. He played a gritty, angry, and hard fought game. A game that people without spines would not have lasted. A game where a solid understanding of basketball could not cut it. He played with heart.
And now, I have to join the other hopeless throngs of starry eyed Chinese fans for him. Ugh. Yet, perhaps it won't be so bad. Perhaps, the reason I dislike cheering for a Chinese athelete or measure them harshly is purely due to my want for one. And after being disappointed time after time again because of the athletes that just didn't have what it takes, I had chosen to disdain them, closing my heart from them forever.
Now, begrudgingly but with a defeated sort of smile, I have to say that Yao Ming has become a hero to me tonight. And I will smirk derisively at anyone who mocks me for this.
=)
So, I had always felt that Yao Ming was an overrated player. His popularity being based on nothing more than the sheer number of Chinese fans that exist in the world. To me, he looked slow. He didn't understand aggression, a key element needed for basketball. He had no flare, no flash. He seemed like he was just what any above average Chinese person would be if they had his height: solid fundamentals and a nerdy study of the game. Simply, no inspiration.
That was, of course, a couple of years back. I stopped watching basketball for awhile, but ever since the olympics I had been hearing more and more of Yao Ming. So, with the same prejudices, I started watching again this year.
What I saw was a different Yao. He had energy. He had hunger. I loved it. More than loved it, I started to admire the guy. Yet checking myself, I kept myself back, thinking that perhaps Chinese pride or something was blinding me. He still seemed weak. Once awhile, I would hear a report of how other players can dunk on him.
Of course, tonight, I am able to confess my manlove for this guy. He played truly inspired basketball today. I cannot help but feel proud and swell in admiration for him. He played a gritty, angry, and hard fought game. A game that people without spines would not have lasted. A game where a solid understanding of basketball could not cut it. He played with heart.
And now, I have to join the other hopeless throngs of starry eyed Chinese fans for him. Ugh. Yet, perhaps it won't be so bad. Perhaps, the reason I dislike cheering for a Chinese athelete or measure them harshly is purely due to my want for one. And after being disappointed time after time again because of the athletes that just didn't have what it takes, I had chosen to disdain them, closing my heart from them forever.
Now, begrudgingly but with a defeated sort of smile, I have to say that Yao Ming has become a hero to me tonight. And I will smirk derisively at anyone who mocks me for this.
=)
Monday, May 04, 2009
Insomnia
Insomnia. My hated enemy. I'm not awake. I'm not asleep. I tread this shadowy middle line, always reaching for one side or another but never actually obtaining it.
Yet, that aside, it does seem to help the productivity of my writing.... until, I'm burned out. Then, it's just a slow decline until exhaustion.
I don't understand whether this state is a blessing or a curse. If only I could up the tempo of my writing, and then sleep for six hours and keep writing.
Well, whatever. This at least beats fever induced writing or my one try at alcohol induced writing. Nothing seemed to come out of either but delirium, like a jumble of mixed words in a rush of excitement. As usual, inspiration does not mean genius.
Now let me sleep.
Yet, that aside, it does seem to help the productivity of my writing.... until, I'm burned out. Then, it's just a slow decline until exhaustion.
I don't understand whether this state is a blessing or a curse. If only I could up the tempo of my writing, and then sleep for six hours and keep writing.
Well, whatever. This at least beats fever induced writing or my one try at alcohol induced writing. Nothing seemed to come out of either but delirium, like a jumble of mixed words in a rush of excitement. As usual, inspiration does not mean genius.
Now let me sleep.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Of Love and Cynicism
Ah, perhaps it is the season, or perhaps it is the myriad of couples that wonder the flower filled campus, but I have started to wish and daydream for a girlfriend after suppressing the desire for awhile. Although, admittedly, I do not really think that I have ever gone long without that thought popping up in my mind.
I suppose I am honestly desperate for love. In shorter terms, I suppose that boils down to something between attention and romantic gazes and, in longer terms, that means something like a committed stable relationship that I can depend and trust with my partner able to do the same thing.
Upon reading and writing this, however, I realize what a sad, pathetic state I am in at the moment. These sort of thoughts should never be actually admitted, or if done so, should be written in some private journal somewhere buried under dictionaries and covered in dust. These are the very thoughts that burn a man to shame and condemn him of being weak and hopelessly romantic.
Yet, for merely the absurd reasons that I do not possess a private journal, and that I have promised myself that I shall be perfectly candid on this site, I have chosen to display my obvious weaknesses and shortcomings for any passerby to mock. I do not really understand why I adhere to the idea of having a perfectly candid blog like it represents all of my integrity as a person. Perhaps, I fear that if I close off even this avenue of sight to my otherwise walled-off, tank-patrolled core, I would utterly lose the ability to open up. After all, I am posting as a relatively anonymous person, without needing to see the reactions of anyone who reads this non-advertised space or confront it. Thus, if I stop posting here, perhaps I have turned truly and entirely cowardly. That, and I'm sure some part of my conscious craves for some sort of attention that my brain has convinced itself must exist out in a void of empty Internet space.
Wow, this is indeed an introspective psychological analysis of one used to psycho-analyzing everything. I'm sure if I tried to dive deeper into my own psyche my mind might implode at the infinite-loop.
Yet, all that rambling aside, I shall state that I am pretty unafraid to say aloud what I desire. Though, this outspokenness on my part can be called a human failing, I do not really care. I really have started to miss courtship and all that really comes with it. If only, and this is a truly laughable wish, I could find someone that I do not have to pursue, but instead, some sort of reciprocation of actions and wants manifest openly, actively, and even proactively. This would be incredible.
Incredible meaning unbelievable. I don't really understand it myself, but I suppose I have gotten sort of jaded to the process of dating. It seems like the task of initiating anything have always and forever fallen squarely into the lap of the male species, even in this 21st century. This isn't really so bad, and I really am just lamenting, but sometimes I do wonder if I should be a person that merely likes to take. It certainly would be a lot easier, and for some reason, it also seems to be an attractive quality in a male.
Ah, I shall never understand it.
All this whining and cynicism aside, (this is the part where Wei comes back to being Wei and not a presumptuous fool) I guess I am merely in want of a relationship which a two way street exists. I shall never be the bastard that I always say I want to be because I don't believe that actually attracts women, and because, well, I simply cannot. I suppose I just like to verbally strike this type of character of a man (because they actually exist) when I feel frustrated and cynical.
In any case, I have not lost heart yet, and hopefully, I never will. I know that, in some cases, the things I look for in a person is difficult to find (like good intentions, a willingness to try new things, and a proactive wish to give) but, then again, I believe in God. If I can believe in an all powerful being that can see and do anything, I can believe that He will find someone that I can fit with, despite my own wishes and whatnot. I, afterall, can also be a very difficult person to deal with and, I am not altogether anywhere close to being a saint.
So perhaps eventually God will lead me to a nun, or perhaps a succubus. Ah, we shall see. In any case, I shall endeavor to be less cynical on this subject and keep hoping. After all, I feel that Wei without his idealism and starry-eyed hope is like the sun without light. It'd be just some defiled, raging husk of a thing.
And no one wants that. =)
I suppose I am honestly desperate for love. In shorter terms, I suppose that boils down to something between attention and romantic gazes and, in longer terms, that means something like a committed stable relationship that I can depend and trust with my partner able to do the same thing.
Upon reading and writing this, however, I realize what a sad, pathetic state I am in at the moment. These sort of thoughts should never be actually admitted, or if done so, should be written in some private journal somewhere buried under dictionaries and covered in dust. These are the very thoughts that burn a man to shame and condemn him of being weak and hopelessly romantic.
Yet, for merely the absurd reasons that I do not possess a private journal, and that I have promised myself that I shall be perfectly candid on this site, I have chosen to display my obvious weaknesses and shortcomings for any passerby to mock. I do not really understand why I adhere to the idea of having a perfectly candid blog like it represents all of my integrity as a person. Perhaps, I fear that if I close off even this avenue of sight to my otherwise walled-off, tank-patrolled core, I would utterly lose the ability to open up. After all, I am posting as a relatively anonymous person, without needing to see the reactions of anyone who reads this non-advertised space or confront it. Thus, if I stop posting here, perhaps I have turned truly and entirely cowardly. That, and I'm sure some part of my conscious craves for some sort of attention that my brain has convinced itself must exist out in a void of empty Internet space.
Wow, this is indeed an introspective psychological analysis of one used to psycho-analyzing everything. I'm sure if I tried to dive deeper into my own psyche my mind might implode at the infinite-loop.
Yet, all that rambling aside, I shall state that I am pretty unafraid to say aloud what I desire. Though, this outspokenness on my part can be called a human failing, I do not really care. I really have started to miss courtship and all that really comes with it. If only, and this is a truly laughable wish, I could find someone that I do not have to pursue, but instead, some sort of reciprocation of actions and wants manifest openly, actively, and even proactively. This would be incredible.
Incredible meaning unbelievable. I don't really understand it myself, but I suppose I have gotten sort of jaded to the process of dating. It seems like the task of initiating anything have always and forever fallen squarely into the lap of the male species, even in this 21st century. This isn't really so bad, and I really am just lamenting, but sometimes I do wonder if I should be a person that merely likes to take. It certainly would be a lot easier, and for some reason, it also seems to be an attractive quality in a male.
Ah, I shall never understand it.
All this whining and cynicism aside, (this is the part where Wei comes back to being Wei and not a presumptuous fool) I guess I am merely in want of a relationship which a two way street exists. I shall never be the bastard that I always say I want to be because I don't believe that actually attracts women, and because, well, I simply cannot. I suppose I just like to verbally strike this type of character of a man (because they actually exist) when I feel frustrated and cynical.
In any case, I have not lost heart yet, and hopefully, I never will. I know that, in some cases, the things I look for in a person is difficult to find (like good intentions, a willingness to try new things, and a proactive wish to give) but, then again, I believe in God. If I can believe in an all powerful being that can see and do anything, I can believe that He will find someone that I can fit with, despite my own wishes and whatnot. I, afterall, can also be a very difficult person to deal with and, I am not altogether anywhere close to being a saint.
So perhaps eventually God will lead me to a nun, or perhaps a succubus. Ah, we shall see. In any case, I shall endeavor to be less cynical on this subject and keep hoping. After all, I feel that Wei without his idealism and starry-eyed hope is like the sun without light. It'd be just some defiled, raging husk of a thing.
And no one wants that. =)
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