June x 2

An inspiring English teacher once said that we should all write from our hearts, because that's what makes our writing special and out of this world. That is because everyone is unique and noone would have had all the experiences that you had, to come up with something from your head.

That is saying that, noone is able to come up with the same thrash as you do, not even say, Shakespeare or Jane Austen, even if they tried. That always makes me feel kinda gratified, enough to make faces at dead literary geniuses. You couldn't write like me even if you tried. Bleh.

(Though, being the logical person that I am, I realize that it works vice versa. You couldn't write like Shakespeare if you wanted. But that corresponds to what other English teachers have told you all your life, so that's not a particularly fresh depressing point you need to dwell upon.)

We used to submit journals to her. I loved writing those. I think I wrote 18 pages at the first sitting, describing myself, my family and friends to her in a verbal diarrhoea. I don't know if she was being nice, but she seemed to like what I wrote. Her kindness extended to a point where she recommended me to go for some interschool essay-writing contest, which I accepted quite willingly. Bashfully honoured, vowing to make Ms Inthira proud.

I slaved over that piece, which had something to do with a boy who had big dreams and then got caught in an accident or something. Or maybe he succeeded. I don't really remember much of what I wrote, only the expression on Ms Inthira's face when she gave that piece back to me and said that she was disappointed with the story. It had no heart. She didn't understand why I could write in such effortless eloquence in my journals, but the story that I had worked on for ages had to end up in a bin.

The failure was painful but it wasn't too hard to explain. I've never been a boy, and at 16 the biggest dream I ever had was probably to score in Physics (a dream never realized). Maybe it was my lack of imagination. Maybe I found it difficult to put myself into shoes of a little boy, who, for example, dreamt about blowing up the world when he grew up. I should have stuck onto a subject matter that I was familiar with, like the perils of sleeping in class. I would have aced in telling a story of failing math because I accidentally dozed off during the test.

However, recently when recovering from yet another migraine + writer's block, Ms Inthira's wise words of writing from the heart suddenly sprang out from a drawer in my head where I keep stacks of wise words ("Apple cider vinegar is good for you", "Don't try licking your elbow - it's not possible", "You'll understand when you grow older" etc.).

In retrospect, maybe that's why I screwed up the essay. I was under intense pressure to perform - and my idea of performing was to guess the scheme within the examiner's mind and write towards that direction. With writing journals, I had the freedom to blab on and on about anything under and above the sun, be as silly as I want (thus being original - people don't have same ideas of being silly) and noone would judge me. The essay? Well no. It was going to be judged by pompous bigshots, probably sneering at my shallow vocabulary and shaking their heads at the lame attempt of a pun. Oh what meanies they were, in my head.

Same with blogging lah. It's difficult to write from your heart, when you conjure images of the virtual crowd, silently judging your neuroses or fascination with piano-playing homely men. I don't exactly know who's reading. For all I know, my prof may be reading this, tut-tutting at all the time I'm wasting here instead of completing our project.

Gotta maintain asexual writing style for the benefit of my aunt, and as a precaution against lurking pervs. Gotta keep the crazies in the closet, to befit my calm composure. Gotta quit whining, because I am 24 fucking years old and supposed to be an adult. No badmouthing or making fun of any acquaintances or relatives because I'd always wonder if word would get back to them.

I'm getting virtual agoraphobia as I write on.

But I guess opening up is something that I have to get used to, if I hope to make writing a career. I don't want to write something so bland, so constipated that it ends up in the bin (Exception being the book on blogs that I'm writing now - it's academic so a certain level of constipation is expected). So, dear Ms Inthira, whereever you are now, I will remember your advice.

Thank you, and good night =)

Labels: musings, pos-panjang

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 22, 2007 at 11:37 pm. You can skip to the end and leave a response.