I don’t really know what it means to blog anymore. It’s either the lack of words or I have become too self-conscious to share anything.
There was a time where writing fiction was only steered by emotions that I needed to express or release.
But as you grow older, you learn to share the wheel appropriately with your brain as well. This is when you figure that your brain is your biggest judge. I suppose it’s important to be analytical.
When I was a teenage writer, I didn’t feel that the real-life pattern contributed to a great story. You have to process and combine factual and imaginative truth, but in the end, it doesn’t matter which one is more evident in the story. A semi-autobiography usually means nothing to your reader. However, the story itself does.
Littering the mind with too much meaningless reality has a draining effect on both the heart and the brain. We all know it. Unfortunately, you grow accustomed to the white noise of reality that you forget about your passions. Responsibilities get in the way. Everyone, including loved ones, has expectations from you, while all you want to do is turn on your favourite music and remind yourself why you’re here. And there are many reasons, such as exorcise childhood demons, get over heartbreak, or, more importantly–create something meaningful that you can share.
I’m glad I started on the latter back in 2006 because I always need time to write. I often need three hours for one single paragraph. Damon Albarn needs three hours to write the next line of a song, so I guess I’m doing just fine. I’m not a crazy perfectionist unless you refer it to my novel.
That’s mainly because my English is not native; I may speak about three to four languages, but I don’t master them perfectly. I’m not a bright introvert. The only time I feel bright is when I read a lot, but I haven’t been reading consistently for a long time.
The novel may be the biggest thing I will create. Having it edited has nothing to do with perfectionism. I’m doing this for the reader – the universal reader. And I’m doing it to be less selfish, to remind my bias self to view things from different angles and not just mine. Unfortunately, I am not a super writer, not like the man sitting by the library window. Does he even exist? I don’t remember. I think it was a ghost story.
What I do know is that fiction exists. It’s an idea, which emerges from the brain and is sparked by the heart. Eventually, little drops of ink will crash on a white sheet of recycled paper. This is when you know for sure that a man is sitting by the library window, writing. He is writing without distractions. He can’t afford a break to look out of the window. But he is there and has always been there.
In a story, you try to find solutions for dilemmas. You have a girl who is scared of water and a boy who is scared of flying. Do fears affect your compatibility?
You won’t always find a solution that will please everyone because that piece of fiction will take its own course. It’s telling you the story as you write it.
I don’t want to write anything where I know the ending. As you write, you and the reader are one. Not knowing the end is what keeps me going, like it keeps the reader going. When my brain and heart are in sync, I write excessively like the man at the library window. At least that is when I’m fully aware of my existence.