Many, many years ago, when I was still young and starry-eyed I dreamed of becoming an author. The type of author who wrote the books that I loved. The kind of author I fiercely admired. But then other stuff happened, and reality set in. Even if I did do a different course at university, even if I did work in something related to writing i.e. journalism, editing, etc, I'd never really have a talent for writing the kind of books I wanted to write. I can't even tell a story or a joke verbally much less make a coherent story last 300 plus pages. At some point I thought, maybe if I had enough life experience, then I'd have something to write about. (Yeah, life experience, what is that anyway?) Then I realised, there was nothing unique about my existence to make it worth writing about, and certainly not special enough for anyone to invest money in it. Sure, maybe my life is interesting to me sometimes, or to certain relatives and friends, but one cannot base a career on that. At a different point of my life, there were interesting things to talk about, only what I wanted to talk about depressed or horrified other people, so I stopped talking about it. I guess I burst a lot of people's ideas about what their healthcare professionals thought about them, or the various ways that people can suffer and die.
Then there were the periods where I was so emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted that I didn't have the energy for normal socialising much less the creative energy to write. Sometimes frustration and anger is a great muse, and you can churn a whole lot of a material out of it and make yourself fell better from it. Other times, you just feel sucked dry. I've calmed down a lot from those days, but I do still harbour vestiges of those frustrations. Only it manifests as curses and screams and a lot of honking as I drive around the Klang Valley.
So, it just comes down to this now - rants. And no one want to hear about rants. Even my sister, who generally indulges my monologues tells me to shut up now. Because, honestly, no one likes a killjoy.
Then there were the periods where I was so emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted that I didn't have the energy for normal socialising much less the creative energy to write. Sometimes frustration and anger is a great muse, and you can churn a whole lot of a material out of it and make yourself fell better from it. Other times, you just feel sucked dry. I've calmed down a lot from those days, but I do still harbour vestiges of those frustrations. Only it manifests as curses and screams and a lot of honking as I drive around the Klang Valley.
So, it just comes down to this now - rants. And no one want to hear about rants. Even my sister, who generally indulges my monologues tells me to shut up now. Because, honestly, no one likes a killjoy.
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