In Continuum.

At A Writer's Crossroads

A writer's life is a lonely one, they say. There was a writer's convention last year, some time in October I believe at the National Library which I attended, and instead of a real convention - which sounds like an exhibition of sorts in a massive scale - it was merely a corner of the cafe divided out from the rest, decorated with a table and a few chairs and a pile of books in the corner of the table. Basically, a bunch of local budding writers came together and published a book of short stories, and they were there to publicize the book and at the same time, talk about how it is like being a local writer.

I was dismayed, because I was expecting more insights to being a local writer, getting my stories recognized and published, and not exactly about how you should join some competition and write ten thousand words within a month as a sort of challenge. I mean, that takes the whole vibe of writing a story away doesn't it? You don't write because you want to challenge yourself and see if you can write a certain amount of words within a certain period of time. You write not because you want to say something, but because you have something to say. And that competition they promoted went totally against that idea. So I was rather disappointed that I left the 'convention', knowing nothing more than I already do.

But to look on the bright side, at least I had the rest of the way home to ponder over the phrase "A writer's life is a lonely one". They probably pictured themselves sitting in front of the computer with the cursor blinking, with nothing coming out from the left of the cursor for the past three hours. Or the smell of the glass of alcohol right next to you, the smoke from the ash tray drifting into the air, the last of your third pack of cigarettes, in a dark room of a dark house with nobody around for you to talk to. That's the common misconception of a writer's life, and I totally disagree with it.

Imagine yourself now in a bar, drinking at the bar table and sneering at the bartender because not only is he not good looking, he looks bad. Besides all that, the words coming out from his mouth are so condescending you feel like buying a glass of anything just to pour it on his face. There you are in a bar feeling like the world is about to crash down upon your head all alone, and the bartender is there yakking away just how bad his own life has been. This is not about comparing yourself to an Afghan kid when it comes to just how hungry you are. This is about your life, and right now your life feels like shit.

Then all of a sudden, a guy from nowhere takes a seat next to you and buys you a drink. After a minute or two of introductions, you guys strike up a good chat, and then he introduces himself as a writer. That is the kind of writer I want to be, the kind who is not confined to the little space in front of the computer but out there talking to people and constantly absorbing new inspirations and ideas. Of course, when it comes to an inspirational dry spell, it can get very frustrating and lonely. But nobody said that you should dwell on those emotions.

My father once had a talk with me about my career. He said that books don't turn into money as readily as oil. He is a businessman that deals with oil, the import and the export of it in Singapore. His family is a family of workaholics, they never seem to stop working for money. Like I probably mentioned before, the children in his family started carrying oil barrels while they were eighteen, and have been in the family business ever since. They don't have a very high education, but they sure know how to talk their way into getting their clients to buy or sell their oil. That's what they do best, and just because I am sharing the same last name, I am supposed to have the same genes and and attitude as well.

He told me to take over his business, since his retirement age is nearing. Something about giving up writing for a change and get right down and dirty with the money. But right in his face, I told him that I'd rather write with an empty stomach than to earn money with an empty head. Of course, that comment was retaliated with just how much knowledge you need to possess in the negotiation of a deal. I retorted, saying that I wasn't talking about those, but the passion involved. If I don't have the passion involved in the work I do, I'd feel like a robot along an assembly line, doing things as ordered and never on my own free will. He was disappointed of course, but as much as I understood where he was coming from, I declined his offer. Money is nice, but writing is nicer.

Now, here comes the problem. I don't see the books that I write flying off the shelves in bookstores. I don't imagine my name hitting any sort of bestseller's list, or having anything more than three stars on any book review anywhere. The fact is, that there aren't a lot of stories that haven't been written a million times over. Of course, all stories are based on seven basic arches, but I'm sure if I publish a story, somebody is going to tell me "It's great, but somebody wrote it before. Sorry".

This is how the crossroads look like, one with a sign pointing to a dozen different directions. Worse off, they don't even have words on the signs, but a bunch of question marks for me to fill. There isn't a clear road ahead of me, to tell me that by going this way you will start a writing career, successful or not. Sure there is the passion and the interest, but when practicality sets in I start to doubt myself. How far can your book go, with a local market that is this small? But of course, books are probably a better shot at world fame really. Like I always say, it is easier to be known to the rest of the world with the book you write than the songs you sing or the movies you film. Books travel further than the other mediums, and not restricted to any markets really. Of course, I am hoping that is not the idealistic side of me doing the typing.

So I am keeping my hopes up, and hopefully one day I might be able to make the beginning of a story and the end meet in a satisfactory way. You know how writers are, we always look back on our works a few months later and read it with distaste. It's just like how actors hate to see their own performances on screen, it's probably the same feeling. I hate to read my works and then a few months later, notice how incoherent everything seems. There is a self-depreciating quality inside of me that no compliments will be good enough to eradicate.

Despite all those, I still appreciate the encouragements and the kind words from friends, though not from family. My parents probably won't understand much that I am typing here, and my sister doesn't know the existence of this blog. Even if she does, she probably cannot care less about what her brother is going through, to be honest. These words propel me ever forward, even if the signs on the crossroads read like that: ???. The fact is, armed with interest and passion, there isn't a way that will end with a dead one. Every path then becomes an opportunity, and even if I don't end up writing for a living, I shall live by my writings.