Another day, another afternoon at the Dempsey’s Dome. Today, I’m equipped with Nancy Aronie’s Writing From The Heart. I just read an inspiring paragraph. It was from the chapter Schmooze with the Muse.
“Write as an act of giving – giving your authenticity, your integrity, your one-of-a-kind originality. It is your willingness to begin again and again and again that becomes an act of giving. Write as a practice. Write as meditation. Write as a gift to yourself. What muse would refuse?”
I have a pot of earl grey and 3 biscotti slices set out now for the muse. It’s a tribute to the muse. To inspiration.
To write is a gift. I’m educated and had the opportunity to study English literature and linguistics even through a science curriculum. I was surprised that I aced the class. Not by rote regurgitation of Hans Christian Andersen tales, but rather, from a genuine interest in what was going through his head when he created those fairy tales. I had the benefit of a bilingual language processing system and a diversified Asian background. The richness and color of my memories helped me looked at the subject in interesting angles that compelled the midwestern professors to ace my finals.
There is a challenge though. I am very concerned with what is right for the audience. That is, I am, unfortunately, trained in marketing. There is too much of market research and 5 P’s in me to make every new idea die an early death.
Nancy’s quote reminded me of the kind of people muses would want to work with – authentic, grounded and giving. It doesn’t really matter if my ideas are relevant to the ‘readers’, it’s more about putting out those ideas succinctly and engagingly.
As worried as I am about what to write about, I am also very concerned with how well I write. It’s really an issue of confidence. English, after all, is not my mother tongue. For a long time, I also suspected that I think in Chinese. To top that off, I have a vocabulary that barely matches that of a high school student now. For some reason, I know the words but they just don’t come up when I write. I blame this on possibility a limited storage capacity for words and the thousands of chinese words I have permanently etched into my brain.
It’s a discouraging line of thought. Potentially devastating for a budding writer, I think.
Does it really matter that I have to check the dictionary every time I watch a Woody Allen movie? Not to mention having to turn on the subtitles to being with? Agog, hebetudinous, vainglory?
I guess the right thing to do is to leave that alone. And just write. I believe it is impossible to remember a word just by looking it up. One has to wield it.
I need a new system – describe something and find words that match. I wonder if Google does that? If not, it could be an interesting project they pick up. I mean, all they have to do is to get normal people to write out explanations instead of using the muted dictionary styled ones.
There’s one more thing, originality. I am, and I think most of the educated world too, too tainted with American pop culture. I have to be originally Singaporean. Yet, my friends tell me I’m one of the rare ones. I have very little interaction with the locals. It’s me being judgmental again. I feel that the local mentality is too programmed. Most of us talk about the same things – food, chill-out, money. There’s a disconnect between the current generation (25-50 years old) with the earlier ones.
The current generation, my generation, had started out in life on the laurels of the foundation that the previous one has toiled and accomplished. The ‘elder’ in my government emphasizes on this a lot and I believe there is some truth to that.
If I can put it succinctly: whereas the earlier generation can be described as hardworking, family-oriented and tenacious, my lot is, at best, opportunistic, worldly and meek.
Of course, we didn’t had the same trials and tribulations to transform us into men of steel. But, the gap is so big one cannot help but suspect that we simply had it too easy.
My struggle with originality, simply put, it that I don’t think there’s anything worth writing about in my own experiences. I can look really hard and dig really deep and on most occasions, all I’ll find would be something superficial. I cannot write about it because I don’t value it. Perhaps I’m too jaded, or haven’t met the right people, or perhaps, the elders are really good storytellers.
But it’s something I cannot change in this life.
Perhaps, I am lost, and so is my generation. We’re lost and we’re still looking. The bigger houses and cars don’t really fill that emptiness from the fruitless search for self. We are a generation looking to be tested but instead, we fed.
Perhaps, I can write about that quest. But first, I got to smoke out the dragons and get them to hold our fair maidens in high towers first.
