Telling Tales

I was just out of the office, quite lazily wondering around the campus in some desperate hope to get marginally inspired to write again. The urge hit (although not "hit" as much as "lightly grazed my face and fell flat on the floor behind me") yesterday while I was thumbing through the first few pages of the latest Murakami I've been trying to avoid.

(Side note: Only because it gives me a sure-out pass when hipsters start trying to out-talk each other's pretentious theories about it. In my fantasy, I'd coolly offer a "I've not read it and I don't plan to", hence pwn-ing them and their own you've-probably-not-heard-of-it game. I'd then get back to pouring over a Sophie Kinsella, or some hopeless equivalent, because it is...you guessed it...ironic. That, and the fact that I'm not that huge a fan of Murakami. Super long story.)

These characters of 1Q84 were discussing a first-time novelist and how the novel that she had just submitted was probably going to be her last one. She apparently didn't have a style about her, or the willingness to adapt one. This "style" had to be hard-earned, through a full-assed effort that involved a lot of school, a lot of readings, a lot of academic mumbo jumbo my eyes just glazed over. There's an easier way: you have to be born with it.

Of COURSE the other way was to be "born with it". So dismissive. At this point I laughed out loud. The guy I was sitting next to in the bus snapped his head over. Not awkward.

The two characters go on to say how her words were often all over the place, how it almost seemed she was forming some sort of rebellion to being understood by a reader.

I've always worried about not coming across clear enough to a person. When I write, it's a pretty ugly struggle of letting my fingers take over versus a conscious effort to curate the message that I'm trying to convey so that people don't go "huh?".

Unfortunately, the former usually results in an incomprehensible spattering of ideas; half-thoughts in unfinished paragraphs - much like the first draft to this post itself. I'm well aware of my messy thought process, a painful untangling of unruly wires that don't necessarily have a head, tail or, on some unfortunate occasions, both. It's something that I'd like to rehabilitate but everything seems to say no, no, no.

Okay, maybe not an outright no (I just really wanted to slip in the Winehouse reference lol), but it's been difficult when your only reviewer is your boss - who's idea of great copy is as uninspired as a picture of a chair with a "This is a chair" caption.

When I do try to be careful about structure, grammar, and diction, I'm usually in my cube furiously putting together an article about overseas trips students took (aka my job). There's already a specific style in place that is strictly adhered to, and my vocabulary bank is suddenly limited to "awesome", "cool", and other lame perky exclamations 16-year-olds apparently like.

Another time it happens, I end up with something too careful and vanilla. It's strained and leaves a horrible taste in my mouth.

Back to the book. The two basically are shaking their heads, deep in disapproval, but there was at least something that they admired her for: the passion to tell a story.

This resounded with me a lot, and made me a little uncomfortable at the same time. I've always somewhat prided myself in being able to decently express myself through words. I like telling stories, and the medium I'm most at ease with doing that is through words. Lengthy, meandering passages most of the time. It's been like that for as long as I can remember, sparked off by a dusty typewriter my grandfather kept under his bed that I'd discover when I was about 6, making my literary debut when I was 8 with a short story titled "Tiger Eyes".

Okay. This is about to become an entire rant about my insecurities as a pseudo-scribe. Basically, the little exchange of conversation between two fictional Japanese men has just made me self-conscious, more than I usually am, about my writing. This couldn't come at a worse time, especially when I'll be moving back to the Publications team in a couple of weeks.

I've never dared to call myself a writer, even though, essentially, I write for a living. Ashu, Nigel, and I were just mocking a mutual acquaintance, for bravely declaring herself as a "writer" on a social platform despite there being enough proof among the 3 of us that the extent of her writing capability doesn't go beyond selecting the perfect emoji for her Instagram posts. I had laughed so hard at this, crying a little inside, because I knew I wasn't much better.

I'm still groping around for a "style", but I'd like to think I'm not as stubborn as the novelist in the story. More than ever, I want to get to a place where I can be haphazard and clear at the same time - even though, as I write that, I know I am asking for a lot.