Writing: Then and Now and my Love-Hate Relationship with It

Discounting writings that are mandatory (school assignments, projects, theses, et al.) and are casual by nature (love letters, text messages, diary, et al.), I have written about 8 poems (if I had to guess the exact same number), short essays discussing various topics which are too many to count (and one discussing my own philosophy which I have discarded since then), and a few short stories up to this day. Moreover, I have composed approximately 11 songs (some of which I hugely dislike) and created--but did not manage to finish--11 novels, 9 of which had ended in their first chapters and 2 of which were already halfway done.

I will get to that later.

Before I get started, I think it is important to note that I used to be a romantic--that is, until a series of heartbreaks had pulled my love goggles forcefully. I had written my first song when I was 16 and continued to compose more until I was 22. My first songs are terribly generic, but my more recent ones have some degree of complexity in them in terms of tune and lyrics. I would like to share that my favorites are titled "Little Song I Wrote For You (Mama)" and "Ghost (Always Here)"; the former because I believe it was where I expressed my emotions in their rawest and the latter because it was a bit technical.

I had not made an effort of preserving my poems, but there is one that survived which I like the most.

Ninety-Nine and One Roses

A bouquet of natural roses are cut from their nurturing tree

Forever losing their ability to maintain their true beauty

They'll wither eventually to the point that you have to throw them away

So to represent affection by a method so materialistic and ironic will never be his way

An internal rose tree is created by a set of hands guided by a purpose-driven goal

They are not from a garden nor a flower shop, but from the depths of his soul

Like their maker's feelings, even if you willingly neglect them, they'll never wither

For every part of the rose are made from his life's own spring and winter

In retrospect, I was never a prolific poet. How I form structure is subpar, and it is obvious in my example poem that I merely focus on rhyming the last words. Nonetheless, I still rejoice in the fact that the message that I want to get across is clear: a gesture of giving a rose to someone is nothing compared to a simpler, more meaningful expressions of love that comes from the giver of love themself. 

I mentioned an essay regarding my personal philosophy, but it would be more accurate to refer to it as a set of maxims that are elaborated with several statements. It is titled "A Regular Man's Philosophy", but what is written is so unattainable that I just ended up disappointing myself for not being able to live with my own words. For example:

XIV. If ever I am tempted to judge people, I shall reflect on my own soul first; I, therefore, will realize that I, like them, am imperfect.

I would reprimand myself every time I looked at someone and insulted them at the back of my mind. Next time this will not be the case, I told myself. Next thing I know, I was making fun of someone's hair again.

It was the regular occurrence of this example (and others similar to it) that made me conclude at some point that I was never going to be the man I had always wanted to be. Even now, I have always been forcefully pushing myself towards excellence, and it is not only in this matter that I have stumbled because of rushing impatiently and carelessly.

I want to talk about my unfinished novels, but let me digress a little. I wrote a short story called "Consciousness", and it tells the story of a man who plays a battle royale shooting game (think PUBG or Rules of Survival) in his non-working days. The story turns for the worse when his game glitches and he hears his avatar talk to him as if asking him for help. He dismisses it and goes to the game creator's large mansion when the game announcements inform players that the creator will entertain several loyal players and welcome him to his home; the protagonist is one of the people who is chosen. At one point, the creator reveals his secret to the protagonist, but not before drugging him with a paralyzing substance. Essentially, he boasts that he implants real consciousness to the game's avatars from real people. The last thing the protagonist remembers is that he is on a familiar battlefield, unable to stop himself from running and killing people.

My friends told me that it was very Black Mirror-esque, and while it was not inspired by any TV shows or books, I took their comment as a compliment.

I have 11 unfinished works, but I would like to focus on the two who had the chance to be completed: Searching for Hope and To the Amazing Sharpie, my Brother-in-Arms.

Hope consists of 134,000+ words, and there are still about four to five chapters left before it ends. Call it a writer's block or a brain fart, but at some point, I ran out of ideas. Just like that, I had abandoned it. Though, if there is anything to be reaped from the experience, it is the notion that I can write a full-length novel. That said, it did not stop me from sinking into depression. I took a rest from writing and resumed in June of this year.

Many came before Sharpie, but they all just ended in chapter one. Sharpie seemed promising, so I went through with the story for a month. 35,000+ words were written, but I was not going to make the same mistake as I had with Hope. After days of obsessively thinking whether the story would serve as a competition with other novels in the market, I concluded that Sharpie, too, was not going to cut it. This time, though, I accepted the defeat gracefully; it did not take days for me to get back to writing again.

Let me tell you this: scrapping a novel and euthanizing a loved one bring the same feeling. After all, writings were never a result of magic, a divine revelation, or a light bulb suddenly shining above one's head; it is the result of one's time, effort, and energy. Writing is hard, and for emphasis, I would like to repeat myself: Writing is lonely.

Presently, I have been taking it slowly. I am taking a free online course on FutureLearn called "Start Writing Fiction", and my decision has never been more right. Additionally, I have been making sure to write at least 1500 words a day and to provide a story for writing prompts. I consider it as the kind of mental workout that would definitely make me a better writer just like a certain physical workout would make a basketball better at the sport.

Writing is extremely difficult not only because of the process itself. This may sound needy, but I believe that this blog will help alleviate some of the hard parts one way or another.