Ahem! Warning: long quote ahead! 🙂
“Beware of self-indulgence.
The romance surrounding the writing profession carries several myths:
That one must suffer in order to be creative;
That one must be cantankerous and objectionable in order to be bright;
That ego is paramount over skill;
That one can rise to a level from which one can tell the reader to go to hell.
These myths, if believed, can ruin you.
If you believe you can make a living as a writer, you already have enough ego.”
– David Brin
Yes, it is true: Fortunately/unfortunately, I have that ego. I do think my writing is good enough to earn me a queen’s life.
So, guys, the writer is dead but the body is squirming in the grave because of this ego. I am telling you eastern philosophy has always preached to kill the ego for exactly this reason. Dreams and self-pride never let you die; they curse you to a meaningful life and grant you a harsher death. Listen to those saints and monks: meditate to reach a no-mind state and die while you pretend to live!
(See, I am a quotable writer too! Damn, when will I be a published one?)
Anyway, read the long David Brin quote again. Carefully.
Yes, it is true: I believe all the myths. Exactly the reason I killed the writer.
How can I write? I haven’t been there, done that! I’ve only lived (read: breezed through) 18 years of my life. Half of which I don’t remember, the other half is inconsequential and boring. Life does not overwhelm me. Not that I want to suffer, but at least I can be a witness to other people’s lives and their philosophies so that finally I’d be able to write something.
I do behave like a brash, rebellious teen with revolutionary ideas (as if I am going to break boundaries and change people’s outlook to life) when actually I am quite tame with no idea whatsoever.
Your individual style (hence, your “ego”) is obviously paramount to the skill. According to me, there is no specific skill required to be a writer. Damn it, nowadays you can write poems and novels in SMS language and no one will hold your collar for that. Anything and everything is literature. Literature doesn’t discard anything; it’s not an editor, it’s a rag-picker. Okay that is harsh! Let’s say, literature is a ‘curator’. I ask myself what can I write about that’s worthy of collecting, preserving and admiring? What do I have to say that has not been said? Er… there’s no answer I hear yet.
I also think if you really love writing other people’s criticism will not matter. It becomes irrelevant in comparison to your love for writing. If undiscovered, people will realize your genius overtime.
[But that does not mean y’all stop commenting on my blog. I need my share of ego-boosts! 😉 ]
Here I am, lying in the ruins of me, inside my grave, reflecting on my decision to kill the writer. Sometimes I wish I could just wipe my hands off these doubts but it’s not that easy; very apparent in my case. The doubts are deeply ingrained in my head and constantly reinforced by these dull times. So, at the cost of your “entertainment”, I will keep venting out my mood-pangs on this blog and mock this misery till it is finally chased away.
Chatter without matter,
“If you write one story, it may be bad; if you write a hundred, you have the odds in your favor.”
– Edgar Rice Burroughs
P.S: No wonder my blog works! (Um… that was my reaction to the above quote)