Cleaning Up

While I was munching away a piece of biscuit in my room doing nothing in particular, I looked at my table (and the rest of my room) and realize that it was one big mess. Just two days ago when a friend was coming over, I told myself not to be bothered with the mess, because the mess is primarily made up of papers with an infinite amount of written words, or bad sketches, and lots of books, and many many many issues of TIME.

My mess made me feel intelligent, or at least, productive.

So anyway, I read 3 books in the last 5 days. The Terminal Man (really old book) and State of Fear by Michael Crichton, and American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. I've read half of Tash Aw's the Harmony Silk Factory before setting it aside for the moment, and read Thomas Harris' Hannibal for the third time.

So my point is, when I read things I like, particularly stuff by Gaiman, I feel inspired to write more. Well, I feel inspired to write, period. Just like how after watching a good film I think of films I want to make as well. It doesn't make me a man of direction or vision. I don't necessarily do them, I just want to do them.

I've been reading a lot because it helps kill time.Movies kill 2 - 3 hours. Books kill 7 - 8 hours and sometimes more. And the rest of the time I've been staring at my computer trying to generate the script idea that has been conveniently and comfortable (probably lazily) in the banks of my mind. To date I have absent mindedly saved 3 separate files, in which not more than 20 words were written for each document.

So reading encourages me to try. Sitting in front of the computer makes me WANT to try to get it out of my head. It's not like I've not done this before. It's just... blah. Reading those books made me feel that it's okay staring at the screen and typing a few words here and there. Maybe the gods will light my way. Whatever.

So back to the mess in my room. I did not throw anything out or clear my desk of rubbish. With the biscuit in my mouth and my cup of milo on the floor, I stacked all the paper together. Arranged some of the magazines, and shelved some books. There's this textbook I used in one of my writing classes, called "The Writing Book" by Kate Grenville. It's an okay book that teaches you the important aspects of writing. I somehow felt like flipping through it.

Let me at this juncture note that this is not some dramatic story where after reading a few pages of a writing handbook, suddenly feel light and weightless and have all the words of heaven and hell pour through me like the rushing rivers of... wherever the waters rush powerfully.

Instead, I was drawn to the back pages of publishing advice. And here Guru Kate Grenville states, under the heading of "The Bottom Line" (which is pretty much the last paragraph in the entire textbook)...

"The bottom line about writing fiction is that it ought to be exhilarating, as well as perhaps frustrating. The world has enough books and enough writers already, so unless you find writing satisfying you might as well do something else..."

I realize I could have just typed up the above quote and state that it really did not make my day, but ended up writing a whole long post about how I ended up reading that quote. It is perhaps a waste of my time now writing this whole dramatic piece of utter discouragement, but maybe this is what I feel is an escape from my responsibilities.

At least I am writing something here. And at least I have a few friendly readers who are probably slapping their hands on their foreheads calling me names which they don't really mean.

Okay. Back to microsoft word, to a tale about moving objects, adultery, and possibly a bit of a bloodbath somewhere in the middle of the story.

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