Writer's block

Why do I write?

Today the blank page seems to be winning. I'm slouched over my keyboard hoping for material to manifest itself through my fingers but that’s not happening. I'm going through the motions, keeping my writing muscles supple, but I'm starting to lose sight of the purpose of why I write.

I'm fifty words into my thousand word quota and the cursor just sits there blinking, as if to ask "You gonna type anything, buddy?"

I try to come up with a shitty first draft, but nothing seems to stick. Stories go nowhere, words don't flow, I'm feeling uninspired. I recall a saying from Peter DeVries, "I write when I'm inspired, and I see to it that I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning," so I plod on.

I trudge through this madness like only sick people do, and it so happens my sick mind commonly holds monologues in italics. There's no point to it all, it says. You're never gonna become anything worth their weight in words. Why bother? It's not like you write anything interesting. Just look at yourself now, staring at the blank screen. By the way, we're out of bread so remember to get some tomorrow.

I sigh and check Facebook. Nope, nothing new. I switch back and stare at the empty page. A thousand words? You gotta be kidding me. Why not go to sleep? It's midnight.

"But midnight is my nine o'clock!" I say. "Get inspired damnit!"

Don't yell at me. You can't expect me to come up with material without feeding me alcohol. You know how it goes.

"I have work tomorrow! You wanna kill us both?"

I look around and make sure no one’s around. If anyone is, it'd be easier to say I'm on drugs than to explain my outward reflections.

Maybe my mind's right. Maybe there's no point to it all. I switch back to Facebook. I hit the Home button out of habit but accidentally click on my profile page. On it are some of my old blog posts, and at the bottom of each, there's always a couple of people who like my posts. I browse through my inbox and read the random messages that made my day. They still do. Stuff like "Hey, just want to let you know that I enjoy your writing. Keep it up!" from people you haven't seen in a while really does nudge you to go on even when you're tired.

I re-open my blog and start again. I might as well write about my literary impotence instead of brooding over it.

Half an hour passes before I get another page of junk, but at least it's a finished first draft. The amount of half written pieces in my draft box is beyond silly. A writer once said "Quitting a page into your novel is not much different than quitting five hundred pages in. It's still unfinished," and I agree. I feel the odd satisfaction that only comes with hard work, and I get ready to sleep. Editing can wait (which explains the late post this week).

So why do I write?

Because I once heard someone say. "Leave everything better than when you found it."

Sometimes the comments I get are beyond simple appreciation. Sometimes they tell me that they really look forward to my posts every week, or that I have real interesting ideas, or that they enjoy looking at things from a different perspective from their own, or because the words are inspiring.

I may not be as influential as Gandhi or Mother Theresa, may not inspire as many as Mandela, may not change a whole country's history like Martin Luther King, but I do have words. And with these words, I hope to leave the world a better place, no matter how slightly, one soul at a time.

And if you can get over the narcissism and me shamelessly tooting my own horn, then that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I write.

Living well isn't bad

"Mmm... yuuh. Thish ish shooo goog..." I say through a mouthful of medium-rare steak. "I havan hag shteak fo sho long!"

"You haven't had anything in so long," Ling says.

It's cheat day. A mixture of blood and oil coats my tongue as the meat melts in my mouth. "Yeah, it's good to have some sin once in a while."

"You're so boring!"

"Wha—"

"Dude all you eat are vegetables and fruits, and steamed chicken breast, and your eggs, and your oats. I can't imagine life like that!"

Yup, count on close friends to be blunt with you. I like it. It keeps me honest.

"But what's wrong with that?"

"You eat tasteless food! And... and... it’s so boring!"

"What. Have you even eaten an apple before? They're delicious!"

"Boring!"

"Okay you need to stop saying boring."

"Life is short. You should enjoy it," Ling says, eyeing the next table of smokers.

"But... I am enjoying life!"

"Why deprive yourself of happiness like the steak you're eating right now?" 

"So you're saying that to be happy, I should cram myself with junk. You do know that I have cancer and a heart attack just waiting to happen, right? Genes and all that jazz."

"You're still young. You don't need to take care of your diet yet!"

Now I'm no nutrition saint. I don't try fad diets, I don't stare at other people and tut at their choice of cholesterol, I don't try to impose lifestyle tips upon anyone, and I'm definitely lax on the amount of cheat days I allow myself per week (3 most weeks, 5 when I get cravings like a pregnant woman). All I do is eat clean as often as I can, so pardon me if I get weirded out when someone says I'm wasting my life away by being healthy.

"And exercising five days a week? So lifeless," Ling says in a hush as a waiter tops off her bottomless lemon tea.

"What. I don't even—"

"Excuse me, can I have an ashtray please?"

The waiter nods and leaves.

"Okay fine. I'm too healthy. I'll start eating more junk from now on," I lie. The hell I would. Mixed fruits and oats taste beyond awesome.

The waiter returns with an ashtray. Ling rummages through her handbag and produces a new pack of cigarettes. She gives it a couple of thwacks then sticks one of the cancer sticks into her mouth. She bends over to the next table and gestures for a lighter. There's this amazing camaraderie among smokers. Never will a smoker be deprived of a lighter anywhere in the world with the international sign-language of thumb wiggling.

She lights up, inhales, looks upwards, exhales. Her free hand swats away stray wisps of smoke from my face. At least she's a 'considerate' smoker. I watch her do the smoker's equivalent of rinse and repeat. Inhale cancer cocktail, look up, exhale life away, swat remaining smoke. I recall a story at the back of my mind.

There was this dad who fathered two sons. He never got a job, beat his wife and kids regularly, and finally got sentenced to jail for murder. Later on in life, one son grew up to be a loving father and a very successful entrepreneur, while the other lived a life of crime and spent most of his life incarcerated. When asked how they came to that point in life, both said the exact same thing: "What else was I supposed to do, growing up with such a father?"

That's how I feel right now. One group of people would bring up their indulgence with pride, and another group would advocate healthy living, and both sides will come to the same conclusion when asked why they're taking such a stance: "What else is there to do when life is so short?"

I believe in neither school of thought. There's no black and white in life, no fixed way to go about it. With life being as transient as it is, it's silly to impose rules and instructions for it. People seem to think there's a one-size-fits-all manual for life in the form of philosophy, religion or self-help books. I just believe that you should go for whatever makes you tick in life, as long as you don't hurt anyone or yourself. Also, I believe that a healthy body is able to enjoy life much better than a sick one.

Ling finishes her first cigarette and chain-lights her second stick with the former.

"You really live life, don't you?" I raise my hands and bend my index and middle fingers at the words 'live life' while looking at her cigarette. A smirk butters across my face as I know exactly what she's about to say.

"Yeah. Life is short."

Earning a living and living a life

I'm at a coffee house with my Jo and Tan and we're having a long awaited catchup session.

It's two o'clock and Tan says he has to leave at four. He needs to go through a company's profile before he goes over to audit them tomorrow.

"But it's a Sunday man," I say. "At least take the day off."

"What do you think I'm doing now?"

I shrug. "I don't want to sound like a hippie, but there's much more to life than work."

"Well that's easy for you to say. You don't have bills to pay."

"Hey, no one forced you to buy that fancy car. No one asked you to go around swiping your card—and while we're at it, have you even used that treadmill since you bought it?"

"Yeah yeah, you're Mr. Savvy, right? Prepaid lines and ten year old car. Hey look at me! I don't have shit and I have so much time to enjoy life!"

"Chill dude. I just wanted you to have a day off. It's your life. But personal attacks like that, that's not cool, man."

"Yeah, you have nothing to pay for, you can bum all you want, sipping coffee on the weekends. Some of us have to make a living you know. Just ask Jo."

"Hey," Jo says. "Leave me out of this."

I'm not sure why Tan got his knickers in a twist, but I'm not proud of being the one who triggered it. Tan's a typical auditor. He works before the sun rises and comes home after the sun sets. He never gets to see daylight other than from the windows of his clients' offices, and his weekends are spent poring over new portfolios assigned to him. My paycheque might be chump change to him, but he seems to be more shackled than ever.

Tan ends up leaving at two thirty, and Jo has the rest of the day off, so we head off to do some grocery shopping.

"Is it wrong to have no responsibilities?" I ask.

"Just let him be. He must've been stressed."

"Do you think I'm a bum?"

"You're fine, Stu. Don't worry about it."

"Am I a bum just because I choose not to have debt?"

"Shh. Don't think so much."

Moments later, as I'm filling the trolley with tomatoes and carrots, Jo asks, "What would be your last thoughts before you die?"

"Morbid question, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but when you guys were arguing earlier, I started thinking if money really is worth losing your life over."

"I guess we all need to find that balance between earning a living and living a life.”

  

“My last thoughts would probably be spent thinking if I’ve loved enough, and if I’ll regret the things I’ve done, or the ones I did not,” Jo says with a distant stare in her eyes. “And also my cat.”

“You cat lovers are crazy, you know that?”

Jo hits me on the arm. I smile. Lately, I’ve started to have a different relationship with time, and even though I’m only human and I tend to falter when it comes to living life, I always try to enjoy the present, because that’s the only thing that’s real. Connecting with people is one of the simple moments I enjoy, and I stop to bask in the moment.

A lot of people might be ahead of me in terms of money and possessions, and I don’t know why but I still feel like I’m the lucky one.