Writing to me, it’s a beautiful can of worms.
First of all, the good ones who give the main nutrients of joy.
Catharsis, I feel like flying in the sky after I have finished it. To express all the emotions and the deepest thoughts that would never have seen the light of day otherwise.
Freedom, freedom of expression .The freedom to go wild and be creative allows me to fly above the limits of Singaporean society which places so much shackles on the creative spirit. Having lived my days in a restrictive society where any and all desires to create, to deviate and to stray from the conventional path are viciously stamped out. Where beautiful dreams that do not involve being a STEM corporate slave are pissed on coldly. Writing gives me that flying chance of making it, once I make it
Purpose. With writing and my dreams to become an author and make it in the industry, it gave me a purpose to fight. A purpose to fight for something. A purpose to keep going and not drift my days away. I can say that writing saved my spirit from being a completely hopeless drifting through the cosmos. It is my engine to fly above the muddy soil of mundane life.
But at the same time, oh dear.
I am not the kind of writer who can produce ten thousand words in a day. I’m a slow writer and getting words out actually feels like mental constipation to me. I see people complain about being an overwriter which I can never relate to. How is that a problem? I wish I could write more, I ask myself.
I am not the best at vivid descriptions either. In fact, it was my main problem with writing and that I still struggle with it to this day.
I can be quite perfectionistic which leads to me hating my raw first-draft words and lead to good old procrastination.
I learnt that even after years of writing and being creative, I still have so much more to learn, so much more books to read and so much more to do in order to even be considered an amateur.
But still, I opened the can of worms, and now I have to lie with them.