One-nil
Their eyes met briefly; the man in blue smirked before morphing into Alex’s dead brother. The latter shifted his gaze in reflex and only allowed himself a grimace after winning the tussle for the ball. He felt no euphoria as he shot home a match-winner, only the bittersweet sensation of momentarily conquering the robots one-nil.
28 years later
They sat on the benches under the shade of the tree, savouring their ice-creams quietly in the summer evening. The noises in the park—the chirping of birds, the merry screaming of children—made up for the lack of conversation.
“Do you remember,” she started, “The time when these were all real flesh and blood?”
The ring
Through it all, the ring with a rose motif witnessed the diplomatic conversation lined with double meanings, exchanged between two men clad in smart suits.
“Good prospect,” the Mafioso said when the other left, touching the family heirloom.
He did not know that the ring of the Blackrose family had been replaced with a bug.
*
The mother watched as her daughter sat unmoving with a bulky, heavy headset covering her face.
“What’s happening?” The mother thought aloud.
Her daughter’s reply took a while to register. “I’m stranded on an island,” She started finally, before lapsing into another long pause. “Searching food.” Ingrid’s message reached her mother’s mind unclear and halting—she was engrossed in her simulation. The mother stared intently at Ingrid, though the headset and the almost-subconscious security system, and saw a clear picture of Ingrid being marooned on an island with a friend, attempting to gain their bearings in the jungle amidst finding food to satisfy their virtual hunger.
“Do you know what books were?” The mother mused, almost suddenly.
“I’m intent on surviving on the island until I find a way out,” Ingrid explained and paused as she removed the device and set it on her lap. The sentence reached her mother’s mind crystal-clear this time.
“No,” Ingrid finally responded. “Aren’t they extinct?”
The mother nodded and stood up, gesturing mentally for Ingrid to follow. They stood at the corner of the room, by a set of complex switches beside the door. With the mother’s silent command, the switches performed a series of flicks.
Slowly, the room changed—the marble flooring of the living room was replaced with wood and the dark room emanated a warm orange glow; formidable rows of tall shelves stood in front of them. The mother walked towards the sofa in front of the fireplace; Ingrid followed closely behind, with the faint cackling of fire from the fireplace puncturing the silence.
Ingrid’s thoughts were teeming with a multitude of different things. This room was one she had never seen before; the family had no use for them. It looked so different from the rest and her mind buzzed with the discovery of new, queer objects, from the archaic florescent light and its artificial orange glow, to block-like objects that filled the shelves ,and the feel of warm carpet under her feet.
“This is the library,” Ingrid commented furtively and the mother smiled, repeating her sentence with a mix of confidence and amusement.
“What are those?” Ingrid gesticulated for her mother to look at the shelves. “Those block-like objects sitting there.”
Her mother smiled once more; Ingrid had never seen that smile on her mother’s face. It gave a sparkling quality to her mother’s eyes and for a few moments, she looked a little younger. One block appeared on the table in front of them at her mother’s retrieval.
“This,” she proclaimed, pride evident in her voice. “Is a book.”
Ingrid took it, blew the dust off the cover and flipped it open; queer symbols disjointed by a small spacing greeted her. Her mother stood behind and pronounced aloud word for word, and for the first time, she heard the rich tone of her mother’s voice. Together with the enthusiastic storytelling, the words came cleverly together to paint Ingrid a mental picture of an alternate universe she would otherwise never meet. Slowly but surely, Ingrid began to remember the letters, and how they came together to represent the words so frequently exchanged through a matter of thought.
Ingrid could not quite recall how her mother first mentioned books, but she found her mind roaming for ideas and put down her thoughts and fantasies into concrete proof, and when she finished, she dragged her mother to the library and read aloud her first story, of a little girl stumbling into a library for the first time.
My fictions currently centre around stuff I’m preoccupied with, mainly soccer, thrillers and sci-fi. After not being able to write concrete narratives for a while, I found it a little hard to get the words to come together, so mostly these were idea and plot-driven. I’m more satisfied with my 55 fictions because the story’s lacking in detail and the ending was somewhat disappointing and clichéd. Nonetheless enjoy and thanks for comments :D
Jia Xuan (can I use JX? D: )
Showing posts with label Why Write?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Why Write?. Show all posts
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Bothersome blogging
It’s that time of the day again. Or perhaps week – maybe even month, for some. You sit before the screen, typing furiously in mock busyness – hunching over the screen, as though your body were a shield of sorts. Hiding the tell-tale signs from what you perceive to be prying eyes from behind. But ironically, with a simple click of the mouse, you jubilantly send your latest masterpiece (or not) off to be processed for worldwide display. This time spent on this routine procedure ranges from seconds to hours, and all this despite a keen awareness of the exponentially growing pile of homework and PTs – all too familiar terms in the average student’s vocabulary.
Welcome to blogging, the phenomenon of the new teenage generation, amid cries of being overworked and time-stretched. For many, gone are the days of old fashioned pen-and-paper, heart-and soul meetings. In its place rushes in an illuminated screen, suave keyboards, incoherent ramblings – as professed by many, and a couple of other flashing windows to keep you occupied during the 10 second log in time (no, all you eager Lit students, I am not referring to enlightenment of any form).
Why the lure of this rather unflattering transition?
Many cite the primary reason of convenience over the conventional diary. It does seem justified that the combined succession of fingers is faster than the mere vibration of the wrist. Thus minutes are saved each day – but possibly at the cost of pondering, reflecting on the deeper wonders of life; it its place ten lines of words that might not even constitute a grammatical sentence.
It is also acknowledged that blogging serves as a public outlet for sharing, and sympathizing. A mere “help I am going to die!!!!” (perhaps expressed in a more hyperbolic fashion) earns one a myriad of encouraging tags or comments. Though this can be a positive point, another problem will inevitably crop up – the slow, but sure undermining of the necessity for face-to-face social interactions, be it in joy, distress, or anxiety. Let’s face it, typing a “jiayou!” is so much easier, but cheaper, than hearing out and encouraging the person in real life.
Moreover, blogging can be manipulated for personal benefit. It helps one get out of sticky situations, in particular with those closer to you (and are hence likely to read your blog). A harsh phrase that hurt can be rectified by a simple indirect apology online, enabling one to escape the necessity of humility in real confession. Words are cheapened, less considered, uttered unthinkingly; since one can apologise behind the comfort of the screen without requiring an element of sincerity. Actually, the entirely realistic possibility of an online persona being a mere façade can be frightening.
Convenience, but at what cost: bothering to care, bothering to be there?
- Talia Seet 315
Welcome to blogging, the phenomenon of the new teenage generation, amid cries of being overworked and time-stretched. For many, gone are the days of old fashioned pen-and-paper, heart-and soul meetings. In its place rushes in an illuminated screen, suave keyboards, incoherent ramblings – as professed by many, and a couple of other flashing windows to keep you occupied during the 10 second log in time (no, all you eager Lit students, I am not referring to enlightenment of any form).
Why the lure of this rather unflattering transition?
Many cite the primary reason of convenience over the conventional diary. It does seem justified that the combined succession of fingers is faster than the mere vibration of the wrist. Thus minutes are saved each day – but possibly at the cost of pondering, reflecting on the deeper wonders of life; it its place ten lines of words that might not even constitute a grammatical sentence.
It is also acknowledged that blogging serves as a public outlet for sharing, and sympathizing. A mere “help I am going to die!!!!” (perhaps expressed in a more hyperbolic fashion) earns one a myriad of encouraging tags or comments. Though this can be a positive point, another problem will inevitably crop up – the slow, but sure undermining of the necessity for face-to-face social interactions, be it in joy, distress, or anxiety. Let’s face it, typing a “jiayou!” is so much easier, but cheaper, than hearing out and encouraging the person in real life.
Moreover, blogging can be manipulated for personal benefit. It helps one get out of sticky situations, in particular with those closer to you (and are hence likely to read your blog). A harsh phrase that hurt can be rectified by a simple indirect apology online, enabling one to escape the necessity of humility in real confession. Words are cheapened, less considered, uttered unthinkingly; since one can apologise behind the comfort of the screen without requiring an element of sincerity. Actually, the entirely realistic possibility of an online persona being a mere façade can be frightening.
Convenience, but at what cost: bothering to care, bothering to be there?
- Talia Seet 315
Why Write!
Hi guys I sort of wanted to write a story because I am quite terrible at expos ><
Black book of treasures
She never did have any friends. Her parents were too busy working to pay much attention to her. She cooped herself up in the house all day, with her black book tucked safely under her arm and a pen in her pocket. “She must live a boring life,” the other children said.
Or so they thought. Her life was anything but boring. She went on adventures every day, made new friends every day, and visited new places every day. She had a secret she shared with no one, not even her parents. Truth was, she had her very own magical world, a world where no one else could go, for only she held the key to this world. It was a beautiful world. This world would morph into different places, and all she had to do was to concentrate hard on the place where she wanted to go. In this world, she could be anyone she wanted to be, whether it was a princess, a mermaid, a brave female warrior, or even a dolphin! Again, all she had to do was focus. She rushed home from school every day, ready to enter her magical world, where she had full control of who she was, where she was and what she was going to do.
Just yesterday, she was a pirate, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. She wore a red bandana, a black patch over her left eye, had a shiny steel hook for a right hand and a wooden left leg. On her left shoulder stood Percy the parrot, who would ask for crackers every five minutes and left her fuming. She spoke with authority as she ordered her crew around. Many feared her, and she was known as the Terror of the Seven Seas. Just hearing the name made others shudder and cringe in fear. She stole from many rich merchants sailing the seas and gave them generously to the poor. To some, she was the worst thing you could ever imagine, but to others, she was a heroine.
"What adventures shall I embark on today?" She wondered as she skipped home. Joyful chatter was heard as she walked past a playground where all the other children were playing. The other children suddenly grew very silent, stopping to watch her as she passed by, gleefuflly skipping her way home. "Lonely? Who needs friends when I have you?“ She held her black book close to her heart and felt for the pen in her pocket. Then she ran all the way home, with a knowing smile on her face, ready for another exciting adventure.
<3, Yi-Min
Black book of treasures
She never did have any friends. Her parents were too busy working to pay much attention to her. She cooped herself up in the house all day, with her black book tucked safely under her arm and a pen in her pocket. “She must live a boring life,” the other children said.
Or so they thought. Her life was anything but boring. She went on adventures every day, made new friends every day, and visited new places every day. She had a secret she shared with no one, not even her parents. Truth was, she had her very own magical world, a world where no one else could go, for only she held the key to this world. It was a beautiful world. This world would morph into different places, and all she had to do was to concentrate hard on the place where she wanted to go. In this world, she could be anyone she wanted to be, whether it was a princess, a mermaid, a brave female warrior, or even a dolphin! Again, all she had to do was focus. She rushed home from school every day, ready to enter her magical world, where she had full control of who she was, where she was and what she was going to do.
Just yesterday, she was a pirate, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. She wore a red bandana, a black patch over her left eye, had a shiny steel hook for a right hand and a wooden left leg. On her left shoulder stood Percy the parrot, who would ask for crackers every five minutes and left her fuming. She spoke with authority as she ordered her crew around. Many feared her, and she was known as the Terror of the Seven Seas. Just hearing the name made others shudder and cringe in fear. She stole from many rich merchants sailing the seas and gave them generously to the poor. To some, she was the worst thing you could ever imagine, but to others, she was a heroine.
"What adventures shall I embark on today?" She wondered as she skipped home. Joyful chatter was heard as she walked past a playground where all the other children were playing. The other children suddenly grew very silent, stopping to watch her as she passed by, gleefuflly skipping her way home. "Lonely? Who needs friends when I have you?“ She held her black book close to her heart and felt for the pen in her pocket. Then she ran all the way home, with a knowing smile on her face, ready for another exciting adventure.
<3, Yi-Min
Why Write?
"Breathe. Don't think only those who sing need breathe, or those who talk. They breathe more obviously, but you still have to breathe..."
She could not. She forgot.
***
"Why write?" she obviously had no idea.
But her eyes were fixed on her computer screen, typing away furiously. Writing wasn't limited to pen and paper anymore...there were keyboards, palmtops, number pads...there were so many different ways she could write. Writing took the forms of so many unconventional modes.
She still chose to blog.
The keyboard was her friend. The weblog was her diary. Writing was her life.
She had no idea what to do other than blog. Asking her to speak to someone seemed like a surmountable task. Written words were the only means for her to convey how she thought. Yet, so often was it misinterpreted, used against her, causing her to close up so much more.
It actually made her so vulnerable. She was stripped naked by Words. Her inner feelings were exposed, completely bare. It was probably as terrible as her life could get- while trying to hide everything, she revealed much more about herself, her inner nature, the unchartered waters of her life...
Her heart sank. Words began to take her over again.
It amazed her how her life could be summed up with Words. How Words was about the most powerful form to express oneself. There had been so much said about the power of multimedia, and how writing or reading had been long considered as passe. Yet, the power of books have been ever-prevalent. You could see how many people still, although secretly, sink into the fantasy of books, and drown themselves in the sea of words. Writing was still important, because words meant so much.
The one good thing about writing was that there were no ratings. She could write as she liked. Hopefully not slandering lest she get sued. In any case, she could choose not to publish her blogpost, or book, or whatever form of writing she had.
Movies, however, had ratings- G, PG, PG-13, NC-16, M18, R21- in her country alone. Books had none. Of course they were classified into different sections like fiction and non-fiction, children and adults, and a whole variety of genres, but who cares. There was pratically no limit on what you could write about. And there definitely was no control on who would be reading it. Have you ever seen a librarian chase a child away from the romance section in the library, or confiscicating books with sexual content? Obviously not. Who knows, there might be a priest somewhere reading a book about atheism or darwinism or the big-bang theory. And he might actually have been convinced.
That's what she admired the most. The power of Words.
She stared into the screen again.
Her lines were incoherent. But she understood. Words meant something to her.
Words. He was her best friend.
Writing made her feel like she had conquered the Everest, and was taking in the scenery from there. It was so...carefree. In a world of her own, taking in every single sight around her. It released her from her oppression, her frustration, her unhappiness.
***
"I write therefore I am." It made more sense to her than Cognito Ergo Sum.
It was about the only thing which kept her breathing.
She breathed. She finally remembered how to breathe.
----------------
I think it sounds very much like ranting...but hey, it does make some sense(: (i think)
love,
Annaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(:
55 Fiction + Piece on writing
KEYS
He lives one level above. I often look up at him. We are two separate entities, never with the same voice nor skin colour. Today, I moved to the apartment next to his, yet in between was still the distance from my original identity. Keys like us can never open the lock to true love.
EACH HAS HER OWN STAGE
She sang loudly and melodiously. Her rich voice reverberated and echoes resonated. A grandiose turn, and a roar of applause was activated. She aimed for the highest note, but it came out as a pitiful squawk instead. Just then, there was a knock on the door. She turned off the shower and stepped out from the bathtub.
CHEMISTRY:
I held my breath, then blew. A firm grip on my neck. Too much force yet so delicate. After a playful tug on my ear the seek ended. My bottom lip met 25's. That moment seemed forever, but was interrupted as the clumsy lab student jerked me off and all emotions went down the conical drain.
The Writers’ Workshop “Keep on Writing”
Wiring Heartlands!
“I know everyone of you (character-wise), only that I cannot match your works to your face.” This quote came from Mrs Shum at last year’s Creative Arts Programme pre-camp briefing. She claimed that she could understand how every one of us was like as a person merely through reading our works. I did not believe in that. How much can a piece of writing say about a person? Nevertheless, this sentence etched itself in my mind and as I officially started my writing journey, I think I began to see the meaning enshrined behind it.
The Creative Arts Programme is an annual camp organized by the Ministry of Education, Gifted Education Branch. Every year the programme sees a new batch of budding writers who gather in a one-week camp where they can interact with others and through a series of workshops, hone their writing skills and appreciate other forms of art (visual, musical, theatrical etc) other than the literary kind.
After becoming a CAP-er, I began to write. Really write, write for leisure, and write for personal expression, not just for schoolwork.
Though I wrote in Chinese (I was a Chinese CAP-er! ☺), it gradually dawned upon me that yes, writing is more than a series of words connected in a coherent way; it has much more to it. Writing is a very acute revelation of the individual. Artists and writers create their works, often at the risk of removing the masks that society has forced us to shape and put on for protection.
Writers inject their true emotions and deepest thoughts into their works. Sometimes the writer’s identity is subconsciously reflected in the language aspect as well, in tone, diction, syntax and others. It is only when we write with our heart that writing finds itself a new meaning and quite a special one at that.
Writers are emo(tional) and writing is cathartic. I somehow find that people who write own a higher sensitivity to the world around them and are very easily touched or affected by even the smallest happenings, for instance, a leaf falling. This is perhaps attributed to the nature of writing where writers shed their outer disguises to let true emotions flow. The day we lose the ability to become touched is the day when we cease to be able to write.
Furthermore, writing wires heartlands! If there is one medium or channel via which people connect most effectively, it is language! Writing wires us to other people and other things and from that connection generates electricity, sparks and ideas.
Therefore, writing is dangerous. It exposes you unknowingly, leaving you no shield to defend, no mask to hide. It exemplifies our emotional self. We become powerless when we write, our naked identities surface and all efforts to conceal in the harsh realities of life go down the drain.
However, though we become powerless and vulnerable in this aspect, we actually transform into a more powerful person. This power lies in the ability to love, and to express in a new kind of space.
The pen is undoubtedly the greatest sword.
Care not about the risks involved in this perilous journey. It is the satisfaction and enlightenment that matters. Follow your heart, listen to your soul, and WRITE!
Written by Hui Ning 315
He lives one level above. I often look up at him. We are two separate entities, never with the same voice nor skin colour. Today, I moved to the apartment next to his, yet in between was still the distance from my original identity. Keys like us can never open the lock to true love.
EACH HAS HER OWN STAGE
She sang loudly and melodiously. Her rich voice reverberated and echoes resonated. A grandiose turn, and a roar of applause was activated. She aimed for the highest note, but it came out as a pitiful squawk instead. Just then, there was a knock on the door. She turned off the shower and stepped out from the bathtub.
CHEMISTRY:
I held my breath, then blew. A firm grip on my neck. Too much force yet so delicate. After a playful tug on my ear the seek ended. My bottom lip met 25's. That moment seemed forever, but was interrupted as the clumsy lab student jerked me off and all emotions went down the conical drain.
The Writers’ Workshop “Keep on Writing”
Wiring Heartlands!
“I know everyone of you (character-wise), only that I cannot match your works to your face.” This quote came from Mrs Shum at last year’s Creative Arts Programme pre-camp briefing. She claimed that she could understand how every one of us was like as a person merely through reading our works. I did not believe in that. How much can a piece of writing say about a person? Nevertheless, this sentence etched itself in my mind and as I officially started my writing journey, I think I began to see the meaning enshrined behind it.
The Creative Arts Programme is an annual camp organized by the Ministry of Education, Gifted Education Branch. Every year the programme sees a new batch of budding writers who gather in a one-week camp where they can interact with others and through a series of workshops, hone their writing skills and appreciate other forms of art (visual, musical, theatrical etc) other than the literary kind.
After becoming a CAP-er, I began to write. Really write, write for leisure, and write for personal expression, not just for schoolwork.
Though I wrote in Chinese (I was a Chinese CAP-er! ☺), it gradually dawned upon me that yes, writing is more than a series of words connected in a coherent way; it has much more to it. Writing is a very acute revelation of the individual. Artists and writers create their works, often at the risk of removing the masks that society has forced us to shape and put on for protection.
Writers inject their true emotions and deepest thoughts into their works. Sometimes the writer’s identity is subconsciously reflected in the language aspect as well, in tone, diction, syntax and others. It is only when we write with our heart that writing finds itself a new meaning and quite a special one at that.
Writers are emo(tional) and writing is cathartic. I somehow find that people who write own a higher sensitivity to the world around them and are very easily touched or affected by even the smallest happenings, for instance, a leaf falling. This is perhaps attributed to the nature of writing where writers shed their outer disguises to let true emotions flow. The day we lose the ability to become touched is the day when we cease to be able to write.
Furthermore, writing wires heartlands! If there is one medium or channel via which people connect most effectively, it is language! Writing wires us to other people and other things and from that connection generates electricity, sparks and ideas.
Therefore, writing is dangerous. It exposes you unknowingly, leaving you no shield to defend, no mask to hide. It exemplifies our emotional self. We become powerless when we write, our naked identities surface and all efforts to conceal in the harsh realities of life go down the drain.
However, though we become powerless and vulnerable in this aspect, we actually transform into a more powerful person. This power lies in the ability to love, and to express in a new kind of space.
The pen is undoubtedly the greatest sword.
Care not about the risks involved in this perilous journey. It is the satisfaction and enlightenment that matters. Follow your heart, listen to your soul, and WRITE!
Written by Hui Ning 315
A beggar's request
Why write?
An empty page, white, lined, complete in its emptiness- it brims with promise of tomorrow. Pen and paper were conjoined twins from the start of their birth; they were always one and could never do without the other. Combined with the yearning soul, we begin to write.
Raining upon us all is our selfish desire. It burdens us. We read, when be begin to discover, we write when we begin to remember and we create when we begin to want. It is a compelling desire everybody faces. We wish to do something, we wish to feel accomplished, and in wishing so, we record. We record to leave a mark of ourselves behind. We write not because we want to, but because we cannot help but want. We cannot deny our souls the reflection of its endless craving.
Writing is something inexplicable to many; it is as essential as air and comes to them like walking comes to babies. To others insecurity and limiting beliefs prove too high an obstacle to scale. They believe that writing is saved purely for purposes of work, administration and communication. They forget- that is exactly what writing is.
Writing a short story, is a desire upon the part of the author to create a world beyond his or her own although they may believe they are helping others forget themselves and take on an escapade to forget and remember. It may be colored with fancy words or layered with expectations and a commercial, simplistic want to gain and to exploit, but stories are essentially information. No matter how seemingly difficult or frivolous it may seem, stories are an effort upon the author’s part to convey something, perhaps something autobiographical and personally endearing or simply a tiny insight into a more fulfilling, promising way of looking at life, or maybe even knowledge disguised as forbidden fruit.
Essentially, writing is an endeavor toward satisfaction. When a complaint letter is written and pressed within its pristine envelope, the author feels happy knowing someone is getting his/her just deserts. When an apology is written, they author feels hopeful for a better relationship or simply a better day tomorrow. When a post is blogged, the blogger is burning with the pride that the post would be read. It may be easily confessed, but why else would one want to share their writing if not for approval? Approval by others and oneself is probably the single most driving force of writing.
One may write in a diary in hope of documenting the past for fastidious editing in the future or peals of laughter to come, but in doing so, you’re seeking some form of approval from one’s future self and hoping that one’s future self would remember and learn again.
We write because of the weight of everything in the world. The flirting insecurities, the endless questions of why and how, the burden of expectation and the countless fears of failure, death and all things mortal or otherwise- writing allows us to carefully lay them out before ourselves in structured, coherent words. They bring to live the chaotic thoughts thrashing it out in our tiny insignificant heads. They breathe life into our hopes and fears. And yet, it is the self-same reason that makes writing the most trying endeavor on Earth. The soul of our words carries our vulnerability, and bare we are when we enter the battleground of display. When furiously met or disappointingly met, writers become mothers whose children have been bent and ground to dust. Their anger and frustration and utter disappointment is the most dangerous emotion that anyone could face, it could destroy.
And despite it all, we continue. We write. We are far too in love with life and beauty to give up our mimicry of it. We cannot find it in ourselves to give up the opportunity to soar because of our fear of falling. This is the indomitable human spirit, the ambitious little ants that thrive within us all that compels us to write.
Minyee
An empty page, white, lined, complete in its emptiness- it brims with promise of tomorrow. Pen and paper were conjoined twins from the start of their birth; they were always one and could never do without the other. Combined with the yearning soul, we begin to write.
Raining upon us all is our selfish desire. It burdens us. We read, when be begin to discover, we write when we begin to remember and we create when we begin to want. It is a compelling desire everybody faces. We wish to do something, we wish to feel accomplished, and in wishing so, we record. We record to leave a mark of ourselves behind. We write not because we want to, but because we cannot help but want. We cannot deny our souls the reflection of its endless craving.
Writing is something inexplicable to many; it is as essential as air and comes to them like walking comes to babies. To others insecurity and limiting beliefs prove too high an obstacle to scale. They believe that writing is saved purely for purposes of work, administration and communication. They forget- that is exactly what writing is.
Writing a short story, is a desire upon the part of the author to create a world beyond his or her own although they may believe they are helping others forget themselves and take on an escapade to forget and remember. It may be colored with fancy words or layered with expectations and a commercial, simplistic want to gain and to exploit, but stories are essentially information. No matter how seemingly difficult or frivolous it may seem, stories are an effort upon the author’s part to convey something, perhaps something autobiographical and personally endearing or simply a tiny insight into a more fulfilling, promising way of looking at life, or maybe even knowledge disguised as forbidden fruit.
Essentially, writing is an endeavor toward satisfaction. When a complaint letter is written and pressed within its pristine envelope, the author feels happy knowing someone is getting his/her just deserts. When an apology is written, they author feels hopeful for a better relationship or simply a better day tomorrow. When a post is blogged, the blogger is burning with the pride that the post would be read. It may be easily confessed, but why else would one want to share their writing if not for approval? Approval by others and oneself is probably the single most driving force of writing.
One may write in a diary in hope of documenting the past for fastidious editing in the future or peals of laughter to come, but in doing so, you’re seeking some form of approval from one’s future self and hoping that one’s future self would remember and learn again.
We write because of the weight of everything in the world. The flirting insecurities, the endless questions of why and how, the burden of expectation and the countless fears of failure, death and all things mortal or otherwise- writing allows us to carefully lay them out before ourselves in structured, coherent words. They bring to live the chaotic thoughts thrashing it out in our tiny insignificant heads. They breathe life into our hopes and fears. And yet, it is the self-same reason that makes writing the most trying endeavor on Earth. The soul of our words carries our vulnerability, and bare we are when we enter the battleground of display. When furiously met or disappointingly met, writers become mothers whose children have been bent and ground to dust. Their anger and frustration and utter disappointment is the most dangerous emotion that anyone could face, it could destroy.
And despite it all, we continue. We write. We are far too in love with life and beauty to give up our mimicry of it. We cannot find it in ourselves to give up the opportunity to soar because of our fear of falling. This is the indomitable human spirit, the ambitious little ants that thrive within us all that compels us to write.
Minyee
IF YOU ARE SEEING THIS
Tap-tap, clack clack clack, I hear her heels making contact with the black marble. I stare patiently as I wait for my dutiful informant to whisper the dark secrets of my friends and foes, their dirty past, their hidden fantasies. Rendezvous: when and where. Then I remember what I came for, rgs.writersblock@rgs.edu.sg. Tap-tap-clack.
WHY WRITE?
Why write? Writing is merely a form of speaking, in a more literal, physical, ink-out-of-pen-conveying-one’s-thoughts manner. Your thoughts, instead of traveling to your mouth, travel to your hand and to your bic pen, to the nib, and the ink touches- here. You ask why write, I ask, why speak?
Of course, speak. It is the most duh thing we have known since the start of time, the first sign of civilization since eras ago, when the cavemen and barbarians uttered the first measurable signs of communication, measured in alphabets and words and punctuation, numerals. Writing to them was scratching on stones, rubbing twigs on papyrus, the like. Recording their moments of extreme elation, tumultuous tribulations and lusty fantasies was of life and death consequence to them. Maybe I am exaggerating a little. I AM SO HAPPY! And in my haven of sheer elation, I pick up my pen and slash in broad strokes on the nearest surface, just to expand my energy, to show how energetic I am, how infallible, how brave! Indeed, writing is a physical record of us, our emotions, our existence. What is spoken is lost to the wind, forgotten to our minds in a matter of seconds, like goldfish with short term memory. Thus we write not only to express ourselves, but to make sure we are remembered – some proof to confirm our pathetic living existence, spontaneous epitaphs to remember the laughs we lost, the words which will never be uttered in the same speed, or intonation, ever.
Have I mentioned that I study Shakespeare? Most recently, The Taming of the Shrew. Gosh, the fact that some ancient version of English used in the Elizabethan era still carries influence today amazes me. So much that we study, analyse and engross ourselves in Shakespeare’s plays. I mean seriously?! Many consider Shakespeare a genius, a collection of incomprehensible plays, which would be remembered in the next generation, and the next, and the next and so on. Language does not matter. Whether it be the scratchings of a caveman, the musings of an Elizabethan playwright or the brainchild of J.K. Rowling, if it is evocative, profound or simply everything nice, it will be remembered. Written words are a sort of history, a commemoration of ideas. We write because we want to be better at writing, and when we are accomplished, perhaps we will achieve the goal of having our very own fictional gay wizard passed down through the centuries by word of mouth, or runes on walls.
Writing is a memory of us and ourself. The plus side is, you might even get rich doing it! And I mean, really rich. (Think J.K. Rowling)
DINNER
Yesterday, they inspected my size, colour and build. They took their silver razor blades and set them upon my lovely face, carving my hazel eyes out. Frozen, the silent scream could not escape from my throat. Like the evil witches they were, I was mercilessly lowered into the blazing cauldron. "Yum, potato stew!" He chimed.
CRIPPLED
Yes, they free! The taste of the sweet wind caressing their skin, the fresh, soft grass being compressed under them, oh the spirit of life lifted them higher, higher, until they were almost flying. They still savoured the victory of the irreversible strings of ownership being cut - forever separted from their
Tap-tap, clack clack clack, I hear her heels making contact with the black marble. I stare patiently as I wait for my dutiful informant to whisper the dark secrets of my friends and foes, their dirty past, their hidden fantasies. Rendezvous: when and where. Then I remember what I came for, rgs.writersblock@rgs.edu.sg. Tap-tap-clack.
WHY WRITE?
Why write? Writing is merely a form of speaking, in a more literal, physical, ink-out-of-pen-conveying-one’s-thoughts manner. Your thoughts, instead of traveling to your mouth, travel to your hand and to your bic pen, to the nib, and the ink touches- here. You ask why write, I ask, why speak?
Of course, speak. It is the most duh thing we have known since the start of time, the first sign of civilization since eras ago, when the cavemen and barbarians uttered the first measurable signs of communication, measured in alphabets and words and punctuation, numerals. Writing to them was scratching on stones, rubbing twigs on papyrus, the like. Recording their moments of extreme elation, tumultuous tribulations and lusty fantasies was of life and death consequence to them. Maybe I am exaggerating a little. I AM SO HAPPY! And in my haven of sheer elation, I pick up my pen and slash in broad strokes on the nearest surface, just to expand my energy, to show how energetic I am, how infallible, how brave! Indeed, writing is a physical record of us, our emotions, our existence. What is spoken is lost to the wind, forgotten to our minds in a matter of seconds, like goldfish with short term memory. Thus we write not only to express ourselves, but to make sure we are remembered – some proof to confirm our pathetic living existence, spontaneous epitaphs to remember the laughs we lost, the words which will never be uttered in the same speed, or intonation, ever.
Have I mentioned that I study Shakespeare? Most recently, The Taming of the Shrew. Gosh, the fact that some ancient version of English used in the Elizabethan era still carries influence today amazes me. So much that we study, analyse and engross ourselves in Shakespeare’s plays. I mean seriously?! Many consider Shakespeare a genius, a collection of incomprehensible plays, which would be remembered in the next generation, and the next, and the next and so on. Language does not matter. Whether it be the scratchings of a caveman, the musings of an Elizabethan playwright or the brainchild of J.K. Rowling, if it is evocative, profound or simply everything nice, it will be remembered. Written words are a sort of history, a commemoration of ideas. We write because we want to be better at writing, and when we are accomplished, perhaps we will achieve the goal of having our very own fictional gay wizard passed down through the centuries by word of mouth, or runes on walls.
Writing is a memory of us and ourself. The plus side is, you might even get rich doing it! And I mean, really rich. (Think J.K. Rowling)
DINNER
Yesterday, they inspected my size, colour and build. They took their silver razor blades and set them upon my lovely face, carving my hazel eyes out. Frozen, the silent scream could not escape from my throat. Like the evil witches they were, I was mercilessly lowered into the blazing cauldron. "Yum, potato stew!" He chimed.
CRIPPLED
Yes, they free! The taste of the sweet wind caressing their skin, the fresh, soft grass being compressed under them, oh the spirit of life lifted them higher, higher, until they were almost flying. They still savoured the victory of the irreversible strings of ownership being cut - forever separted from their
FIFTY FIVE FICTION / WHY WRITE
Fiftyfive fiction
1. There they sat, as they always would, a rooftop apart, watching each other. He sighed, she watched as the smoke curled its way silently into the cold blue sky. Beneath them, the empty streets glowed in the lonely moonlight. Both chimneys regarded this, and each other, with melancholy longing. So close, yet so far away.
2. She sat quietyly on the porch, watching her daughter in the garden, admired the slender strong tilt of her head in the sunlight, the smile in her eyes as the wind tustled her honey-brown hair. My daughter, she thought to herself, my beautiful daughter. And she got up to take the wheelchair-bound girl back indoors.
3. Cleared her throat and she began, wisps of song escaping across the sleeping town, notes floating high into the night sky, the moon her spotlight. Momentary pause, then final note, lingering in the air as though caught in the December frost.
Evidently pleased with herself, the cat took a bow and leapt off the wall.
_________
Why write?
My daughter comes into the living room where I am writing on my laptop. Behind us, the sunlight is melting into the morning and the wind is making the verandah curtains billow. A good morning, I think to myself, for writing. My daughter throws down her writing pad emphatically, petulantly, as though that in itself were enough to convey her agenda in coming here to interrupt my work. And then she begins.
“Why,” she starts, “why write?” It is a demand more than a question, and it hangs bashfully in the space between us, uncertain of where to go. “What’s the point in any of this?” She gestures to her half-written essay, sprawling unceremoniously on the glass tabletop, a sad jumble of single-lined exercise paper. “None of this is going to make any difference, so I might as well give up.” I look at her face, a mess of defiant scowling features, and wonder what to say to her.
I want to tell her that she writes, we write, not because we want to but simply because we must. That writing is how we keep our thoughts seeping into the canvas of life, how we keep ourselves in orbit with the world around us.
I want to tell her that whether she likes it or not, her words are the looking glass through which people will view her. I want to tell her that every word she writes is a part of her that she shares with the world, and that her words have power. Not because of what they are in themselves, but because of the thoughts that propel them out of her mind and onto the pages in front of her.
I want to tell her that no one else can string the same words in the exact way that she can. That even if they do try to, the stories that the words tell will be completely and utterly different. And that is why she must write, because her stories are one-of-a-kind, the most valuable things she has to offer the waiting world.
Instead, I look her in the eyes and smile. “Keep on writing,” I say, “just keep on writing.”
Written by Shzehui from 314(:
1. There they sat, as they always would, a rooftop apart, watching each other. He sighed, she watched as the smoke curled its way silently into the cold blue sky. Beneath them, the empty streets glowed in the lonely moonlight. Both chimneys regarded this, and each other, with melancholy longing. So close, yet so far away.
2. She sat quietyly on the porch, watching her daughter in the garden, admired the slender strong tilt of her head in the sunlight, the smile in her eyes as the wind tustled her honey-brown hair. My daughter, she thought to herself, my beautiful daughter. And she got up to take the wheelchair-bound girl back indoors.
3. Cleared her throat and she began, wisps of song escaping across the sleeping town, notes floating high into the night sky, the moon her spotlight. Momentary pause, then final note, lingering in the air as though caught in the December frost.
Evidently pleased with herself, the cat took a bow and leapt off the wall.
_________
Why write?
My daughter comes into the living room where I am writing on my laptop. Behind us, the sunlight is melting into the morning and the wind is making the verandah curtains billow. A good morning, I think to myself, for writing. My daughter throws down her writing pad emphatically, petulantly, as though that in itself were enough to convey her agenda in coming here to interrupt my work. And then she begins.
“Why,” she starts, “why write?” It is a demand more than a question, and it hangs bashfully in the space between us, uncertain of where to go. “What’s the point in any of this?” She gestures to her half-written essay, sprawling unceremoniously on the glass tabletop, a sad jumble of single-lined exercise paper. “None of this is going to make any difference, so I might as well give up.” I look at her face, a mess of defiant scowling features, and wonder what to say to her.
I want to tell her that she writes, we write, not because we want to but simply because we must. That writing is how we keep our thoughts seeping into the canvas of life, how we keep ourselves in orbit with the world around us.
I want to tell her that whether she likes it or not, her words are the looking glass through which people will view her. I want to tell her that every word she writes is a part of her that she shares with the world, and that her words have power. Not because of what they are in themselves, but because of the thoughts that propel them out of her mind and onto the pages in front of her.
I want to tell her that no one else can string the same words in the exact way that she can. That even if they do try to, the stories that the words tell will be completely and utterly different. And that is why she must write, because her stories are one-of-a-kind, the most valuable things she has to offer the waiting world.
Instead, I look her in the eyes and smile. “Keep on writing,” I say, “just keep on writing.”
Written by Shzehui from 314(:
Friday, August 1, 2008
WHY WRITE
Writing is one of the best ways of expressing one’s self. This is because it is unlike music or art, where it is a largely exhibitionistic form of self-expression. When writing we can choose to reveal or conceal, so no one but ourselves know what we truly mean, though the audience can make guesses to satiate their innate desire for knowledge. Of course, in an academic setting it is not as mysterious – you have to be very straightforward – as can be seen here.
Writing can be used to convey meaning and display insight into human conditions of the period of time from whence the writer came. For instance, Charles Dickens wrote extensively on his experience as a child labourer in the industrial revolution under the guise of fiction. Indeed, writing can be brilliant for masking reality under pretense of falsehood.
One can utilize writing for various purposes, simply because it is a versatile tool which never leaves us (until we die – in the brain or in the physical life). Many writers wrote to seduce – such as Percy Shelley. Many writers wrote to express their anger and pain – such as the literate peasants of the Russian Revolution. And some, like Oscar Wilde, wrote to satirise and ridicule.
Language is manipulative. It can fiddle with your mind and toy with your emotion. For example, Mary Shelley’s masterpiece and first novel, Frankenstein, incurred fear in many of her readers with its exploration of the meaning of art and life. Other works such as Dracula by Bram Stoker also explore such themes.
When reading writing the work can compel the reader to ponder various ideas, such as the morality of racism in To Kill A Mockingbird, or the viability of communism in Animal Farm. Such is the power of fictional creative writing.
Writing is basically a celebration of humanity and life and a mimicry of the lives we lead, or the lives we want to lead. It is everything it is, because it is a representation of us, and since most of us are innately contemplative, manipulative or imaginative, thus our writing will be as well.
-Cheryl, 315
Writing can be used to convey meaning and display insight into human conditions of the period of time from whence the writer came. For instance, Charles Dickens wrote extensively on his experience as a child labourer in the industrial revolution under the guise of fiction. Indeed, writing can be brilliant for masking reality under pretense of falsehood.
One can utilize writing for various purposes, simply because it is a versatile tool which never leaves us (until we die – in the brain or in the physical life). Many writers wrote to seduce – such as Percy Shelley. Many writers wrote to express their anger and pain – such as the literate peasants of the Russian Revolution. And some, like Oscar Wilde, wrote to satirise and ridicule.
Language is manipulative. It can fiddle with your mind and toy with your emotion. For example, Mary Shelley’s masterpiece and first novel, Frankenstein, incurred fear in many of her readers with its exploration of the meaning of art and life. Other works such as Dracula by Bram Stoker also explore such themes.
When reading writing the work can compel the reader to ponder various ideas, such as the morality of racism in To Kill A Mockingbird, or the viability of communism in Animal Farm. Such is the power of fictional creative writing.
Writing is basically a celebration of humanity and life and a mimicry of the lives we lead, or the lives we want to lead. It is everything it is, because it is a representation of us, and since most of us are innately contemplative, manipulative or imaginative, thus our writing will be as well.
-Cheryl, 315
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)