I’ve been absent. The last time I actually posted something was the general election, months ago. And that was not a particularly good one. Not as well-researched or well-written as I would have liked it to be. For that, and the prolonged lack of action here in this blog that I promised repeatedly to nurture, I should apologize to you. If I still have any readers left, that is. But there’s someone I should apologize to before that: myself.
Yes, surprise, surprise, I wrote this blog, first and foremost, for myself. It was supposed to be my one way to practice writing, to develop any sense of style. After all, if I do love writing so much, I should have something to show for it. And since I’ve been stubbornly unable to produce a completed story of any kind in years, I figured a blog would be perfect for the time being. It is personal, and I can add as much snark or unnecessary long musings as I like without worrying what people might think about it. Okay, without worrying too much (you know how insecure I can be). For the most part, this blog has served its purpose quite well (and entertained you, I hope, in the process). Until last year.
Can you guess why I practically stopped writing? I promised you I would because I knew that I wasn’t keen on e-mailing you all about how I was doing but I didn’t. I was ashamed of myself. I felt like I had nothing significant to write about. See, most of my friends (you guys) did something when they came out of college. Or even before that. They found excellent jobs, started awesome business ventures, got engaged/married, got scholarships abroad, had babies…You’ve made something out of your lives. Me? Yeah, well, you already know the drill. Got a so-so job with so-so pay, mostly unmotivated to develop my skills or further my knowledge, still can’t drive, still single, still haven’t lost enough weight. God, just reading this pathetic list is enough to depress myself. But, there is something even worse amidst all this horror: I’ve stopped writing. Now, that is a truly bad sign.
I’ve always believed that the best way to know me is through what I write. Somewhere among the wordy sentences, the undisguised sarcasm, and the fervent adoration for everything classic and New York is my personality. Or at least the person I have the potential to be. In person, I’m just about as unappealing as a one-day old sashimi. I can hardly look people in the eyes during a conversation, let alone be charming enough to attract someone new. That’s just not who I am. When I write, however, I am at my best. I can be sophisticated, confident, witty, outwardly cruel or indiscriminately loving. It is a way for me to live out the life I’ve always wanted, to be the person I want to be. And, for a tiny moment, writing can help me escape the nothingness that my life has become.
Of course, there’s an underlying factor of my ‘too-depressed-to-write’ syndrome (and no, it is not my inherent laziness or my still bad internet connection): I’ve been largely uninspired. In case you haven’t noticed, I am easily influenced by whatever it is I’ve been reading recently (or watching on TV) and it definitely shows in my writing. If I’ve been reading Jane Austen, I’ll write in lengthy circular sentences inflected by expressions that are British in nature. After reading a Meg Cabot, I become incredibly funny and dramatic. With each issue of Vanity Fair, comes a smart, well-researched article about the latest issue in the entertainment/media world. The occasional chicklit might cause me to obsess a little on friendships (and brands). And then, there is my favorite type of book: the inspirational. This is the kind of book that lights up a fire in my cold keyboard-tapping hands. Generally, it is based in New York (though not always), can be either biographical or fiction, and more often than not, features brilliant, elegant turns of phrase. James Collins’s Beginner Greek is an example. Kathleen Flinn’s adventure in Le Cordon Bleu Paris is another. Call me a chicken, I haven’t found an inspirational book in a year. I’ve reread some of the old ones, but mostly stayed away from them. Hence, these fingers are idle and content with playing NDS. Until tonight, that is. Bored out of my mind, I picked up a tiny book called ‘Metropolis Found’.
Metropolis Found is a book that celebrated the 25th anniversary of New York Is Book Country, a book festival that takes place in the city every year. The book contains submissions (poems,short stories, memoirs, etc) from celebrated authors who have been asked to write something about their love affair with books and/or the city. You can only imagine how I felt when I discovered this book in the bargain bin. Love at first sight. Tonight, after going through half of the book, my head is filled with vivid images of childhood memories in New York, with sadness and triumph regarding the 9/11, with laughter (thanks Meg Cabot), and most of all, with love. For the city, but more importantly, for writing. So yes, the book has rekindled that spark.
