My thought as a newbie writer

Wait, am I already one?

If a writer is simply a person who writes, then every literate is one. There, I laid down the obvious. The word becomes useless, anyway. It’s also shamelessly simplistic.

I define a writer as a person who articulately express his/her thoughts and feelings through chains of properly-selected words.

I make the effort. So, am I already a writer? An arrogant me would say yes. Kind but soft people would say yes. Good for my ego for a short-term.

A humbler me would say no. Experienced writers would also say no. It hurts. But, I should accept that constructive criticism.

Well, a self-deprecating me would also say no. Same with cocky experienced writers. That ‘no’ can enter its own orifice. I have a dignity to maintain.

I’ve been wanting to write since I was eleven. I hadn’t even read my first book! Still can’t explain why the desire exists. But, it does and it’s getting stronger.

My first attempt of writing was in a university class, when my lecturer assigned us to blog writing. That was two years ago. I enjoyed it. But still, they were assignments. Completely passionless. I deleted them eventually.

My first proper writing attempt was months ago. Someone suggested blogging and I actually listened. Two weeks later, I posted my first proper article.

Far from perfect. But, I finally did it. I don’t know why it took so long. Procrastination, maybe. Contrary to what internet memes say, it ain’t cute. More harmful than you think. Anyway…

For the first few weeks, I became so productive. Thirty eight articles written. My first article posted on July 29, 2016. I wrote this sentence on November 10. I can explain.

Most of my works are satires. Writing them is unexpectedly enjoyable. I could finish each in just a few hours. I finished one almost daily. I just want to vent and write. So far, they are fulfilled.

It leads to a new problem, however. I end up feeling guilty for not finishing one work per day. Irrational, I know. I need to overcome it. I’m sacrificing quality.

My articles suck, satirical or not. Every aspect of my writing need to be improved. That’s why I search for tips online. One in particular intrigues me.

Word minimalism. Use words as little as possible. It does make sense. Bulkiness is indeed an eyesore. I loved the tip…for a while.

Word limit does work. But, it’s prone to inadequacy and haste. Bulkiness can also be overcome with choosing shorter words. A handy tip: never take one for granted.

I also attempted to use big words. Initially, I appeared erudite. Then, I realised I sounded like a vexatious and flatulent knave who beholds others as philistine peasants, frivolous about the reality. Well, I am one, anyway.

My satires can be mean and I’m not sorry; I’m not obliged to be kind and respectful to bigots and proud simpletons. One of my short stories have really dry humour, which I consider underrated. I’m callous and wry. But, I also want to be witty.

For me, wit is the highest form of humour. No exuberance and crudeness allowed. There’s only intelligence eliciting genuine laughter. Well, that’s how I see wit, anyway.

So far, I have made one, while playing Cards Against Humanity. But, it took me a long time to grasp its wittiness. Still figuring on how to possess it consciously.

I’ve also written a few short stories. They combine mostly these three genres: magical realism, surrealism and absurdism. My personal favourite.

Profoundly reflective, valiantly bizarre and defiantly free-spirited. Traits that I find desirable…and they’re achievable with the genres’ helping hands.

Of course, I shouldn’t confine myself to those three. My latest fiction has Sci-fi elements. I’m also interested in fantasy, metafiction, horror, dramedy, psychological, historical and philosophical fiction.

There are lots of them because I want eclecticism. It’s an intriguing challenge. It also gratifies me intellectually and emotionally. But, I’m still far from high-calibre eclecticism. Single-genre works feel sparse for me, even though I still love many of them.

Despite everything, I still proud with some of works. My first short story is the only fiction I feel proud of. Expressive, descriptive and flows nicely. It’s praised by my Facebook friends.

I also love some of my satires. They can bite the thin-skinned, obese elephant in the room. With improvement, the bite will be lethal one day. Some (like this one) are also praised by my FB friends, who share my discontent.

I’m a Media and Communication student. Despite my genuine interest, I’m academically pathetic. Failed eight classes, almost got kicked out. If I stuck with sociology, it would be the same. But, what if I enter the creative writing program?

I would probably excel academically (for the first time in my life) and be a better writer. Or it would probably be the complete opposite. Both are possible. But, I will never know what will happen.

The writing program requires foundation qualification and that takes two years extra; media one only requires eight-month-long diploma. So, I choose ‘time and money-saving’ (mind the apostrophes). Still bitter about it.

So, I have poor writing skill and academia issue. Obviously, I need to fix them. But, there’s one problem that I find unconquerable: the future.

I know it’ll take many years for my writing to take off. I’m very impatient. But, the wait is inevitable. That’s assuming I will have a writing career.

What if I will never have one? What if my blogs end up as cyber litters? What if I will always be an airy-fairy writer-wannabe?

The idealist in me still believes “fame and fortune” don’t matter. I believe our passion must be genuine. Resist being a sell-out. Do what you want. Do it because you want to.

But, at the same time, I really really want them. Fame and fortune are evidences of my greatness. The pragmatist in me believes in the ‘improve or quit!’ mentality. Without him, I will lose the passion anyway, sooner or later.

I let my ego ruins my mood…