Sometimes I wonder why I write when it’s such a costly endeavor for someone like myself. I do not breathe words like gifted writers. I grind them out, I chisel them from some dark granite quarry. They don’t come cheaply.
Writing is either an addiction or a curse–probably both. It’s a compulsion of some sort. Take the essay below for instance: it took several working days, nearly a week, to write; it came from experiences and observations gathered over a month; it made me sad in the writing; it earned me exactly $0 dollar.
But then my father read it, and he told me that it made him cried. He told me that it was “Great” and I had done right by our people and all that we had gone through, that I told a story that no other writer has written or will write.
That means something to me.
The story is “The Squid Sellers of Sihanoukville”.