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”.
I’m back on the mekong farm, feeling weak with a bout of the flu. The surge of malaria/dengue in the villages had me worried. I ate some fantastic fish with fresh herbs yesterday and am regretting it today.
It’s rice planting season. The monsoon sweeping through with endless sheets of thick, pounding, drowning rain. One new development in the villages: nearly all the farmers are casting their seeds as opposed to hand-planting. Huge economic and social dynamic implications. First time in their history. I will have to get healthy and document this change.
It is so humid here my bath towel never ever dries. I’ve seen the sun once for 2 hours in 4 days. I am constantly drenched in sweat, weak with heat exhaustion. Skin rashes and bacterial infections are serious concerns. Night time, the bed is a moist pool of sweat.
Noting beats actual experience. Aspiring writers, I encourage you to get out and experience life.
Into the heart, into the bowels of darkness, I urge you.
People have asked me how can writers, especially memoirists, write about their lives, opening up closets, sharing pains, and exposing themselves to the public in such thorough and exquisite fashions.
I’ve pondered this some.
First, we don’t “think” about “exposure” when we’re busy writing.
Second, if we are the sums of love, loss, joys, and sorrows, could our stories be so different? And if our intentions are pure, wherein lies the shame?
The three personas of the memoirist:
The author is the person giving the lecture, doing the interviews, and presenting his work to the public.
The narrator is the person in the book, telling the story. He lives forever between the covers. He is the person most loved and known—by the readers.
The writer is the private person, rarely known even to his friends and family. He agonizes over sentences, makes ridiculous sacrifices for his craft, and is often his own worse critic.
I received a request from an aspiring writer. Looking back to my humble beginnings, I can’t recall ever thinking that someday, someone would ask me for advice on writing.
Here are some points I’ve found to endure the test of time.
1. Write for yourself, edit for your audience.
2. Write as though it’s your last page and today is your last day. The mind becomes very clear at this edge where one’s fears and inhibitions fall away.
3. Enjoy the “aspiring” part of being a writer. Once you published, it feels like work.
4. It’s all about the journey. The most bittersweet moment for every voyager is when the end comes into sight.