Oh, hello there.
It's another late night episode, and it's just you and me once more.
Well, it's been quite awhile since I've blogged so I guess it's about time I got back into it. And it's nice that you're here to keep me company.
I've just emerged from completing a copyedit job, and I've been living so much in a world created by someone else that it's so hard delving back into the real world AND even more so, the universe I had created myself (and need to return to), both of which seem like they're always threatening to fall apart at the seams at some unsuspecting moment.
I'm literally balancing a book on my lap as I type this. It's a book published by Harper & Collins, and it's by another pretty established Malaysian author. One who seems to have recently gained some degree of attention overseas, and I'm glad for her, of course... Just that I don't know why, it makes me feel lousy because of all the things I should be accomplishing and haven't.
Or maybe won't ever.
Who knows.
Poetry's been on my mind again lately. Mainly because I realise how I never make an effort for it nowadays. I only brought it back up to the surface just so that I'd have something to submit to literary journals and such.
But does it still make my heart sing? What if I wrote it only for me?
Would I still... do... that?
These are some of the questions plaguing my thoughts.
I know most, if not all, writers get Impostor Syndrome, and so to say that I have it makes me seem just like everyone else, doesn't it? But other people kinda get over their insecurities after awhile, you see and they actually go on to accomplish big things.
It's only little old me who gets caught up and buried in my ridiculous mountains of feelings and then continue the trend of never getting anything much done.
I mean, look at my (unfinished) novel. Sigh. Okay, no. Don't look. Not yet.
Not...
Never mind.
So much feels at stake when one of your lifelong passions feels like maybe it's not meant to be.
I'm 40. And I've still got nothing tremendously noteworthy to show. What does this say about the way I live my life?
And does it matter? Should anything matter in the end?
Writing is floating your dreams. It's life. A lifeline. An identity. An escape. Most definitely that. And here's the searing truth: I love it yet I don't do it well. Or often enough.
Ah, I feel displaced again. How nice it would be to have somewhere to belong.
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