Saturday, October 10, 2009

Writing

Writing is a sneaky predator; almost, I'd argue, a parisitic one. It crawls into every lobe of my brain, resting ravenously and threatening anything that wants to take its place.

And the best part: I frankly don't want anything in its rightful place (a.k.a. everywhere).

I've surrendered. I'm in love.

It was bound to happen. The affair was going on for over a fucking decade.

Yes, it initially started at the malleable age of ten, when my mother was working at the bank. My mother was asking a customer a question and the customer, in turn, snarled at her for not knowing English. I proceeded to tell the customer that there was a difference between not knowing English and having an accent. My humiliated mother hushed me at once, but I knew, after the customer apologized, that I was in love.

I'm making good (according to my standards, which are um, pretty low) progress on the novel. Most of the time, I agonize over each sentence in a dramatic-tortured-artist type of way.

But every (miraculous) now and then, I'll concoct a rough draft of a paragraph that I'm happy with, that I'm excited to sculpt further. One that gives my main character depth and makes her relateable.

At least, I hope that's where these will go once I'm done with them:

"Suddenly, I feel scared at the thought of growing up, as though time and my twenties are running out too quickly. Things---final things, life defining things, permanent things--- that I used to daydream about feel so much nearer now. Too near. I stop myself from being submerged in cold feet---not towards marriage particularly, but more towards life. "

"He fiddles with the iPod, making fingerprints on the polygonal black box as I can see him debate whether or not to give me a white lie: It’s not a big deal; I just misunderstood her; She wasn’t trying to be judgmental. I can see his pregnant thoughts before they are born into words; many times, I can witness their existence before he can. "

"Neither of us spoke for the next few seconds, which felt more like an hour. I focused on toning down my nervous smile, which was now making my cheeks hurt. The last thing I wanted was to seem too eager.
I was in a moment that I thought was confined to episodes of Dawsons’s Creek or some other high school drama. I never knew that a guy could take me to the highest of highs, without even trying very much."

1 comment:

  1. Saum! Your writing excerpts are amazing! I am so excited to see your novel become a reality! You have inspired me to get crackin on my own book project. Writing truly is a predator. The funny thing is that it attacks from the inside, seemingly sucking all reflective thought out of our bodies. But yet, we find in the product of any writer, an amazing tapestry of blood sweat and tears weaving itself together with every draft. Good luck and happy writing. :-)

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