While Skyping with my mother today, I realized something interesting as she made her way through The Missing Slate's second issue: perhaps I had been spending too much time shielding her from things she was quite aware of. My parents and I seem to have an interesting relationship: we are both protective of one another. Strangely, she didn't mind any of the issues we'd addressed or maybe some of that was attributed to PTCL's delay in loading the LGBTQ cover feature. Alternatively, that may have nothing to do with it: she does know I have close friends who are openly gay.
My overprotective, semi-conservative parents have a very widely accommodating and engaging side which comes down to, what I can only imagine must be, trust. I mean, a few years ago my dad wasn't very pro-my going abroad to pursue creative writing although two of my sisters were educated there. Not that I have any complaints: my life has been a largely blessed one and my struggles to get a writing voice are bruises I wear quite proudly. Now, I'm here and we're talking about pursuing a secondary publishing degree or maybe going to the US to pursue a Creative Writing MFA in states and universities not necessarily close to my two sisters. Isn't that interesting? Or maybe, a part of that reason may be that I'm older. But still: in their eyes, I doubt I've aged after turning 18, quite possibly younger than that. As the baby of the family, there are some things you'll always be, no matter how far you fly from the nest. There is also no parental pressure to tie the knot: in fact, now that they know I'm actually doing something with my life, they're quite laidback over the thing; very laissez faire of them!
Having gone through the varied responses to the Shi'a/Sunni intersectarian survey I conducted two days ago, have only cemented my original plan for the story, before I got sidetracked by all the tangential places I could go. If you haven't taken part and have an opinion on the subject, either comment here, email me or take part in the anonymous survey.
The first draft stages as indicated in my previous entry is a terrible task and getting workshopped through the ordeal comes with a shitload of identity crises. Part of the reason why I gave up putting up incomplete pieces on the DWL forums was because I was getting conflicted responses, and the only real solution was to complete pieces entirely and then and only then, could I put them up for critique. It's easier pickings for both writer and reader to know where the story's going. So that's one thing I'm going to keep in there.
While talking over my writing ambitions with Paul, one of the writers on the course and who lives 2 minutes away from my flat, he introduced an interesting idea: to compile a series of short stories about the general themes I wanted to cover in my work, and link them into a novel. The idea was to have a smaller canvas to work on and be able to cover a wide range of subjects in one go. I'll admit: the idea is rather fascinating, although there is one problem with it: I've always been a short story writer. I'd much rather prefer doing something I haven't done before, which essentially is write a novel. I once did write a novel: 356 pages of it, single spaced so it was quite comprehensive. The catch? My hard drive got corrupted, it was in the days before the idea of backups had even entered my head, and I was 14. Apparently the ambition was there back then. God knows how I managed to write 356 pages of it. Geez, that's a whole lot. So it's not I can do it. The plan is to get all that discipline back: writing does get harder when you get older. Especially if you've been doing it for a while and have lost some of the rebellion of youth to cynicism of age. Not that the world could ever really knock the idealism out of this writer. But I feel like I have not yet earned the right to call myself a "writer" just yet. The title brings to it a certain amount of discipline that I am pfft...just short of.
But I will get there, damn it. It can only really happen when you're alone. Social company helps but at the end, it's you alone in the room.
Only you can do it and you can't do it with people looking over your shoulder.
It's been fifteen years and I'm still waiting for the loneliness to convert itself into acquiescent solitude.
It will come though. I am sure of it.
Hope springs eternal!
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