I just came back from the park where I went to read two Akutagawa short stories. I wonder how long it took for him to write them. But I suppose it also doesn't matter.
The latter of the two stories was about a writer. No, wait. Both stories were about writers. The first one was about the passing of Basho, the haiku master. The second one was about Bakin, or something like that, a fiction writer, who took 28 years to write a 3,000 page long story about a eight dogs.
I wonder how big each page was.
In between turning the pages, I was thinking of my own story, The Millie, that I started drafting, 2 days ago. How much can I finish writing in the 10 days that I am not working?
Goh Poh Seng said that he finished what was said to be "Singapore's first novel" in two weeks. either two weeks or ten days. I dont' know how that's possible. Although I am hoping to finish drafting my story in the same span of time.
I feel like I need to finish drafting it in at one go - so that it maintains a consistent tone of voice. That sounds stupid. I have been "writing" for several years now, and only at the brink of completing a novel, am I trying to develop and maintain a consistent tone of voice?
A bit too late, isn't it?
I hope not.
As I went to the park, I passed by a delegate from N-parks, or a delegate of a delegate of theirs, i.e. a worker for the subcontracter, most probably. He was in a flourescent green vest (which by the way, who was the one who decided they should all wear flourescent green vests anyway?) and talking to an ah-ma (old lady) who wore a cool pair of very dark sunglasses.
He was speaking to her, in hokkien, something about how working to maintain the park and keeping it in orde so that people can come here and feel happy, then they (his colleague and himself) would be satisfied.
I stole these words - as I nodded my head respectfully in their direction, as I would with some strangers - and kept it at a back pocket of my head so that I could ruminate upon them, as I am ruminating now.
Simple, it is, an aspiration of a gardener, who probably did not receive high-level education, and so humble that it might even seem noble. I recognise it as that.
How is it that as a writer, who writes in hopes of readers coming to read and feel entertained, or dare I say "happy" (?), I can feel so insecure about my aspiration?
Maybe the worker was trying to sound good. To impress the ah-ma? Maybe not.
I started drafting 2 days ago, and have vacillated about twice between thinking this is not good enough - nevermind, just do your best, ju-lyn - this is not good enough - nevermind, just try your best, ju-lyn...
Last week, I decided to go on a long leave from work, at the last minute, because the "exigencies of service" suddenly permitted me to go. Because of the suddenness, I also feel rather ill-prepared for this long retreat. A bit being caught unaware by myself.
Having only a limited number of leave / year, I am obliged or pressured to spend it wisely. Ration it properly. Roll-over as many days of entitlement as I can roll-over to next year.
I'm worried, that since I'm a little unprepared, that in suddenly taking these several days off now, I am not investing my "opportunity to take several days off" wisely.
Not being at work this monday, or tomorrow, or the day after, also makes me feel out of place. Insecure.
I take breaks between reading the pages of Akutagawa to look at the trees around me in the park. It was so peaceful that I could count the number of different bird-calls if I had wanted to.
At one point, my eyes focused on a butterfly resting on a leaf (?) of a branch of a tree some distance away from me.
Recalling a book I had read recently detailed how the uncle of the narrator would encouraged people to appreciate good moments in life, I thought to myself, "Well if this isn't nice, I don't know what is." The book is Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut. I read it in the park too.
If I'm insecured, like a butterly resting tenderly on a leaf, then the leaf would then be my story?
No wait, a butterfly could easily fly away. The analogy doesn't work.
Maybe if I wouldn't be so out of place if I had booked myself a ticket to bali or Bangkok, to live for two weeks with my friend. Like, I wouldn't be here around familiar surroundings to feel unfamiliar?
Or maybe I would feel even more out of place.
I would have to wash my own clothes, and maybe helped to mop the floor. Worse is if I wanted to refer to a book that I knew was on the shelf in my room, but I couldn't because my home is in Singapore and I would be in Bangkok.
So I'd just stay here, I guess. And try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that threatens to swallow me. Maybe.
And try to enjoy the process, or something. Or at least appreciating the butterflies I notice. Or whatever.
This insecurity is mundane. I felt it too when I quit my job sometime back. I wrote a lot then. Some of the most inspired short short stories, I think. I felt it too, whenever I considered the plausiblity of my proposed plot for Millie. But I think this is not a good time to delve into other things to be insecured about.
Okay. I can do this. Or I shall die trying.
See. I vacillate.
Notice how I do it so skillfully? It's almost an art, I tell you.
I wrote another essay about the progress on the Millie project about two weeks ago. I feel it required editing, but I didn't have the time to edit it to my satisfaction.
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