As I was sitting there, I thought about the beginning of my novel. "The" novel. A future worth looking forward to, maybe. Because otherwise, what else did I have to look forward to? Mediocre pupil turned mediocre student turned mediocre worker, coming from an even less than mediocre country. Somewhere far away from western white privilege, but still not as bad as middle eastern war-zone refugee. Being in the middle is the worst, really. Neither the victim, nor the villain. Just floating around freely. Either follow the dreams of your parents or the dreams western pop culture has seeded deep into your brain. "You are special, you can achieve anything you want, you are awesome, look at all these nobodies who have achieved something, start-ups, activisim, avocado toast!"
You might wonder where "there" is, where I was sitting. My bed in the financial capital of this part of the world. Now, how many financial capitals are there? Last time I studied geography there were around four. Or three? New York, London, Tokyo, something else too maybe? China? Anyway, I am in one of those, sitting in my overpriced flat, thinking about the beginning of my novel.
Being a writer is hard work. No, being a good writer is hard work. No... I don't know really. Because I see all these shitty books at the grocery store, which is already a sign, but I do see them, on a wide variety of subjects - love, crime, fantasy, science fiction - and I wonder about their writers. How the fuck did they get a book published? How the fuck does any shit end up published? Admittedly, it's just a grocery shop shelf, but I still have to wonder. My mentality didn't allow me to imagine this was possible until a couple of years back until I started paying attention what was selling at the book store. And, as much as I hate to say it, they've given me hope.
Now you might wonder specifically what I was thinking about the beggining of my novel. Language. Namely... what language would I write it in, hypothetically, if I ever were to write it. I know bilingual people usually grow up with two languages, at least. Not sure if that's my case. Can someone turn bilingual later in life? I could google that, but I'm not in that kind of nice, informed writing mood. My hunch is that they kind of can, but not really.
As I took a break to skip some songs in my playlist, I had a thought. There are some subjects on which I'd rather write in one language over the other. I feel like overly sensitive mushy stuff should be reserved for the mother tongue. You can't be a poet in a foreign language.
I do think I'm making some progress though. I used to think writers just churn out hundreds of pages in a burst of inspiration. I've learned that it's a actually much worse than that - they actually plan it out and shit. Now that I'm aware of that, I realise that you can write skits upon skits of crap like this that isn't going to end up anywhere, but it's necessary for a type of cleansing. Just getting it out of your head to make room for the good stuff, for the patience, for the re-read and well-thought.
This is exactly what my blog used to be. Tons and tons of shit, and then the occasional good post. Cleansing and filler, then boom - some inspiraiton. I got a kick out of it too, as an adolescent. I could tease a tiny audience. Of course I miss it.
