Remember when I told you that I would write about why I sometimes felt writing is a curse for me? Well, here it is now. A little treat (perhaps?) after my dormancy, before going back again to another round of hibernation. ;P
It's strange how I can make my mind about some things and then change my mind about them few days later. Sometimes I wonder if everyone's like me, or am I the odd one out? No matter what, I still feel lonely. An outcast.
At school, I used to learn about everything. According to you-know-who, they're supposed to harness your skills, discover your talent, bla, bla, bla. Whatever. School's always boring to me.
Except my first year when I thought school was supposed to be like a playground, where you can meet new friends. Especially when you're a country girl like me, from a small town where it's hard to find lots of friends your age in your home playground. Of course, I'm excited.
After the reality hit in, and my innocence shattered, gone...well, you know. I guess I don't hate school, but...school's not exactly my best friend either.
There's a high possibility that my childhood experience in school was unlike anyone else's, but please allow me to keep up the facade that it's the same. I feel like a freak already.
With no friends and boring books, the loneliness was unbearable. (Not that I'm not lonely now.) So I turned to stories. books. The really interesting kind.
They were amazing. Inspiring. Motivating. For once, i don't feel like a loser, but a princess. It was fantastic. Kind of like a drug. Except better. And more noble. As I grew older, the books began to tell me a little bit more about the world, inviting more maturity and confidence. They began to build up who I am today.
I guess it fascinates me. Astounded me. That those people could spun out those amazing stories in the books that could create who I am today. And I started to write too. I wanted to be like them too.
What sets me apart from so many aspiring writers is that I never thought myself as a writer. I did once fancied the idea, but it never hit me with such a life-changing and conviction that I would be a writer. I love to write...but I'm supposed to be a doctor first.
Which was hilarious, considering the fact that I'm such a non-science person. Science is fascinating enough for me I guess, yet I fell asleep in the laboratory where I'm supposed to obtain hydrogen gas from adding zinc pieces to hydrochloric acid.
Then I realised I don't want to be a doctor after all. I just fancied the idea of occasionally butchering people, stylishly spotted with the ste-, never mind, and enjoying romances from some hotties like Patrick Dempsey in Grey Anatomy. Curse all those misguiding tv dramas.
So I opted for a Commerce degree in uni instead. And it's only these few months, while slogging with all those assignments, with loads of academic readings filled with business jargon that I realised that writing is truly my forte. Yet...
*sigh* Let's just say I barely scraped through an essay, and suddenly I wasn't so sure after all. I AM sure that I want to write as ever, just that I don't know if I would survive it. And because of my family, I MUST survive. So perhaps writing is not such an ideal career after all.
Especially when I'm an Asian from Southeast Asia. English is my second language. I speak dialect at home. But I've been reading in English since I could remember.
Sure it feels exciting that I can speak two dialects, and three languages, but I'm jack of all trades, master of none. I truly felt like an outcast. I don't belong.
I couldn't hope to write like the likes of Americans or British, yet I couldn't write like my fellow Asians because of my upbringing. I'm stuck. In between. Like a mutant in X-men, except worse. Because I don't have anyone like me who can understand.
So I wonder, is my aspiration to be a writer...a curse or a blessing?