Happy 3 years Mr Writer
this is a picture of me celebrating the third year of my living as a full-time writer, I'm in a box of 3x3m I call home (kamar kosan). I just finished a draft yesterday, and as usual, had a great self-loathing session about how mediocre the writing is. I am that guy who actually paradoxical in many sense, mostly in thinking highly of himself but also fully aware that he's extremely a dumbo.
a few weeks back during finishing this draft I cried myself out in the corner of the room for a whole week because I knew I took the wrong approach for the story and the deadline is coming. I literally sat to write and bawled. I thought to myself, "I don't have the privilege to disappoint a trust." but then the draft is done and I'm pleased.
thinking about those nights, I realize, wow, I was being overtly dramatic about what I'm doing. was I glorifying the process? am I becoming pretentious and phony? I don't know but myself irritates me that much.
anyway, the closure is, during these three year (started in November 2017) I have written three novels (one is published), one novella, one short story, and one poem. I think it's not that bad. I'm going to recalibrate my thinking now. Very likely to quit writing (probably for a while or maybe not), but three years is enough, no? I mean look how thin my calf is, I'm malnourished. thus being said, if you meet me, then perhaps feed me something. I'd appreciate that.
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