One April Morning

I love to read. That's not to say that I am very good at it. I mean, I can read well, and fast. But I'm not very good at following through. Right now, for example, I am midway through about five books. I like all of them, which is precisely why I am so indecisive about what to pick up next.

Nevertheless, I have managed to get through quite a few books throughout my lifetime. The following is a list of some of my favourites. 

Before I begin... I think books are subjective. I don't really buy those "books you have to read before you die" or "best books of all times" lists that indicate that if you haven't read those particular choices, you are uneducated and ignorant. I read for pleasure and to build upon my craft (of writing). I don't much like having to struggle through something "literary" that is intended to be painful but incredibly meaningful. It's just not fun. And life is too short to read things that are not fun (unless they are non-fiction, and important). So all of these reads have a certain lightness to them but have left a lasting impression upon me and instilled within me the desire to be a writer.

I think that most of my life has been shaped by the mistake of thinking that happiness entails wading through the muck of life, seeking and yearning for perfection; finding hidden beauty, driven by the hope of utopia on the horizon.

Thankfully, I have since realised that muck and beauty are not mutually exclusive. True happiness is affixing those rose-coloured glasses and perceiving the muck - life's inherent imperfection - as beautiful. 

As you may know, I recently moved home. Apart from living away from my family for the first time, I didn't think much of it. The distance was only half an hour; I would come back and forth as often as I liked. My childhood bedroom remained intact, awaiting my imminent return.

But what I didn't count on was feeling lonely. And it was a new experience for me. Because I have never really been lonely before.

Growing up and living in the same suburb my whole life had given me a sense of belonging, which I had taken for granted. I don't have that here. I feel a little distanced. Disjointed. Uneasy. It's disconcerting. I don't like it at all.

The loneliness comes in fleeting waves. During the in-between times. Thankfully, it is not debilitating, for me. I rise above it. And I am definitely happy, on the whole. But that happiness is peppered with little bouts of loneliness, which I have gently captured and dissected in a perversely curious, writer-ly way. 

For my experience has given me, for the first time, genuine empathy for people who are truly lonely. For whom loneliness is not fleeting but, by and large, permanent.Who ache with longing for human connection, any connection; a shared laugh, shy smile, a kind word, a compliment. Holding the door open, letting someone into traffic, waving when they do. For whom sadness and disappointment give way to resentment when that yearned for human contact embodies itself in monotony and superficiality. For whom solitude is not a respite but a torment. I have always known that the feeling must exist, but it was just too hard to contemplate. 

For those of us blessed with youth and opportunity and loved ones, this kind of talk may seem depressing. Most of us try our best to avoid the reality; nursing homes and hospitals, the elderly man grocery shopping on his own. But sometimes the buoyancy of life gives way to despair and pain. Not necessarily through tragedy, but through hopelessness. How can we understand life if we cannot understand sadness? And appreciate love and happiness without the threat of sadness at our heels?

At the moment, I am reading Diedre Bair's biography of Anais Nin, who is one of my favourite writers. (For those who are interested... Anais was nuts. Absolutely nuts. And not in a good, lovable way. She was a selfish pathological liar who hurt a lot of people who truly loved her. But she was exceptionally talented, and created for herself a rich, dynamic existence. Which doesn't excuse the pain she caused but renders her life and work fascinating.) 

In her prelude, Bair says that people criticised her decision to write about the life of Anais Nin, claiming that Anais didn't deserve a biography because she was a liar, and she was not a "major" writer. Bair rebuts the latter argument by asserting that although Anais was a minor writer, she was a major minor writer. And, in any case, why deny minor writers recognition? Bair quotes fellow biographer and academic Cyntha Ozick:

I recently received an email from Seth Godin, entitled Protecting the work:

Seth's anecdote made me think how lovely it would be to have the means to hire somebody to protect our own integrity, but most of us don't. Fortunately, our friends and family will do it for free.

Although perhaps we don't appreciate it as much as we should. And don't grasp the importance of keeping those people close to our sides, taking their words to heart, and returning the favour.

I think sometimes we forget to cherish and nurture our relationships with those who help to propel us along our own paths, boost our self-worth, protect what makes us special. Somehow, the opinions of those who undermine us tend to take precedence. 

When I was young, I philosophised that astronomy would be a depressing profession. To know, all too well, exactly how insignificant we are.

But as I get older, the more I realise that the awareness is grounding. The little things plaguing us don't seem to matter so much. Silly fears dissipate. The days seem shorter, and more precious. 

For the stars tell us that our time on this earth is fleeting. And it is entirely up to us to make it worth something.

Last year, at our first staff meeting of 2010, my manager encouraged the team to make two new year's resolutions: one professional, one personal. After hearing one of my colleagues wax lyrical about her newfound exercise of choice, Bikram Yoga, only five minutes prior, I set my goal, on a whim.

Easy, right? I wasn't putting much pressure on myself. I wasn't asking myself to do it everyday, or be good at it, or even enjoy it. Just try it. But of course, I didn't. And so I found myself, two months into the following year, yet to venture into this hot room promising to give me glowing skin, taut abs and a still mind.

Hello! I'm back.

Apologies for the hiatus. You see, I have been without internet in my new abode. Woe is me!

You may assume that my past few weeks of internet-lessness (as well as TV-lessness!) would have inspired multitudes of unencumbered writing. No. There is nothing to show for my weeks of serenity, to be perfectly honest. I don't think it's because I have been lazy. I have been doing a lot of non-writing related things like roaming Ikea, reading travel memoirs and political manifestos, playing host and gradually setting up house. But I feel like I am in a faraway world. One where my writing just does not thrive.

I think it may have something to do with one of Sarah Wilson's latest posts, in which she quoted the great Salvadore Dali:


Somehow, the quiet, ordered life of a home-maker doesn't inspire me very much. That's not to say that it's not a perfectly respectable and legitimate way for people to spend their days, or that the peace and silence was not lovely. It really was. It was a beautifully refreshing change from my usually hectic mind-warp. It just wasn't fruitful, writing wise. It didn't spark my imagination. And since writing is (one of) the love(s) of my life, it's over, for now.

In order for me to feel impassioned, I need ideas swirling around my head. And in order to trigger those ideas, I need chaos. Not physical chaos, necessarily, but mental. Or emotional. Or both. My last post, for example, I wrote in ten minutes at the kitchen bench, my laptop perched precariously on my knee, just as I should have been leaving for work. Most of my blog has been written last thing at night, as I am nodding off to sleep, reflecting upon everything I have experienced or considered that day. I've desperately tried to write whilst avoiding distractions and keeping to a reasonable schedule, but it doesn't work for me. It's not my creative process. Not yet, anyway.