Have you ever had the urge of wanting to write a book? You tell yourself that it’s going to be the best book of all times, that it’s going to touch many hearts and reach places you wish you could travel to — not just by your words, but by your physical self.
I knew I wanted to write poems and fiction stories. I was pretty good at it. I had the imagination and creativity for it, but whenever I sat down and start typing or writing or whatever the equivalent of transcribing ideas into words, my thoughts would get discombobulating. I would not know where to start, how to start, and when to start the story. Or poem. I just knew I wanted to write something. But no right words sounded right.
Or sometimes, I would start writing something and it would start out good until the emotions died or until the words ran away from me, which is to say rather weird because these words demand me to immortalize them — so that they would not just drift away into the abyss, though there were times that I would just write and write and write, and it seemed like these words were something else other than the symbols and sounds and meanings we made them out to be. They have minds of their own. Each letter, each word, turning into sentences and paragraphs turning into books. Each mind telling me what to write, a thought on top of a thought atop another.
I’ve learned not to reread whatever I’d be writing at the moment as it’d kill the creativity and imagination, and the words seemed to shy away when you reread them. Just like having their own minds, they each have a unique personality you know — or rather, at least sometimes, the lack thereof.
But, I digress. I want to start writing a book. Not just any book, but the best book of all times. The one that will touch many hearts and reach many places. I just don’t know what it’s going to be about, but I guess that’s just a minor part of the problem. The major part of the problem is how to write a book that’s going to be the best of all times, which will touch many hearts and reach many places, because, really, what constitutes a book, let alone the best of all times that will touch many hearts and reach many places?
I could write about so many things. Like, I remember the first time I ever spoke to my best friend. I was a transfer student from another country, and she was my seatmate. That day, I only had a mechanical pencil, and the teacher did not allow those types of pencil because of, probably, some good reason. We could only use traditional pencil where we’d have to sharpen them. I guess it was also for our own health benefits because that would be some kind of exercise. We’d have to get up, walk toward the pencil sharpener attached on the wall (for me, only whenever I didn’t have my blue pencil sharpener that had two holes, which I almost always had in my backpack), and then sharpen the pencil. Regardless of having or not having my blue sharpener on me, I’d still have to get up and sharpen my pencil by the trash bin, so I would not make a mess out of pencil shavings. Whenever I got up to sharpen my pencil, I liked to challenge myself of how long I could make the pencil shavings, as long as possible, like how I’d challenge myself when peeling an apple. To do so, I’d have to be very, very careful when sharpening my pencil, and I’d have to push the pencil as close as possible to the blade so that the shavings don’t get abruptly cut, which is really the same thing when peeling apples.
Read the second part here.
©2018, Quiyet Brul