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Blogs by Paul Cuenco
Predicament: Death of a Writer 3/22/2012 9:27:08 PM
I was driving to Trumps one night and my thoughts swirled. My thoughts were like stew with meaty chunks swimming in a pool of soup, thick and entwined with the flavor and aroma that an excellent thought goes through. But what must I write about when nothing had occurred in these so many days? Should I shift gears and write about something external, something sterile, without any emotion, nonetheless is important but it does not affect me? Or, should I wallow in this state with raw thoughts without any analysis and conclusion?
Shifting gears had its ramifications. We could talk about Iran and Afghanistan for a long time, about the killings and how disheartening it is to hear it day in or day out. There is raw emotions here but it does not affect me except on a personal level, on my own, and not meant to be shared with the outside world. Thus, writing about them becomes sterile because when telling it, it gets scrubbed of that emotion I put in into things I write about. It turns out to be too episodic. Unlike other writers where their heart and soul is meshed with the big stuff, I tend to concentrate on the small stuff, about the sometimes inconsequential stories such as weather and how it affects me or personal memories experienced long ago that only now I can recall again.
And sometimes I get praised or ostracized. Emotions on the part of my reader can be volatile. There is no middle ground. Most, however, err on praising my work. I get good reviews for the most part. Readers are people whom I get in touch with on a regular basis but most of them are the nameless individuals who populate my universe. Yes, I do get good reviews. At other times, although I have written an honest and gentle ribbing, my view runs contrary to what they believe in. I might get bad reviews. But those who express it, expresses it with an acerbic slant. These criticisms I want to avoid. But if I want to write honestly with the hope of avoiding these criticisms and still get it, there really is nothing I can do, but lament. The best way is to shut my mouth and strike a mental note never to write about what they are against. I superficially react like nothing ever happened. I leave it up to them to sort the reasons why and let it be. It is up to them to sort out their own emotions. And for me, it is up to me to sort out my own…and say nothing, lest I allow it to balloon.
Sometime the reader does not care. Sometimes, I wonder if things I write gets read. There is a certain death in me as a writer. I die because whatever I write does not make these few individuals happy. But I die even more because my writings are not read at all.
There is this saying, that how would we know if a tree is felled in the forest when no one witnesses it. So how would I know if my things are read when I don’t know if they are actually read, when no one reacts to the things I say and my supposed reader can breeze through my work without making a comment.
So I trek into this journey only I would know. I write about it. I am happy when I read good reviews and repose when those reviews don’t come my way. But the rule is not to exhibit what I feel, how I feel. I write for my own gratification and I re-live it when I, myself read my work. Indeed, thoughts swirl and only I would be the true judge of whatever I write.
