The Incomplete Drafts

a couple of things i’ve written over the years but came to no conclusion – and i don’t think i’ll ever finish them. but it’s interesting to see the way i thought and wrote about things before, and how things have, or haven’t changed.


today, a year ago

a brief break before my very very last paper on the eighteenth of november, so i figured i’ll write a bit. these few weeks have been expectedly annoying, but it was at the very least rather cathartic. i was so sick of the same old routine of getting up early, hitting the books, break for lunch, rinse & repeat. i wouldn’t say i was FULLY prepared (far from it, actually) but i’m so so so glad A’s came when it did. and during this period it was so… carefree? how strange, i know. but i was super relaxed during which.

i was talking to Tiffany about it today when we were (not)studying in a cafe, but i felt that i had a really bittersweet year. it was kinda tough to get through because i learnt so much about things — people, myself, the way things were supposed to work, but didn’t — all that. those emotions resulted in a strange duplicity in my being; i would be my usual okay self in the days, but come the times when i was either

– – – 

and here we hark back to the longstanding existential question of what is real. what keeps us going onwards and forwards. i always thought i knew what i wanted to do in life. man, i was so extraordinarily convicted about it. and i feel the basis on it hasn’t changed one bit. and ultimately to get there we have to work hard. but i used to know, and now i don’t. but

 – – – 

today, 3 years ago

2012/11/30

I’ve finally realised why most of my hopeful stories scribbled on the inside of numerous pretty notebooks or typed out neatly on the front of white screens often, very quickly, die off. Many of them are germs of ideas, and many are very good. But the lack of drive and conviction to finish them is due to my lack of interest and want to find a conclusion, a sort of self-revelation to find out the purpose of writing those.

So many times I’ve written a perfect parallel universe kind of writing, where I’d make up brilliant scenes with seas as blue as a robin’s egg, waves rolling and crashing with the air saturated with salt. Or alternatively I’d write about the forest, clean and green and the crunch of the dried leaves as they rustle in the wind. I’d make up characters, and make them all Mary Sues, about girls who used to be able not to, but now can, because of a change they’ve been through. Many of them end up blissful, happy & perfect, and what I write often resembles a poor man’s version of a Sarah Dessen novel.

But I’ve realised those will never work out, and those will never have me sweating over it for days and days until I manage to get them into novellas. I’ve even given myself some sort of motivation by signing up for NaNaWriMo but they always fell apart. NaNoWriMo is going to be over soon, and my lack of result speaks deafeningly of the lack of meaning I find when I write those. Indeed, admittedly writing them is enjoyable and leaves me in a happy, contented daze, but thing is I lose the plot and point when I’m not even a quarter through.

Then yesterday, I started reading The Help. And I was able to relate to Skeeter, her yearning to be a proper journalist and nonexistent interest in getting married, as it was the norm back in those days. She had to begin somewhere right? And she did. However along the way she got some sound advice from someone who knows it, and this line hit me like a hurricane: “Write about what disturbs you, particularly if it bothers no one else.” I know what does exactly that, and today I’m going to be brave and take that first step – write those on paper while trying to handle the rising guilt that will no doubt come onto me. I hope it works out, maybe. It’s going to be a long, gruelling process, but I must try.

I wrote this nearly a year ago last year, and I find that


what i see there are bubbles of positivity and a confidence i feel has slowly disintegrated over the years. i wish i still possessed just a little bit of that self-confidence and happy conviction. however in its place i find a quiet certainty of what lies uncertain, and a slow reworking of what i’m used to writing, style and content-wise. i hope this lasts – i’ve been writing and running more recently and it has been very therapeutic.

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