I wanted to write poems. I wanted to write this as a poem, as poems. Poems need thought, time, inspirational sparks or slice—any of those. I’ve lost touch with those for about half a year now. Activities becloud creative flow sometimes. It now does for me. I am just finding creative flow footing with combining three major things that were adding up one just after another. A fulltime postgraduate program. A personal daily-run online magazine project. A fulltime lecturing work. All have been a lot of work. And, good fun, I must say.
A postgraduate course I’m taking this semester—Medicine and Literature. The professor asked the class to write and submit a short story around medical bioethics. After quiet meditation, I was able to make my mind receptive to creative inspiration and I got a story idea vaguely worked out in my mind. I intended to title it “Put to Sleep” at first. I’ve kind of grown some fascination with one-word titles for stories and poems. I thought about “Sleep-ened.”
I spent 3 days or so trying to begin a first page, while deleting and deleting on my pad. I moved over to my loose sheets. A writer often gets too accustomed to a medium he uses most for a long time—electronic typing, or else handwriting—at risk of not being able to ” write” with the other. I’ve always tried to maintain almost a balanced and almost equal ability to write with both medium by switching time after time. This time, I discarded as many as 5 sheets trying to begin a story. My problem is, I can hardly bear to turn in a washy writing. Not for anything, but I can’t stand it—it’ll sicken me to see I “write that!” That was the problem. I’ve been an editor and writer somewhat obsessed with detail, correctness and standards to the point I am a bit hard on myself for my writings meeting expected standards, at least, of my present writer experience.
I eventually opted to adapt an already got short story in that line. I merely excluded a few parts off the story just to quite contained it within length bounds—in other respects, it is much the same discussion topics of medical ethics it engages.
I have known through the years. When I write much of a genre continuously over quite a length time, I almost always tend to write less of the others.
I write nonfiction now. Not even essays, but random dairies. I think I wrote my last poem mid last year. By then I was devoting much of my creative skills to writing beautifully narrated psychological flash fiction—when I wrote “Bare” (April 2015) and “Remaginary” (August 2015).
In the year I wrote my novel full-length Sprouting Again, I wrote it in barely interrupted 6 months. It took me almost 6 months after completing the novel to have a spark of poetic inspiration at all. When the spark came, I wrote one of my most beautiful and engaging poems through undergraduate college, “The Beauteous Rose Flower”.
I quite still remember with some fondness how Beauteous Rose was so commented on, on the literary board where I had released it, that before the week was over it had been ” stolen” off the board! And the following week, Beauteous Rose Flower was declared the best post of the preceding week.
Friends and fans, I’ll be soon back with you, God sparing life and granting grace. I will be soon back with you—and with a landmark story and a landmark poem!
Saturday 9 January, 2016