So I’m holed up in the school library … not studying, as I probably should be. I’m at a very secluded area of the library where people here mostly just sleep in the comfy seats provided along the wall. I’m blog-surfing, which is, you know, also considered as a form of research, since discourse is everywhere and as a linguistics major, I should be competent enough to consider the intent of discourse and the discrepancies between the idealised and actual projected image. And so on.
Except that I’m really not.
I’m trying to think of a way to come up with my usual 8 pages of dialogue for my play, due Wednesday, when we have our reading during class. That, and sourcing for new dramas to watch. Because humans are story-telling/story-loving creatures, right? We feel the need to chronicle our lives through vicariously living through the characters on-screen and on the page. Stories help us make sense of the chaotic in our stretch of time in this world, and it helps that they have a proper (hopefully happy) ending, something that’s impossible to define in real life.
So, whatever it takes to keep reality at arm’s length, because man, its bite is painful.
Just yesterday, my dad was telling me I should start considering my options. As in, career options. After graduation. I was in the midst of cranking out some dialogue for my play, when he popped in for a chat. The Classifieds section of the day’s papers was strewn on the floor (you can tell how high on my priority list that is at the moment), and he asked me what I was considering doing after graduation. He said the worst was when it’s time for me to become gainfully employed and I still don’t know what I want to (and can) do and then I embark on this mad rush to apply for jobs and settle for any old crap position, in which I’d be miserable and contemplating to find another job. That’s sound advice, I know, but it just put me in a lousy mood afterwards, so much so that I didn’t even feel like writing anymore. It felt like reality had punched me in the gut. Because, sure, I’m enjoying what I’m doing now, writing plays for class, and writing essays and catching up on readings, but what happens after? It’s all good to focus on the present, because you don’t know what’s going to happen next and all that. But what if the future is (not so) slowly but surely looming and the problem is precisely that you don’t know what’s going to happen? The uncertainty is enough to gore you to the ground, deflated and weary enough to not want to lift up your head.
Any job that requires narrative writing, I’m your girl. Anything that requires creative writing, sign me up. On the spot. Because those are the things I’d do even if I wasn’t paid to do them. But the list seems to end there. Teaching? No, thank you. White-collared jobs? I’ve expressed my disillusionment with them before. Entrepreneur? I’m too illogical, irrational and impractical for it. Not to mention naive and uninterested.
This is turning out to be another post where I lament about my lack of career options (well, okay, not quite a lack of, because really it’s just me being picky and unmotivated). So I’m going to stop here and move on to happier things.
My 21st celebration was a blast, and this is a little overdue (since my birthday’s on 25 Sept), but a big thank you to all of you who came and made that day special! I wasn’t too keen on making a big fuss over a birthday, but my dad said it was a milestone in my life and that I had to celebrate it well because you only get to be 21 once. Which sounds depressing, but I shan’t dwell on the downside. 21 feels entirely too old – 18, I feel, is the best age, even though we had to contend with the crazy A’levels.
(On a sidenote, it seems my dad is always trying to make me get a life. Apart from organising my party, he also encourages me to go out more or join more clubs and societies or pick up a sport or class to meet more people. I don’t know what to make of it. Sometimes, it’s really nice to have company – the bigger the company, the better – but sometimes, you just really want to be alone.)
Speaking of my play, I realised I haven’t quite told you much about it (although whom I’m addressing is unclear – maybe it’s better to treat my blog as a person, so I won’t feel like I’m talking to some imaginary audience). It’s about this girl Becky who is so obsessed with a pop star that she spends her days camping out on his fansites and Twitter profile. She hears a host of three people in her head: Prince II, an impression of the pop star who is supposed to love Becky unconditionally; Aunty Kim, her neighbour who passed away two years ago and had been a mother figure in her life ever since her mother left her; and Mr Hawk, her creative writing teacher who saw the potential in her writing. When her mother reappears in her life, the voices in Becky’s head grow increasingly louder, so much so that they start crowding up her mind and interfering with her daily life. She talks to them in public, often in agitation, and her atypical behaviour is noticed by her childhood friend and neighbour (also Aunty Kim’s son), Lucas, who has always been protective of her and now tries to help her exorcise the voices in her head one by one. To do so, they have to revisit the day Aunty Kim died, and understand Becky’s infatuation with Prince.
Some parts sound a bit autobiographical, if you know me, but sadly there is no Lucas in my life. (I can hear Gerlynn sniggering right now.) Still, fiction’s the best form of escape.
Till the next post!