By Alin Sengjaroen
DAY 1:14th October 2024. I woke up early without an alarm. Instead of putting my glasses on first thing in the morning, I decided to pick up my phone, planning to scroll through social media, like the addict that I am. My screen time was more than my sleep hours, not because I slept late but because I couldn’t sleep in the first place. Surprisingly, I didn’t open Instagram and watch reels for the nth time that week but instead opened Google Docs. I reread what I just wrote last night -- a dystopian short story called “Of a Threadbare Wood” that I impulsively wrote on the last day of a magazine’s theme call. When I finished reading it in one go, I put on my glasses and thought, “Wow. This is terrible,” and immediately went to my email app and deleted the submission I sent alongside the story. I got up and went on with my daily routine. Got breakfast. Sat down and opened a magazine’s issue. Read through the accepted stories. I sighed.
“Wow. I’m terrible.”
At Eternity's Gate by Vincent Van Gogh
DAY 2 was so boring that I only wrote what I ate for dinner. Ramen and ice cream. Not the best combination. Most of that day, I mostly slacked off and played video games. Opened a few packages delivered by the truck. My Dad had an online shopping addiction. Don’t remember what I ate for lunch. To be honest, I don’t even remember if I ate. Before sleeping, I justified my behavior, I don’t have the energy to do anything and I’ll write tomorrow – I say for the next 99 days.
7 DAYS LATER, I was too busy completing Inktober (a challenge in which the artist drew one illustration per day for the entirety of October) to care about anything else. Unconsciously, I opened my email, expecting to find an acceptance letter out of nowhere. Then I went down the rabbit hole of going through my literary achievements. I remember when I got my first rejection letter, I was ecstatic! To be a real writer is to face rejection – so that means, I’m a real-deal writer now, right? I sighed and went to bed. Yeah, I’ll think of something to write tomorrow, since I haven’t done that for a while.
THE START OF NOVEMBER. New movies came out. Inktober was over. My friends’ birthdays neared. School is opening. I was going out a lot more often than ever. Drinking tea at cafes. Cleaning up my dusty bookshelf, even though I haven’t read anything in almost a month. And writing…what writing?
ON A NOVEMBER SCHOOL DAY, during an English class, we had a writing assignment. I don’t remember what it was about nor whether I ended up handing it in. But there was tension in my hand, aside from the painful callus on the side of my right pinky; it was like my fingers were itching to do something else but write.
“Okay, guys, don’t forget,” [taps the blackboard with chalk] “The word limit is one thousand. No… You can’t write more than that! You got it, Alin?”
The class roared with laughter. I jumped at the sudden mention of my name, poking my head up from the migraine of a situation I was in.
“HUH? UHH…” [pause] “Yeah, right! …No promises. I’ll just write exactly a thousand then!”
For once, I realized, maybe this was burnout, and I needed a break. Even so, it’s been over a month since I felt good with writing. What writer am I without my words?
ON THE 62ND, I started a new diary, which I tried writing forcibly – once per day, every day. Shouldn’t be too hard. Back in 2022, I did it before as a way to vent. No one would be able to understand what I was writing. Only me. The 2022 diary went pretty well; most of the writings there were surprisingly good, and that was why I decided to try again. Maybe I’ll fall in love with my style again.
“It has been a while. I’m not sure if I picked up this pen again because of lilies or you, reader. But an author does not need a reason to write, do they? I gaze upon the letters I have written. From July to August, and how I left amid events. How inadequate of me. I should’ve bid goodbye”
– the opening paragraph of the first entry.
Except when I try to remake that, it doesn’t have the pang of a newly brokenhearted teen (If you couldn’t tell, I cringed while typing this out). It was entirely about how I left off during my last poetic diary without a proper farewell, since whenever I quit doing something I at least bid goodbye as a tradition.
And for ten days, I wrote, until I eventually, officially quit. No, not just the diary, but all of writing.
On Christmas Eve, everyone celebrated the obstacles they overcame and I cheered for the hobby I abandoned and swore to for the rest of my life. At the time, I was hanging out at the beach with my cousin in a suburban area. I already planned what I would do when I got home.
…Nothing! I don’t have a plan!
LATER ON THE 78TH, it was the last day of 2023. I spent the morning staring at my notes app, then I spent the rest of the day writing down around 100 words. A free-verse poem about how I don’t write anymore, but by writing that I was essentially writing. Usually, a poem would take me around a few hours to polish to the final draft. But here I was, spending 12 hours to write the first draft. And I never finished it!
“The un-fine musicians,
Compose till dusk.
The un-gifted artists
Drew till their death.
But does this poet,
Without a pen,
Deserve to write
Till their end?”
– the last line of the aforementioned poem.
Now, I’m the type of person who’s too obsessed with plans. Can’t go on my day without a mental schedule. Since I gave up my writing hobby and, consequently, my plan for a career too, I went through the Wikipage of University majors. Initially, I planned to pursue Liberal Arts, but since I’ve completely quit, what else was I supposed to do? At school, I study in an English major. My lifestyle was in English and I was better off speaking English forever. This language is more than a mode of communication for me — it was my life. The only subject I was decent at. That’s the sole reason I even joined the major in the first place!
I’m screwed, I thought, If not writing, what am I?
Not a writer, of course. But what am I made to do from here on out?
Ugh, no matter. Before I turned off the lights, I remembered to write down my New Year's Resolutions. For the first time in a while, it did not include any aspect of writing.
It was time to pick a new hobby. There are hundreds of things to do in this world. It wasn’t like this was my first time quitting being a writer. I mean, it was probably the 5th time by then! What a waste of time. I should’ve known not to get back into it. Ever. Again.
THAT 101st DAY, I had inspiration and wrote, then sent it off to a few close friends to proofread it, and they loved my work as always.
‘" haven’t seen your writing in a while."
"Alin, I totally missed your poems! Whatever happened?"
Yeah, uh, it’s kind of because I quit.
With all the build-up, you may think a miracle happened like someone extended their hand to me and took me away from the hell of burnout. This story ends like this – one day, I just got over it, that’s all.
“In spite of everything I shall rise again; I shall take up my pencil which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing.” – Vincent van Gogh
DURING THE 101 DAYS, I learned that I hate writing, but also love it. I hate the aspect of having to prove myself to the world that I’m worthy of using words. I love being able to write freely how I felt. I hate appealing to an invisible audience, which turned out to be myself all along.
And the irony is, this spiral all happened because I received two rejections in a row. Just two.
When I first started writing this, I remember myself being incredibly upset over the rejection letters, but when I scrolled back in my email’s starred tab (because I star all of the responses I get from my submissions), there were only two rejections at that time. The first one I could cope with. The second was the fuel. And funnily enough, it was Spiritus Mundi Review, the magazine I ended up working for now. I also submitted for the newest issue and was accepted (Again, thank you so much!).
At this point in my writing journey, I’ve received many more rejections than I've ever had. A 2:1 ratio of rejections to acceptance.
Turns out I wasn’t the only one who had this phase either. Every writer has probably done this before in their life. Quitting, going back, quitting, going back…But, why do we do this? Specifically, why have I sworn to quit writing more than 6 times in my life?
I AM NOT PERFECT,
Nor my writings, my projects, my authentic self…
It’s as simple as that. I hate being imperfect, so might as well not be at all.
How did I exactly get over this? How would YOU get over this? The answer is something you have to find out for yourself. Even the cause of your burnout. Think again, why did you begin your journey in the first place? What is the purpose of the words you spew out on the page? Your stories… what are they meant to spark?
And to that, I say, I write because I want to. I don’t need to appeal to anyone else or my ideals. I want to navigate the world the way I want to. Tell stories I love too much. Talk about subjects even if only three people in the world care about them.
The day before New Year's, that’s why I broke the promise. I felt like it, so I did it. Do I need any other reason?
Comentários