Writing

Writing

January 22, 2016

Over the years, I have written many adventure stories and short essays, made countless entries to my face book and blog.  My affection of writing stems from reading; and my passion of reading springs from my innate aspiration of adventure, and endless love of nature.  

My early writings, received unexpected attention from friends and strangers, but they were “raw”, marginally acceptable; plain, full of errors and as such received countless attacks from one reader.   I never paid much attention to his insensitive and cruel remarks, for I know deep down inside he enjoyed reading my stories or he would not keep analysis them and came up with those remarks.  Nonetheless, I did begin to pay more and more attention to my writing including narrative skill, appropriate grammar, and organization of storylines.  I read more intensively, when come across some good descriptive words, skillful sentences, I memorize them and try to apply them on my next writing.  Sometimes, I find myself completely lost in my reading, unaware of my surrounding and indulge myself to a piece of good adventure story.   My friends begin to think that I am growing odd, eccentric, and even anti-social.

Their reaction reminds me of a classmate in the 5^th grade.  He was a quiet fellow, average student and always sat in a corner with his head down, totally absorbed in whatever he was doing.  One day, his behavior caught our teacher’s attention.   He was asked to stand up and show his hands.  What we saw was astonishing, delicate little animal figures carved out of a piece of chalk were exposed.  I don’t remember what punishment he received, but it did not stop him from carving.  He continued to live intensely in his own world making beautiful figurines.  As soon as he had a piece of white chalk in one hand and a knife in the other, he was happy.

Writing is a lonely process but it is satisfactory one. It is this strange satisfaction, this joy of molding words into sentences that gives me the most profound incentives to writing.  It is difficult to explain and hard for others to understand.  It is similar to the joy my 5^th grade classmate had; his chief delight in life was to crave a figure out of a chalk.

To my friends who think I am growing odd, all I can say to them is: they have no idea of the fun I am having!   

I may never be able to sell a story for a penny, but if I have written a sentence that “sings”, I pay myself a million dollars.