Storyteller's Box: The Evils of Storytelling Unleashed

Wherever this... this thing——writing, storytelling, or contemplating——that I do come from, from talent or plain stubbornness, it's definitely taking more from me than what I bargained for. Not that I don't have any idea of what I'm really getting into in the first place, but the longer I write, the more this job turns... insane. 

Am I really a writer? Would I still be sitting in this wooden chair if I have enough money to live everyday in comfort? (Will Internet access become free of charge and eating sweets free of guilt?)

I dread to think of how many more times I would ask myself "Am I really a writer?". How far can I go? Will my books turn into hit movies someday?

"If you find yourself asking yourself (and your friends), "Am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?" chances are you are. The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death."

-Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles 

Yes, okay, I hear you, man. And thanks to this book, I've been sitting in front of the computer, every single agitation-and-depression-filled-day, writing or not (except when thunder and lightning are all over the place).

But I find myself writing more nowadays, so I guess I should stop complaining and get back to my manuscript... But, hell, NO.

Not until I rant about what writing has done to ME.

First, it made me BROKE.

Alright, I know it was my choice. I had a decent job with probably the best employer that one can find in her lifetime. I had sidelines. I get bonuses and 13th-month pays. I can expect money twice a month, whether I did a poor job or not. I contribute something to the family (moving out of the house and renting an apartment? still wondering when I'd have that option).

But now, even with just the internet bill in my care, I feel like walking through knee-deep mud as the deadline neared. 

Of course, I have an alternative source of income, so to speak. A writing gig that requires the more technical side of writing. But I'm getting afraid of it lately. I think my mind is not strong enough to do both writing jobs at the same time. They're of completely different worlds and I couldn't shift from one to the other with only little effort. (My concentration is not that flexible enough)

On the good side, though, it made me realize how little I needed in my life.

Need. The material want has been mostly non-existent in my life for over a year. No need to always buy new clothes (which is really more of a hassle since even if I have the money, I find it hard to find shirts that cater to my taste; something that can last a deluge or a zombie apocalypse).

No need to buy my favorite books (alright, call me cheap or whatever, but I dig the free and portable).

No need to kill myself with car pollution and dirt (I'll only die from my own "dirt").

No need to take a bath everyday (`cause compared to an idea that needs to be written down and pondered immediately, bathing comes last).

But moving on to the second evil: DISTORTION OF TIME.

I'm telling you, guys, my days have become shorter. In the blink of an eye, months have passed and the manuscript I'm working on is only a quarter done, but is already on its fifth draft. And just when I'm into a passable plot, it's morning already. Much as I pride myself in staying wide-awake on critical situations, time management is required if you want to continue healthy in this path.

When it's time to sleep, I force my butt to get on the bed even if I think I can still make my hero say something cool and sexy. If I don't do that, my head next day will be all messed up and I won't be able to write—which is the worst for someone who plan to be a pro writer.

And there's my cellphone, anyway, for jotting down ideas that invades my mind the moment my head hits the pillow.

There's also the case of holidays and weekends losing their allure and importance. Heck, I don't even remember what day it is most of the time if I don't purposely look at a calendar or a clock. Gone were the days when Fridays and Saturdays have meaning in my life, and when holidays are all about laying back on the couch or going out with friends.

Even so, with the exception of deadlines, forgetting time has its merits (don't we love to do just that?).

I can easily know if I'm wasting time or not, because if I can feel the minutes going by, then I'm certainly procrastinating. And that is the greatest sin a writer can commit (Ha! I'll definitely make a list out of that: "seven deadly writer's sins").

Third evil of writing is... Do I need to spell it out?

LONELINESS.

As I've told a friend once, writing is a lonely, depressing job. No one can help me, but the editors, and they can't help me if I wrote nothing.

I envy writers who can converse with each other regarding their manuscripts. I'm open to the idea that I would probably collaborate with someone on a novel someday, but I think I would have to be used to being solo first before working with anyone. And I honestly don't have any idea when that is going to happen.

Does loneliness bring me something good? Well, it gives me the excuse to procrastinate, but as my responsibilities get nearer, I prefer not to have it beside me. Good thing it's temporary.

Fourth evil, and I think this is the last I can name (I hope), is SELF-CONTEMPLATION.

I only recently heard about this word and it tells exactly what a writer does. And it's dreadful and frustrating. (Especially when you realize that you really have nothing worthy to contemplate about *insert troll face*)

But when you do, when you finally awaken that angst that formed inside you from reality's cruelty and humanity's thirst for pain... You can never ask your "whys" fast enough.

Sometimes, I want to escape from it, but as a the Switchfoot song goes, "Where do you run to escape from yourself?". Indeed, there's no way out but to write them all on paper.

To find answers, even in the form of stories.

They say that the darker or twisted a writer's past is, the better her stories are.

I don't think I have a past as dark as that (or I just don't want to face it yet, I'm not sure). Just grudges and regrets here and there. But even with that, self-contemplation feels like trips to Hell.

Okay, there may be trips to heaven, too, but the most powerful and heart-twisting parts of stories come from way deep inside a writer's rotten soul. And after the pain-staking process of pulling them out, you still need to transform them to something readable. Something that at least your editors will like.

And heaven knows what the editors actually like. 

The good side of self-contemplation? Fulfillment, I guess. The wonder that comes once you hold your published book in your hands and when you finally get feedback from your readers. 

Writing is sado-masochistic, I tell you. (I wish I have my own Christian Grey to help me vent my frustrations... *dreamy sigh*)

End of ranting.