All For A Life Well Written
Posted in feebility, mundaneity, patheticism
Am I truly a writer?
For years man had always found ways to recognize and immortalize history as it unfolded. From the dawn of human kind to the modern age of computers, from the prehistoric cave drawings and ancient sea scrolls to the Internet, man has always - albeit sometimes unreliably - been capable of keeping records of his works, his discoveries, his triumphs and defeats, and even the tiniest and seemingly most insignificant details of his life.
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| Evolution, as it really happened. |
But writing isn't just about keeping records or documenting history. While it is true that writing is an efficient way of preserving facts and the chronology of events in history, writing also happens to be one of the most enduring arts that encompasses the originality and profoundness of man's imagination. It fosters creativity and allows one to reach into the deepest recesses of his thoughts, allowing him to translate ideas and turn them into words, prose, poem or lyric, which he can then share them with an interested audience.
I looked back at some of the topics that I had written about in the Stories from the Simian Crease, and while there are a few publish-worthy material which I am proud to say are of my own imagination and creativity, I noticed that many of the posts in this humble blog centered on me and the hum drums of everyday living, being me. It made me wonder about whether I had been maintaining a blog that was actually worth publishing or is this just an online public diary that barely requires any intellect for anybody to understand. And so I pondered deeply upon that thought, and my keyboard fell silent as I stared at the steady blinking of the mouse pointer on my screen. Should I even dare continue this whimsical yet overly dramatic attempt at literary greatness, or should I just admit defeat and accept mediocrity?
Someone once told me that the greatest novel any author could ever write is the story about his life. Unfinished for most of the author's existence, his life story consists of a series of events that reaches as far back as all his childhood memories will let him, and continues up to the present. No two individuals ever waltz through the exact same sequence of events in their individual lives, and it is this individuality of experiences that assures us that our life's novel will be unique, with all the makings of an epic best-seller to boot. If it is a crime to put the seemingly mundane and worldly routines of yours truly into writing, in an effort to create my own saga - my greatest story ever told - then I say strap them old cuffs onto my wrists and lock me away for good, because I intend to continue living and writing for as long as time and inspiration allow.
I only hope that by the time the twilight of my existence looms near I shall have already written the last few chapters of my life's novel. At that time I will face those people who have helped me finish writing the story of my life, along with those whom I have helped write theirs, and ask them with all humility...
Was I truly a writer?
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