im listening to Natasha Bedingfield's Soulmate i suddenly felt like writing.. so here goes.. no flaming for bad writing, but constructive criticism would be nice ^-^ (that's assuming if anyone reads this la hehe)
She sits in front of her computer screen, tapping away viciously at the keyboard.
This is it, this is it. Or at least that's what she tells herself.
She glances at her half empty coffee cup, lamenting the fact that she has to restock on supplies soon.
Music from the radio shifts through her head, knocking in the words of a carefully scripted love song into her.
Pushing up her wire framed glassses, she takes another sip of coffee and continues typing. The music seems to be louder now.
After what seems to be forever, she clicks the print button and waits anxiously by the side of her printer, fearing that something bad may happen at this juncture. Murphy's Law.
Smile, she does at her masterpiece.
Another song comes on the radio.
And she cries. She cries so loudly and sorrowfully that it would break the heart of anyone who hears it.
But the fact is no one hears it.
She clicks on the volume up button so that she wouldn't have to hear herself.
In the silence, everything is amplified ten times, even silence itself.
For a few hours, she sits there unmoving, like nothing else in the world mattered but herself, and she liked that.
Then the sun creeps up on her. And she is forced to face the world, one which she shys away from.
She contemplates shreding her manuscript. And deleting the file from her computer.
But she's desperate. If there's one thing she enjoys and is actually remotely good at, it's writing.
To hell with it, i'll just send it in. They'll probably hate me and I'll be thrown out by the landlord anyway.
But that doesn't happen. The publishers love her story and publish it, largely unedited. It becomes a New York Times bestseller and she's able to buy a nice chic apartment of her own. And she smiles at book signings and interviews which label her the most impactful and emotive contemporary writer of the genre.
They ask her how she comes up with the material and she says she just does.
No one believes it when she says she's never been in love.
They speculate about a man in her life, someone she's too shy to introduce or who shuns the limelight.
They talk about her stories being based on her personal experiences.
But she denies them.
Yet no one believes her.
She finds it sad really.
When she stared at her finished work, she saw the depth of the love she imbued in her fictional characters, the self-less, self-scarificial, unwavering loyalty and passion that seems almost unreal, yet people constantly come up to her and tell her they know someone like that or that they can identify with the characters. It brings them hope they say, and gives them endearing faith in love and kindness.
That's why she cried. She cried that as a romance author, she has never fallen in love. That everything is simply a figment of a overactive, idealistic imagination artificially installed through the diffusion of pop culture.
Once in awhile now, in her chic apartment, she relives her moment of fragility by sitting in a corner and crying till daybreak.
And then she continues with her her lovely writing, booksigning, interviews and of course smiles.
Entry @ 10:42 PM;
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
