I’ve been working on a novel for the past weeks but the last days are so drenching because I’ve been a staff of Jobstreet.com at their Career Fair in SMX Convention Center.
Anywaaay, here’s the preview:
“Them lady poets must not marry, pal.” wrote John Berryman in one of his Dream Songs more than forty years later; and still seemed to be true. Sometimes she daydreamed that writing might be enough. She could become one of those odd women, one of those distant, withdrawn, introvert women who did nothing but write.
Part of her was even excited by the thought of turning her back on the world. It was like taking holy orders, like becoming a monk and submitting herself to one grandest thing she only knows. This is all I need in life, she sometimes thought. This desk, this keyboard, these imaginary people in this old room.
Her unhappiness comes quietly, almost not announcing itself. It just comes in by every shape. She sometimes jolts in the middle of the night. Crying, reaching her hand for something she needed but she never knows what it was. Her dreams are remembered in every detail but when she wakes up in the morning, they’re all gone.
“What do I want with my life?” she kept thinking, when she looked over the pile of short stories she managed to write for the past years. These stories- some without titles- are kept on a cardboard shoebox on the top shelf of her books next to the Macmillan’s Encyclopedia of Science. Some of her stories are not even finished. One last chapter to write but she sometimes doesn’t know how to continue it. She had trouble of finding words at the very end. At some point, she didn’t know whether to give her characters a happy ending or just let a truck pass by and crush their bones. It’s her realism that takes place as she reached the climax of every story. All the life’s experiences she had are poured to these fictional lives as though she wanted someone to share her misery.
Sometimes she thought she had made his way in life though a series of stories told by her character. Her never ending predicament day by day made her numb. Stressed by the traffic, anxious about the political wars between them nihilist and nationalist. After a day of routines, she would face her typewriter and let the words flow until her fingers are sore and she could do no more. This made her happy in a way. She felt comfortable in creating universes only she and other crazy people could understand.
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