If there was any compelling reason why I fancied to be a writer, it would be the apparent direct correlation between a man’s writing success and his chances of getting laid. I’m not making this up; I read this in an article some time during my last year in college, during which time my hornyness level was off the charts. And trust me, when a man is super horny, any article that has the keyword ‘get laid’ printed on it will always be a worthy read. After reading the article, my life was never the same again. I regretted ever taking up chemical engineering. What’s worse, for the first time in my life, a heavy ‘what if’ has hounded me since that day:
What if I took up a degree in creative writing?
It was a severely excruciating thought. I began to imagine what would my life be if I have been a writer. I could go to a bar brimming with confidence that at the end of the night, I could take a girl I just met home with me, all because I’m a writer. In a world where I’m a famous writer, I’m filthy rich, and well, I get the girls.
It’s never too late to be a writer, I told myself. There is still hope to get laid!
And so I tried writing. I spent the entire night writing my very first article like I would prepare myself for an upcoming exam on reaction kinetics. I fermented flowery words and salivated profound revelations. My knowledge in chemical kinetics had become handy in my first writing experiment: for every reaction to occur, the reactants must be able to overcome the activation energy. Luckily, my desire to get laid was already an enormous energy source for me to be able to overcome the minimum activation energy needed to churn out a fantastic piece of writing. After writing my very first article, a conclusion has been drawn: I SUCK AT WRITING.
And that was the end of my fantasies of being a writer.
Reading a post or two in this blog reveals something I had always known but couldn’t bring myself to admit publicly: I am not a good writer. It’s glaringly obvious how my prose doesn’t sing, how I grapple with choosing the right words to convey the specific shade of meaning I’d like to convey. It often baffles me how some readers can stand reading my posts. The truth of the matter is, every time I re-read my past posts, I cringe in agony. My writings are best examples of what bad writing is, and this truth pains me so much. Every post isn’t good enough, and there were times when I just wanted to delete them. It’s as if every post published is a post that screams back at me mercilessly: Your writing sucks!
If there’s any profound realization that I realized after more than a year of blogging, it is that the attempt to write something of value is painstakingly difficult. It’s pure torture. There are days when I wanted to write about a certain experience and couldn’t write a thing. Every second spent staring blankly at the computer monitor feels like my heart being wrenched. Writing is a futile, torturous pursuit – that is the truth.
And yet, I always ask myself why I keep on writing. I always wonder why, despite being plain torture, I keep on going back again and again. What is it about writing that makes me want to do it anyway? I’m not paid to do it, and no one actually cares about what I’m writing. I won’t get published, and no book cover will ever bear my name. As things stand now, I will never be a great writer. Not even a good one. This blog, along with all the writings posted and saved as drafts, will forever be a poor vessel of the insignificant ramblings of someone who desperately wanted to write (and get laid if I may add), but just can’t. And so, why continue to write?
One fateful day during my fifth year in college, in a little nook of the engineering library, I was frantically cramming for an exam in reaction kinetics. It was two in the afternoon, more or less, and it was around that time when my hornyness reaches its peak. And so, even if I barely had two hours left to cram for my exam later that afternoon, I chanced upon reading an article forwarding the theory that there’s a direct correlation between a man’s writing success and his chances of getting laid. After reading the article, my life was never the same again.
I wanted to test if the theory was true. But as I already wrote in the first part of this post, my very first experiment on testing this theory by trying to be a writer was a shameful failure. The conclusion I have drawn that time was: I SUCK AT WRITING. I realized later in life, probably after having graduated with honors in chemical engineering, that hey, I also sucked at engineering at first. I failed some exams and it was painstakingly difficult. Just like writing. But I never gave up on engineering. So why give up on writing, when in fact, writing yields more
friends with benefits compared to engineering?
I look forward to the day when I can saunter into a bar brimming with confidence – that of a writer’s – fully confident that at the end of the day I can take a girl I just met home with me. By that time, I would have succeeded in proving the theory that indeed, there’s a direct correlation between a man’s writing success and his chances of getting laid. Of course, there’s also a big possibility that I would never ever get laid, and prove the theory wrong (or at least cite myself as an exception to the theory). But by that time, I would already be a full-fledged writer. With loads of cash. Until that happens, I will keep on writing.