“Mind your own business.”

I heard that a lot as a child. Whenever I showed any interest in the dinner conversation my parents were having, more often than not, I would be told to mind my own business and stop being such a busybody. I’m sure I’m not the only one. For me, being told this numerous times had a profound effect; I got the idea that asking questions about the world only got quick sharp reprimands which made me want to cry. By and by, I learnt not to ask questions about conversations which were deemed ‘adult’. I told myself that it wasn’t my business and that I shouldn’t be interested in the first place, and eventually I became convinced that it was true. That was the beginning of my detachment from my parents, especially my father.

A Crisis of Faith (part 1)

I’ve been thinking about religion a lot lately, ever since I rewatched Kingdom of Heaven and then had to go to church. This is very central to who I am, and I feel it is important. Bear with me, for I have a lot to say, but it is not structured. (I have never been very good at organizing anything.)

I was born into the Roman Catholic Church, so I didn’t really have a say about what religion I participated in. My earliest memories include memories of being told to be quiet during mass, and also of washing my hair in holy water (I was a kid, and kids like to play with water; what can I say?).

When I was fourteen, I read a book called Sedona Storm which managed to convince the impressionable me that all non-Christians were bad and easily tempted by evil, and I got very worried for my friends, who were mostly atheists. I also wondered about God. It was said that God guided Christians, but I didn’t feel a lot of guidance at all. I was confused. If God was such a loving entity, then why would he condemn people to Hell just because they weren’t Christian?

I’m feeling lazy. What’s new?

I should be typing up my latest fanfiction chapter at the moment. It’s supposed to be three to four thousand words long, and while I have it all written out by hand, getting it down in electronic form can be a bit of a bother because typing can be rather boring, especially if you are watching out for stupid mistakes. Creative writing is unlike simply blogging or journal writing. You actually have to think, and if your brain is like mine, it sometimes just can’t be bothered. One good thing is that I have the entire storyline figured out (even thought this is actually no big deal because there are only two chapters left to go, including this one). I think I have the situation under control. The same cannot be said of the sequel, but that’s part of the fun of creative writing, I guess. To quote Bilbo Baggins, ‘you step out onto the road, and if you don’t watch your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to’, or something along those lines anyway. Everything in writing is quite unexpected; it is for me at least. That’s why I don’t like planning anything beyond a very vague outline. Too much planning ruins the element of surprise which makes being a writer exciting.

 

Onto other things. My parents and I were discussing private schools this morning. I myself was educated in a state school, and from what I can see, there is no difference between a private school and a state school. The same curriculum is taught (the Ministry of Education sets that) and in fact, the only thing which makes a private school a private school is the ridiculous cost. Their uniforms are more complicated and more expensive, the fees are very high. I feel that sending kids to private school isn’t really a good thing for them; it does, however, boost the parents’ ego to see their children in a ‘posh upper class school’ or whatnot. I find that quite objectionable, especially since these people seem to think that people who attend private schools are somehow more cultured than those who go to state schools.

 

The most important thing about a school is actually the quality of teachers. I have to say I have not been too impressed by the quality of many teachers whom I have encountered. Some of them seem to think that their job is to intimidate students. Others just sit in the classroom and make sure that the students are not burning down school buildings. Hardly any of them teach, and of the small minority who do teach, not very many try to make the experience enjoyable for the students. I’m not quite sure what most of them are being paid for. I remember sitting in a math class, and not being able to keep my eyes open because a) the light was at optimum sleep level and b) we were only copying notes from overhead slides which were so old that the writing on them was blurry and the plastic was yellowish. The writing was also in cursive and illegible. The only thing I learnt in math was how to draw, because I had nothing else to do.

 

Elementary/primary school was even worse. Not only did I not learn anything, I lost self-esteem. (that was covered in the post ‘Rub it in their faces’). Those teachers were a waste of time, waste of money. They did do a lot of successful advertising because almost everyone felt they were working hard. I don’t see what’s so hard about photocopying numerous worksheets and then handing them out, or taking the students out for a run each day. The work wasn’t even marked, so naturally, I had no incentive to do it. Besides, it was completely boring, and there was no point in doing about a hundred sums per day when you did not even get to know whether you got them right or not.

Without Words

It’s not usual that a writer is without words, but that’s how I feel today. I don’t know why I feel that way. Perhaps I need caffeine, or fresh air, or both. Or I might simply be too tired, and need a fountain pen instead of a keyboard. A change of medium often helps writing. I need something old fashioned today.

This morning, I received a message about a flame (a bad comment about someone’s fanfiction) and when I checked, I found it was the infamous Flame Rising. The thing is, I came across two of his flames today, and they were both exactly the same. That disappointed me somewhat. After hearing all these things about him, his flames were not humourous, original, or at all skilled. I didn’t laugh at his flames the way I’ve laughed at some other flames. Well, I did grimace at his flame(s). 

I myself don’t flame — I write harsh constructive criticism. That’s different. And each one is different. That might mean I won’t get around to doing as many people, but I like to think that I can offer them suggestions and give them something to think about. Mostly I pick on grammar and spelling and the like.

And the truth is, writing is a tough job. I once had my writing ripped to pieces –figuratively– by my English teacher in front of the whole class. It wasn’t pleasant, but it taught me something, although in general, it was more an attitude thing than a technical thing. I still write in the condemned genre (epic historical fantasy) but I’ve learned to accept criticism and think about it. That’s very important for a writer because like the way a parent sees their children, a writer’s work will always be good and dear to them, no matter how bad it is. Being criticized like that allowed me to see my work from someone else’s point of view, and therefore I can improve — well, I hope I have improved over the years. My writing certainly sounds different from what it was two years ago.

Rub it in their faces

I’ve been meaning to write this for a long time, but I just didn’t know how to express it. To all you oppressed souls out there, don’t give up. You are not worthless. Don’t believe anything that those degenerates tell you. I was bullied, and I survived, stronger, angrier, and more determined than ever to prove that I am not a failure the way those who tormented me were.

When I was seven, I switched from a state school to what was considered a private catholic primary school. Supposedly Christian, this was the breeding ground of prejudices and discrimination.

A Question of Faith

Yesterday, at church, the priest talked about the children going up for blessings after communion and how their faith is firm, without doubt; how they knew how to trust in God.

But is it really true that children don’t doubt, or do they simply never mention it? I remember doubting God when I was four years old. I hated church. Church was boring. You had to sit still and stay quiet. There was nothing to watch. The readings were incomprehensible, as were the sermons and the prayers. You did nothing. Your parents didn’t pay you any attention. Why would God, if he was so wonderful, make you go through this ordeal? As a child, I figured that it was all God’s fault, and there were so many rules. I didn’t like the rule which said you had to listen to and obey your parents. I thought that was stupid because I felt that there were times when my parents were very wrong. I wasn’t smart? Of course I was smart. And everybody said I had my head up in the clouds. No, my mind was just usually thinking about something else other than learning the read and write.

I lost my faith, and didn’t really regain it until I was fifteen. By then, I’d lost faith in the whole concept of organized and institutionalized religion.  

On Boredom and Magpies.

I have just realized that I never keep promises to myself. I promised that I would write everyday for the past three weeks. I promised I would get up early in the morning to write. That all went to pot. In life, there are so many distractions which can take one’s attention off creativity. I think boredom is one of the greatest blocks for a writer. Whenever I’m busy, with three assignments, a test and all the rest, I have loads of ideas which just need to be put down on paper. Do you ever get that feeling? Once the brain starts working, it keeps pouring out all these great thoughts, and there is just not enough time to elaborate. But once I have time, the ideas just stop coming, and I’m left with nothing to do except sleep and complain to myself that I am bored. It’s sort of like the magpie that I’ve been feeding. When I’ve food prepared for her, she does not come. When I have no food, she comes. That’s life. Nothing is perfect.

Speaking of which, that magpie hasn’t come for ages. I think she’s nesting. She’s showing the same behaviour as one of the ducks who used to visit us all the time, and after a period of such behaviour, that duck turned up on our doorstep with fluffy newly hatched ducklings. Ah, those were the days. We had so many ducklings. They were all tiny –about the size of a ping-pong ball– cheeping, calling for attention, food, and always getting underfoot. They even let us pick them up, and as long as they were fed, no one minded. There’s nothing quite so exciting as picking up a brown and yellow noisy ball of fluff. I miss seeing ducklings in our garden each spring sometimes, when the peach blossoms are blooming (although I would’ve preferred more variety than just peach blossoms) and the stream in our backyard was freezing and clear. Then again, the ducks often left messes of an unsavoury nature. Ah, well, nothing is all good and no bad, just as nothing is all bad and no good.

Why do I write?

Every writer has to start somewhere. For me, the process began when I first started learning English, at the age of five. Now you might this is odd, but for me, it’s really the most logical beginning. You see, when I was young, I wasn’t exactly one who appreciated the written language, preferring TV, as a lot of other small children did. What I did appreciate was a good storyline, but then so did many other people. Only a small percentage of them ended up wanting to be writers, of that I’m pretty certain.