it is tormenting me, the desire to write. These few days, probably after the dorothy allison talk, after reading bastard out of carolina, i was making myself a mention note that, there is really nothing i could relate to in the novel. until she say storytelling has always been the way to changes. she say story telling is everywhere, it is in songs, in books, in movies, in your conversation, in your memory. everyone has a story to tell, and whenever we tell a story, we add on to the world of stories, and when stories accumulate, there might be changes.
suddenly i realise i m saturated with stories. I bet everyone of us are. We heard stories, and we experience it. We thought it is only worth telling if it is extraordinary. Then i realise all my stories are extraordinary. I want to write about all the places that i have been to. I want to write about my friends, my family, my imagined friends, and my imagined family. I want to write about people like jenny and shane, like brooke and stephanie. I wanna write about old woman withering alone with her jewelery, forever trapped in the memory of her glorious youth, who is my grand mother. I wanna write about woman who think sex is a responsibility, who think sex is that reason why we aged, sex is a neccessary evil that we perform after marriage. and what happen if they do have a daughter that think sex is liberating, fun and a like a cocktail after a dinner for two, and the daughter is me. I wanna write about some guy who think he is a warrior, two guys , who think they rode on horses and carried a sword, who eventually met a maiden who was picking apples in the woods. They choked, and she was to blame forever, she was being exile into an eternal loneliness , forever a bitch. I wanna write about love. how to love with hatred, and how hatred enhanced love. how we torture our loved ones, and how we redeem them with our own wound. I was fierce when i first started loving, i was never gentle in love, even i was untouched, i was resilient. it was like battle, and your enemy has a better reason to fight, so I end up killing the innocent, I drink their blood, took their strengh and fight. I wanna write baout my country, the city by the river, they are both cities by the river. i wanna talk about the glamorous choas that glittered everynight with the million little sparkles, that reflected and bejeweled the forever starless sky. I wanna write stories. I wanna write, it is burning me, i just wanna tell people that I wanna write. They are things in my head that cant be conversed, that could only manifest themselves in writing. I wanted to ask dorothy allison, if you have a million stories but not the language to put them down, what to do with it? there was an Iran girl i met on the line to the book signing, she say she wanna be a writer and everyone tell her she cant, becuase english is not her first language. that moment I wanna be a writer, immediately i have an ambition, i could be anything else but i need to write. I told the girl that i think you can be anything you want, you can definitely write, i wanna read. she smiles and she say she doesnt know how to go about doing it. I couldnt encourage her further, coz I am on the same boat, ya, we cant make it to newyork. we may, if we try, if we fearlessly try. She was a timid petit girl doesnt speak loud, she was almost ashamed when she tell me she wanna be a writer, it was a confession, she was a secret admirer, and she think the world of word crafting doesnt love her. There are things in the world that you cant change. there is always despair, people stuck in a certain level and never move up. people like us, gifted and cursed, helplessly tormenting ourselves with our talent. We dont bury it in the ground, like the stupid servant that god so despised, we put it in a bank, the bank was robbed, and we are penniless, and punished.