At some point, what little I wrote, I felt shy to upload to my website. I can’t explain why this shift happened. I don’t think it’s about how personal the stories were becoming. But something changed. I knew I wanted to write to upload something, but I never got to that second part. I kept a diary for a few days short of a month (embarrassing how I couldn’t finish February) in 2024. I wrote up a few select entries, and decided I’ll put it on my blog. It never went up.
I think it’s shockingly good quality, albeit a little melodramatic like all my pieces. A few entries were a little too close to ‘will this impact my professional life if someone were to read this?’ But, even if I were to scrap those entries, I still couldn’t upload. At some point a few months ago, I decided ‘screw it,’ I’ll upload anonymously to some random site. That didn’t go well with how school piled up.
I only put up two stories, and despite them being written, I’m scared to put them up here. One of them is too personal to be uploaded though. I really do believe that these two stories saved me, a little bit. And once again, they’re pretty good. I’ll attach one of those blog posts here at the end. I do have something I want to say though.
This winter semester, I took a writing course. Over the course of the semester, I had to write about local history. For me, that ended up being about the mathematics department of the University of Toronto at the Mississauga campus, my home campus. It’s up on the blog right now. Memories of Math at Mississauga. It reignited my love for writing. But no doubt, I’ll fall into the sine curve of writing lots and writing little.
That course was one of the things that kept me going. So many waking moments encumbered with ‘what am I going to write about.’ I did so many new things. I visited archives, talked to people I never would have before, and wrote something that I hope stands the test of time, though I doubt it will.
Funny thing is, I didn’t plan to take the course until a few days before the semester started, when two of my friends suggested the idea. And every conversation I had that semester, half were about the project. At certain moments, it was the most important thing at the time. And maybe it will be the most important thing I did this year. After I was done, many people read it. One of my friends sent me a sentimental paragraph, telling me I should keep writing.
Why am I telling you this? I am only here as a warner and a reminder, firstly for myself before you; You need to take the chances you are given and do things you might not consider. Not every path will lead to success. But it doesn’t have to. All you need to be able to say is ‘I tried,’ so that when you go to bed and you fervently try to recall all that you have done, you can at least close your eyes and say that you tried. And hopefully, that attempt will be sufficient for you.
One of my friends messaged me after I wrote said piece. For some reason, they were on my blog unprompted, probably to escape the exam crunch. I told them about how I didn’t update the blog in a while, and they said I ought to. And maybe I ought to. This piece that you’re reading right now is mainly due to him.
I remember a passing comment from my English teacher: “When I was taking English, we had to read a novel, and it was about an old woman slowly dying. It was boring. It even won an award for how good it was. But I read it many years later, and I liked the story then.” While I’m paraphrasing and forgot the name of that book, I now believe her to be telling the truth. I always did, but I needed dramatic effect.
Enter me: I watched A Silent Voice yesterday and many years ago. And I maintained up until the runtime ended yesterday that it wasn’t that good. But I was mistaken. It was good. Great. Exemplary. A masterclass in art. A story about characters and these characters are real. And what else can we ask from the stories around us except to immerse us in their world? So, I wonder, what is the point of a story?
From the viewer’s perspective, entertainment and lessons? I am reminded of a passing comment from a video essay: “You can either enjoy a game or analyze it and wonder why it did such a great job. But not both.” Two types of lessons to be had, artistic and personal. The pacing, writing, cinematography, techniques, music, color, scenery, contrasted with a different take on cliched ideas and saying like love, never giving up, persevering, happiness and an occasional perspective change.
From the creator’s perspective, the desire to have a story be told in all its pure form to the degree that the craftsman can control. The director controls all those hopefully artistic lessons to invoke hopefully life-changing personal lessons, all while entertaining to the degree of their choice. And this desire to tell a story is the desire to communicate, to share, to say “this is what I have crafted because I needed you to hear something. To feel something.”
And while I’m talking about movies, it’s not limited to it. Any form of storytelling is at its best when the tools of the medium are combined with this earnest passion to create and tell a story. And I was told that my job as a writer isn’t simple. I need to find a story to tell, like an archaeologist in the desert. Uncovering bits and pieces to finally package and ship off to the rest of the world. While my hand may be skillful with a scalpel, I need to want to tell a story. To say, “look at this!”
This brings me to a point: Many good stories are found in a place with many stories. And out of the vastness of ideas but limitations of ourselves, we must draw on that around us. So, what do stories tell us about the world of its creators? You’ll find in many manga and anime this perversion of female characters. Or many stories taking place in high school. Or many stories that use overwork or loneliness or suicide as a narrative tool. Either at the beginning of a story, a plot point, or a climax. And while some of this might be speculation while others are real issues, is there anything to draw from this? I do not have a sufficiently thought-out answer…
Dostoevsky is a brilliant writer, but I have only read his magnum opus, The Brothers Karamazov. I read all those pages, but I can’t pinpoint what kept me wanting to read. I didn’t find the main story captivating or interesting. No, what interested me was all the philosophy. The changes to the characters. Spoilers for an almost 150-year-old book incoming. The descent of Ivan from learned to crazed, the redemption of Dmitri from lamentable to heroic, the unveiled horror of Smerdyakov from disregarded to mastermind, the angelic transformation of Alyosha through Zossima’s teachings and final lesson. All these ideas and people clash, and we see where each character will lie at the end of the night.
All this intentional, since Dostoevsky was a philosopher as much as a storyteller. Indeed, the only way to share philosophy in his time is through literature. And he was up against the likes of a radical ideology called socialism taking over his beloved country and turning into something scarred and burnt. I wonder, did he have a story to tell or a message to preach? Regardless, he did his job well. His tools honed to their best, he created a warning from thin air, and a solution to what he saw as the problems of his time. Likewise, Orwell only wrote because he believed it’s the only way he can fight back against the problems of his time. His stories dark, brought on by his view of the world. Pessimistic. Rightfully so as he lived during World War 2. In Orwell’s Essay Why I Write, he talks about it more deeply than I ever could cover.
I’ll be honest with you here. I couldn’t finish 1984. I didn’t believe I grasped much from The Brothers Karamazov. There are many times I witness a story and realize I’m not at a place to understand it. Or moments where the wrong lesson is derived. This reminds me of a scene from Horizonte. Halfway through the movie, a character tries to right his wrong. And at that moment, I truly believed “I get it. I finally understand the movie.” But the rest of the runtime proved me wrong. I didn’t get it. Sometimes, a character might have changed but others don’t see it, don’t believe that redemption was earned. Because in real life, some people don’t deserve redemption. And when that resolution is never achieved, what are we then to do? Both as the audience and the day we play the character in our own lives.
These last few weeks, I’ve been feeling listless. No motivation to do anything. As if a husk. Shallow. And any solution I’m too lazy to chase after. Purely apathetic. Things I enjoy, done to pass the time to fill a slit of my capacity just for it to leak. Things I don’t enjoy, done to pass the time meaninglessly. And as a result, I’ve been consuming much more anime than before. I could never bring myself to witness other forms of storytelling often. And in each one I successfully finish; I wonder what the hell I’m doing. None of the magic is working on me. A Silent Voice may be a masterclass, but I’m void of all its personal lessons. And this vicious cycle I’m afraid will continue, even deep into the semester. Despite having everything to do. I felt like I returned, to some degree, back to myself from years ago, when I had no emotion nor empathy. No goal. There seems to be nothing permanent that holds me at a higher level than neutral. But maybe I am meant to reside here.
I did write this, as with many of the things I write, with the intention of editing and publishing on my website. But I can’t bring myself to do it, and I don’t know why. Whether it be fear of uploading a too personal or too political story or something entirely irrational, I never want to upload stories, even though that is why I write. It’s not the fear of low quality, I know that. It is even more apathy? More laziness? I don’t know. If you’re reading this, it might because of my new idea, an anonymous handle on a random website. Regardless, I hope you’ve been inclined to think about stories. And I most definitely have stories to tell. It’s more so about what and how strong my desire is.