My life as an anti-social dorm student with the descent into my own little world has taught me something: being alone does things to people. For an introvert, loneliness is an incentive for brain activity. When you’re metaphorically brain dead around other people, the absence of such human matters regenerates your brain cells again. Ironically, I do feel trapped by my own thoughts and feelings and want a way out from time to time. The truth about being introverted and growing up is, well, you don’t always have someone to talk to.
That’s when I
understand why people write. Writing is having a conversation with someone whom
you know so well because they are nothing. It is the simplest therapy. You try
to translate your feelings into words so you can give them an explanation. I
also found that writing fiction is a form of sharing. You share your existence
with your characters; they in turn offer you their adventures.
I envy those with
generous imagination, and at some point I told myself that I should try to draw
a comic one day. Comic is a wonderful thing because it combines writing and
drawing, which I am better at. To come up with a complete story, with an actual
ending and all, has become a challenge I constantly poke myself with.
Stories simply don’t
come to me. Characters do, however, and I’m stuck with vivid characters that I
don’t know where to put them.
I think in pictures,
and they don’t always translate into words the way I want them to. That doesn’t
mean I don’t ever think in words. As nerdy as it sounds, I have imaginary
conversations in my head with my good friends all the time. Somehow I’m always
more eloquent in my mind, but that’s beside the point.
Although I am still
having trouble coming up with a plot, I hope my characters will one day inspire
me with their wonderful (not so wonderful, more like morbid) personalities.
Wish me luck, guys.
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