Write until it hurts and it hurts no more

So I started this new writing venture. I’ve been reading so much lately that I suddenly feel the urge to go back to creative writing, which I haven’t done for a long time. Let’s say, I sort of missed it, especially those days when I have to stay late at the school library doing word wars with my two best buddies just to be able to finish the novels we swore to write up to its 50,000th word, or even more, or those days where I would lock myself in the study room literally for one whole day just to get all the words off my head and tossed them in my stories like fireworks.

When I felt the itch, the first thing that I asked myself was “can I still do it?” It has been more than two years since I took a glimpse on the last novel I was trying to work on. It was barely written, with outlines pleading attention, a storyline that formed itself perfectly inside my head but never made it in print.

I guess I just had too many excuses. Months before I started writing this particular novel, I broke up with my ex-boyfriend. Yes, him again. He made so many moments in my life so memorable that almost every time I write, his name or his memory would suddenly appear into the paper or the screen of my laptop. But this was a real excuse because the title of my novel just happened to be his son’s name.

Pablo

It was 2011 and the time of the year where I’m set to join this novel-writing contest is already approaching. I was still mourning my first breakup but I was happy to pretend that I’m doing okay so I decided to pursue writing ‘Pablo’, a psycho thriller novel I’ve always wanted to write.

The plot revolves around the life of Pablo, a middle aged man who constantly suffers sudden memory loss, not even knowing that he nurses a dark childhood behind him. The memory of his estranged parents who killed each other right before his eyes was unfamiliar to him but it resulted to a mental illness that would make him the most sought-after murderer in the bright yet gloomy city of Manhattan.

Somewhere behind the hunt was another guy, a vigilante with the same pursuit, running after Pablo and wanting to kill him before the police could. This person was his son to his poster mother, who turned out to be his then young nanny and the second person aside from Pablo who witnessed the vicious death of his parents.

In search of this killer, the authorities, who were led by an obsessive detective who too faces many obscure issues within himself and his personal life, would later on find an old mysterious diary that could either help them solve the mystery or further ruin it. This was written by Pablo’s poster mother whom he immediately forgot after almost killing her with a brutal rape on his 21st birthday.

The diary will be crucial in connecting the dots in the lives of most of the people in the story but as the story moves forward, the chance that Pablo will be put behind bars also becomes less of a reality as his sudden memory loss, which occurs every time he feels or do something extreme, also keeps on saving him.

There you go. I did not finish it. I wasn’t even able to get so many chapters done. It was a fail project. What was I thinking to pursue a novel with a title similar to my ex’s then 12-year old son’s name? That every time I’d type the name of the main character, it would always occur to me that it was his son’s name and I’d start all over again in the reminiscing shit.

Back to the grind

My imagination is clearly not working so creatively lately. I couldn’t think much. My access to the fantasy world has loosened up a bit and I couldn’t focus on one thing. Those years with my ex were over. I’m kind of thinking to write ‘Pablo’ again but I still don’t have much creative drive yet.

I was thinking of doing something I’d always love to do. To tell a story like it is coming straightly from my mouth. “Fuck the rules. Fuck grammar Nazis and the conservatives,” or something like that, such as pulling off a really interesting diary that you could actually share to everyone. Well, not every one of the same age, maybe.

In one random instant, I just decided that, of course, I could do this. I could write something. I have to write something. If I couldn’t come up with a plot, then maybe I could start with my own story, the mad love affair that almost shaped me into a peculiar hipster entity, the supernatural omniscience I obtained from the almost perfect romance until it turned into a catastrophic fairytale, how it made me feel and tweak it a bit to make it more fictional.

So yeah, fuck the rules, I’m writing about my ex.

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