The origins of this blog

–Vowing to write more, even when it’s painful

It takes a lot of courage putting out something that’s flawed. But I hope that this blog would help me become better at writing on a regular basis, rather than wasting time seeking perfection.

Facing the childhood dream

I’ve wanted to be an author (I knew that word before “writer”) since I was a child, and that dream has lived within me for decades.

I enjoyed writing stories in elementary school, and thought I was doing pretty well. In middle school, when students met one-on-one with their teachers to talk about their career goals, I brazenly said that I would be an author. “But what about your income?” my teacher asked. “It’ll be ok; I’ll write bestsellers,” I replied. (This makes me cringe every time I think back to it.)

But over time, I lost confidence as I saw true talent in others. I pursued creative writing through numerous classes in school, online, and in the community–science fiction, mystery, foodwriting, magazine writing, memoirs–but I’ve been thoroughly disappointed with what I put out. My talented classmates captured moments in photographic detail, and portrayed emotions in ways that I never could. I was still stuck in my flat elementary school stories, while others’ narratives were rich and compelling.

I once went up to one of my high school creative writing teachers, who kept giving me B+ grades. I asked what made my stories “B” level, in hopes that she would provide guidance on how to improve. She ruminated for a few minutes as I stood by her desk, and said that she couldn’t explain it. It was disappointing knowing that she wasn’t the kind of teacher I needed. And after that, she began to grade all my stories with A-s. They were the saddest A-s I’ve ever gotten, inflated for no good reason.

I also remember one of my college creative writing classes, when we reviewed stories anonymously among classmates. One of my stories came back with ugly letters scrawled at the top of the front page, “I can’t believe you want to be a writer.” It was a rude awakening. I guessed without logic who the culprit was, and secretly hated that classmate for it (it may not have been him, in which case I feel bad!). And in a masochistic way, I kept that story for years, putting it out of sight, but shuddering every time I found it as I cleaned my belongings.

As I prepared to graduate college, I began to think that writing fiction was an unrealistic career for me, and started to pursue journalism and communications instead. I went to graduate school in journalism and enjoyed interviewing experts on subjects that I would never know about otherwise. I also worked as a communications professional–and have been in that field for more than a decade now. I enjoy writing on behalf of someone. There’s a lot of fun in imagining how others think and what messages would be most effective. I’ve gotten good at finding links between concepts that are seemingly unrelated (transitions in long speeches), explaining complicated matters succinctly (press releases), or trying to persuade others (event invitations). I think I’ve gotten the hang of writing when I can hide behind brands. But with every year that passes, I think back to that childhood dream, and wonder if I’ll live my life never having pursued it.

As a minority

Writing about deeply personal issues or putting out fictional stories feels like I’m exposing myself. I’m afraid of releasing my words into the wilderness–where they could be judged, misconstrued, or just plain ignored.

In hindsight, I know why my stories have been weak. The characters were fake. As an ethnic minority, I didn’t think characters like me would appeal to others. I kept creating what I thought were quintessential Caucasian American characters that I saw in the movies. They had monosyllabic names that were easy to read. They ate cereal, toast, and spaghetti with meatballs. They were mere paper dolls, defined by their situation and what happened to them rather than what they did, and had little personality. They were generic in an attempt to appeal to everyone–and ended up being memorable to no one.

I used to think that if I wove my culture into my stories, it would overshadow everything else. But I now know that’s not the case. Increasingly more books feature stories of immigrants and ethnic minorities, where culture serves as a background but doesn’t define the entire story. Regardless of culture, nationality, or language, readers identify with universal themes like love, friendship, ambition, envy and rivalry. Gone are the days of my childhood, when American picture books rarely included Asians, and when they did, they were side characters with slanted eyes that never opened. This celebration of all cultures has been highly encouraging. And I’m beginning to see that I might be able to contribute unique perspectives based on my upbringing.

Writing efficiently

As an introvert, I’ve always preferred writing over speaking because it allows me to think carefully about my thoughts. But I realize now that I need to practice writing about different topics, including my own thoughts, quickly. I will still pursue fiction, and maintain this blog in the meantime to share aspects of real life.

I recognize that feedback would help me grow. I have much to learn from artists and writers who put their work out there, and manage to ignore the inner (or real life) critic that says “you think someone cares about that?” or “look how self-absorbed you are!”. I know I’ll become more thick-skinned as I practice.

I have a lot of fun posting for friends on social media. Writing is cathartic, turning negative thoughts into positive action, and feedback from friends cheer me even more. But I’d like to take it to the next step, exposing my words to strangers, too (this takes so much courage, I had to force myself to slowly type the word “strangers” here!).

Making it a habit

Working in communications, I enjoy putting words on the screen, but by the time I come home, I rarely want to type some more. Being free of corporate restrictions like tone and vocabulary is liberating, but it’s also exhausting to build from nothing. Oftentimes I stare at the blinking cursor and wonder if I truly love writing, or if I only love the way I sound when I say I write. I’ve held on to this dream for so long that I worry about facing the unromantic parts of it, including the endless editing, and fear that I might not like it all that much. But I have to start somewhere, and hope that this platform will hold me accountable.

Resolution

This blog was a New Year’s resolution for 2019. But I spent time doing everything but writing. I bought a shiny new laptop, replacing one that was seven (!) years old. I researched blog sites, from those that would be easy to navigate regardless of language, to those that provided more resources to potentially expand in the future. I scanned topics to write about, but became discouraged that I was passionate about a lot but an expert in none. I thought about blog titles, but nothing clicked. I also debated about how much I should reveal about myself.

Days went by. For weeks, I woke up involuntarily at 3am everyday, unable to go back to sleep. I was utterly disappointed with myself for having spent yet another evening without any action, and went through the day groggily. I couldn’t even bring myself to respond to messages because I wanted my next post or email to be about the blog, and that added to my guilt.

Then it occurred to me that, in a meta way, this internal debate could be the topic of my first post. Exposing my weaknesses is one way I can be genuine in my writing.

Vincent van Gogh apparently wrote about how scary the blank canvas is. It’s still true–that blinking cursor on a blank page is one of the scariest things around. But things have become so much easier since van Gogh’s time. We can easily edit on a screen–in the case of a blog, even after publishing! The title of this blog is an ode to the “blank slate” (without its philosophical connotations) that would hopefully become a place for clean, efficient writing (“sarasara” in Japanese).

No one might read this entire post, but writing about it has, as always, helped me. While January is gone, I am relieved to finally publish this in early February, and hope to embark on a journey full of adventure.