Scribbles From The Past

Writing is hard work.

Revisiting old writing is hard work, if not even harder.

Earlier this week, I took a long dreary stroll along memory lane at Xanga. It was my first blog, beginning in 2003 before drawing to an abrupt close in 2005.

During my journey down Via Memoriae, I concluded one thing: dead blogs are like dead dogs - mangy, decaying and best left alone to RIP. I tripped on missing images. I stumbled on outdated html coding which rendered the blog unreadable in Safari and Firefox browsers. There was even a mention of Netscape in one entry. Good grief.

Fortunately, I found three short scribbles amidst the decrepit remains of what used to be an emotional hideaway. They were all attempts at fiction writing in early 2003. I decided to paste these scribbles below for old times' sake. I assume Blogger, having been bought over by Future-Supreme-Dictator-Of-The-World-Google, will possess a healthier lifespan than Xanga.

Scribble One:

This was written in response to a friend's suggestion. He recommended an excellent fiction writing guide called The Modern Library Writer's Workshop: A Guide to the Craft of Fiction, by Stephen Koch. In one chapter, Prof Koch suggested delving into memories for scenes to help inspire writing.

Spurred on by Mr T (an English teacher now, I think), I took an evening to sit quietly in my room and jot down whatever scenes came to mind. This was one of them:

A book lay open on the table, its white pages a strong contrast to the dark, wooden mahogany surface surrounding it. At first glance, there seems to be nothing unique about the book that would draw a casual onlooker's attention to. Coarse brown paper sufficed as its cover pages; while on the inside, one could easily discern the child-like scribbles that filled the lines .

From a distance it would appear as it is -- an exercise book made of low quality paper meant for school children to write on. But look again closely!

Among the scribbles a lone picture stared out from the pages. It was a newspaper cutting, already yellowed and spotted from age. Hardened by the gum that held it tightly to the pages, the newspaper cutting bore a small, passport sized photograph of a young, slightly effeminate looking Eurasian man. He wasn't smiling. Neither was he angry. He just seemed.. alone. Strangely alone, among the sea of child-like writings that seemed to completely overwhelm the tiny yellow clipping.

He was in his early thirties. Or so the obituary picture said.

Scribble Two:

I feel in images. That is, I see my emotions in some mental visual form. Perhaps this is common to people who like to write, or perhaps not.

The following scribble was written during a particularly low period in my life. It's the closest description of the emotions felt back then, in its raw and unedited form:

Beneath the shades of oaken refuge a young woman lies, exhausted. Kneeling with her arms wrapped around herself. Head bowed, eyes closed. She leans against the ancient gnarled surfaces of an oak tree, as though some form of solace may be sought from them. No one will find her here. She hugs herself more tightly, wishing that the forests would cover her, comfort her. With all the darkness and silence that it offers.

Her name is Alethea. Despair is her pursuer.

Scribble Three:

This was the last scribble I did in 2003, or to be exact, in the entire blog. It marks the introduction to a short story draft. The story revolves around a cantakerous, snooty professor and his encounters with a one-armed bandit of the gambling persuasion.

I know. It could've been written better. If I were to rewrite this, I'd remove all but the first few lines, and even then I'd make edits to whatever remained. I still cringe reading it, partly because I recall thinking 'What a great story this is going to be!'. But there was a story lying dormant in there, if only I can remember what it was. Haha.

Progressive Play

Most people would have never heard of the Diometres Society of Historical Interests. Not even the local postman of fourteen years knew of its existence. He was only aware of the solitary silver number 15 that adorned its double-panelled black walnut doors. Apart from that, it was the sort of building that could hardly excite his interest, choosing instead to fade inconspicuously into the shadows of its grander counterparts.

Professor Erich Shotts was perfectly happy with that sort of anonymity. The last thing he wanted was a curious rabble trampling on the society’s carpeted floors.

To him and many like-minded others, the society was a blessed relief; a place set apart from the otherwise mundane activities that the average person engages in. A place where he would regularly retire after a long exhausting day in the university he taught in. Not that the subject of history ever tired him. It was dealing with minds less adept at discussing the finer details of historical facts that drove him to exasperated disbelief.

“Simply inconceivable!’ he exploded in annoyance one day. ‘I do believe that each succeeding generation of students are increasingly incapable of engaging in a discussion without grotesquely distorting the most elementary of facts!”

“Quite true, quite true,” replied Dr. Mandorf soothingly.

They were now seated comfortably in the members’ lounge, each occupying a large dark grey leather settee. After draining his glass of sherry, Professor Shotts continued his tirade with renewed intensity.

And there you have it. Three scribbles from eight years ago, written at a time when I was still young and hadn't attained legal status to watch R-rated movies. Looking back, I'm thankful for the many writing opportunities that God has sent my way. I like to think my writing has made slow but steady progress since 2003.

Self, I look forward to reading more of your works.

Pass the Coffee: