Tomorrow, at 10?

If I were to ask you, “Don’t you just love sunsets?”, your answer “Duh, who doesn’t? What a cliché!” would be apt. But what if I ask you, “Why do you like sunsets”? What would your answer be then?

Yes, they are beautiful, no doubt about that. But what else? Is it just the striking vision of a palette of orange and violet that captivates you? And if so, how is it different from the confidence of a snow-capped mountain, the power of a gold-speckled ocean, the joy of a fluttering butterfly, or the decadence of a fragrant rose?

For me, the beauty of sunsets is in their promise of tomorrow. Today, the sun is sinking into its undulating bed of cool ocean water. But the certainty that it will be back is what calms me, assures me that there will be another day, another sunset, and another chance . . . A chance to catch up, to make up, to build up.

I have written all I can think of about my first novel. In an earlier post, I described the various revisions that I’ve done on it. Each revision initially felt like a step backward, and brought angst, doubt, and insecurity along with it. Some people called my writing “unduly philosophical,” the assumption being that readers interested in a novel that revolves around a love story can’t be distracted by deeper reflections. Others called it “frivolously pointless,” perhaps because the love story diluted its substance. While these opposing views were discombobulating, the lack of uniform agreement promised that my novel could still find its way into the hands of people who fell somewhere in the middle. Even when one reader deemed me “a good writer, but a poor story teller” solely on the first two pages. Now, how do you recover from that? . . . Sunsets!

After the initial pain inflicted by the feedback, I usually managed to gather the pieces and move on, but not without the loving encouragement and undying support from a few—they had read past the first two pages, you see. Eventually, each revision led to a leap forward, mostly.

But what was most striking for me to discover is how every person saw something different in my story. Readers interpreted the exact same events in different light, gave the characters different motivation. One of my editors wisely pointed out that each reader will see themselves in the novel, and consequently would interpret it differently. And there’s nothing I can do about it. But I will continue to be surprised how true that is.

Consequently, I came to the revelation that writers are just as subjective readers of their own work. And, of course, we think it’s great! OK, maybe not great. But we still have the arrogance to believe that it is worth the time and effort for others to read it. We hope that its relevance would be just as obvious to them as it is to us. Thus, how could our readers not agree?!

Well, they often don’t. Either because they don’t share the same experiences, or because they haven’t built the same prejudices. Or simply, they have a different taste. For example, I know that the play Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett is acclaimed, revered, and beloved by many. But I could not see the reason nor sense in it, and found it extremely pretentious and vapid. On the other hand, I enjoyed reading and appreciated the humour of Gogol’s short-story “The Overcoat,” which is another classic example of absurdist literature. I spent a decent amount of time staring at a Rothko painting, but felt nothing. I was astounded, however, when I saw in real life one of the splattered paintings by Jackson Pollock at the MOMA, and it took my breath away. 

And that’s okay! As long as there is one other person who is moved by our story, mesmerized by our visions, enthralled by our ideas, it is all worth it.

Now, it’s time for me to move on. I have an idea for my next novel, which will be quite different, at least in terms of plot, if not in style, to my first one. The two main protagonists will be different too: a mother and her son. I have a title too, but I won’t reveal it just yet. And I already know that my creative process for the second novel will be nothing like the process I went through with the first. 

If you remember from my earlier post, I started writing my first novel from the middle. Then I moved onto the end, and I finished with the beginning while rewriting its first sentence until final printing. With the second novel, so far all I have is a first sentence. I know how it will end, but I have only vague ideas for its middle. Hopefully, the pictures eventually will emerge from the fog, as they did the first time around.

I will leave you now with my first sentence:

“The woman who smells like cherries and is buttering my toast is my mother, but I wish that she wasn’t.”

It’s likely that it will change before the sun sets again. So, don’t get too attached to it!