A writer oughta write. Just write.

I heard a very sagely piece of advice from a total random stranger who started talking to me when class was cancelled.

We got to talking over Alain De Botton, as random stranger was reading Status Anxiety and happily I have read that book and thought it was awesome. He asked me why, as a future-teacher-to-be, I would want to read about about the decline of quality of life, exemplified by our endless urge to possess things; not just material things but fucking THINGS, like status, friends, tables, experiences, more and more things upon things. We've become consumption machines, screams De Botton, because we've become hollow as chocolate bunnies. Nothing means anything to us anymore and no one can figure out why. De Botton doesn't pretend to either, he doesn't have the answers; he merely suggests that we find joy in simple, classic things that make people happy. Good book, all in all, very thought provoking. Not important to the rest of this entry though but please read on...

Anyway, random stranger somehow asked me what I wanted to BE in life. I always cheekily think to myself (but never say) I want to be ME, but cooler. What kind of a five-year old answer is that? I informed random stranger that I wanted to be a writer and he said two wonderful words in response:

"So write!"

This floored me for a full 30 seconds because it was utterly simplistic. Maybe random stranger had misunderstood. I wanted to be a WRITER. One who writes. Y'know? We weren't conversing across parallel dimensions, random stranger was a metre away from me and yet somehow I completely misunderstood him. Which is why I wittily answered, when I recovered my ability to speak.. "What should I write?" To which he replied:

"A writer oughta write. Just write."

Wow.

Just write huh? Random left me feeling pretty stupid. I hadn't WRITTEN in like, ages, and here I was happily telling randoms like himself that I want to be a writer, damnit, I don't want to be a teacher, which is why we were both in an empty classroom waiting for class to start.

Maye I was wrong. Maybe my life's dream of writing is actually a giant lie I've told myself. At that horrible moment I was utterly unsure and wanted to hide in the nearest bathroom. Just squeeze myself in between the toilet and the wall and watch the feet approach me from that ominous gap between the cubicle door and the floor. They could knock all they wanted, they would NOT pry me out of the toilet!

I doubted myself in a big way for those devastating ten minutes after random had left when we were cordially informed by another student that class was indeed cancelled. I sat at the bus stop later on wondering what had just happened. Was I closeted writer or NOT? Was I already all that I could be, a semi-reluctant teacher? What about my dreams? Were they even dreams or just something I told myself to excuse my apathy towards teaching?

And then I decided to take randoms advice, which is what brought me here. I can't call myself an aspiring writer if I don't write, so I'm going to, for the simple, selfish reason that I want to keep calling myself an aspiring writer cause it sounds/feels awesome.

I hope this entry proves to be the first of many on the subject of writing. Thank you random, I will honour your simple advice for as long as I can. Already I feel a bit better so we'll see where this goes.