Initially I planned to make this 'writing log' as an extras for stories I've finished, but after thinking about it several times, I thought of making it as my medium to channel thoughts that have been bothering me and, sometimes, a change in my writing. Just so that I can keep track of my development in the future.

Being more calm and composed today, I think I'm going to write better than last time (which was full of nonsense)

 

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Date of log: 26 August 2013

Starting time: 1856 hrs

 

Topic: writing style.

When looking back at my first (and worst) fanfic ever, one would never believe that I wrote that (at least for me that's true). It's contrastingly different, from its choice of vocabulary and sentence structure to the grammatical errors I used to make. But looking at the fanfic I recently completed, one would certainly say that I've changed.

It wasn't long since I acquired this writing style. My debut fanfic, which is also the first story I ever willed myself to write, was created at the beginning of last year. Along the way, yes, I did improve, I noticed. But the change was not great enough for me to feel accomplished not even once. It was minimal, and I still lacked in many ways.

One thing I noticed when writing that fanfic along with the ones after it is that I couldn't write very smoothly compared to my most recent one. The first chapter I wrote in that fanfic had been way back in the past where I could not recall a thing I was thinking when I wrote it. But one thing for sure, back then I finished one chapter per day, with about 700-1000 words per chapter. They were short and simple, with no extensive depth to the story. Just simple sentences to describe actions.

Then I progressed throughout the year, all the while trying to improve my writing by reading advice fics as well as some books and novels recommended from my friends. But I realised the more I tried to write, the more I couldn't.

Was it the stress? My brother once told me that when you're stressed nothing would come out of your brain. When you're not thinking much about it, that's when your mind works best. I have to agree with him because I felt the same way too almost all the time.

I tend to try to update as soon as I can because I don't like to stretch my updating periods and stimulate my brain cells to work during holidays. But at the same time, I was pushing myself to generate ideas, which would not come out when I wanted it to, and to write. It was unhealthy and wrong, I realised, but there was nothing I could do. If I didn't push myself, all of those fanfics and stories would never be touched until the end of time.

Yeah, I'm the procrastinating type. I have to admit it, even if I hate the fact that I am.

The difference between last time and now was not pushing myself to write— I still do, even with that latest story of mine because I had to rush for the deadline. It was the management of the stress. Now I don't just open Word and write it directly there(which I often did in the past)— I plan first, thinking of the plot beforehand when I was in the car gazing out into the blue sky/night lights. I would either get inspiration from my sightings, whatever it was, and come up with a line or two to begin or somewhere in the middle. I would then save it in a little corner of my brain or jot it down in my handphone's memo. Later I would begin writing, first with a draft then I would rewrite. I realised by rewriting, my ideas are more organised. My writing also becomes a lot more consistent and flows better. The drafts, whether it was the first or second or third, I would never delete. Even now I'm doing that. My first draft is shifted below, for reference if I'm out of idea. Then, with a clear point and objective in mind, I would write. If I felt like it wasn't good enough, I would rewrite again, making the previous one as another draft. It's always like that until I'm satisfied with the outcome.

But recently, I did notice a large gap between my writing style early this year compared to recently. It was since I wrote this one story, which was a normal fic, that I wanted to send in to be published in our school magazine. My friend said that it was one of my best pieces aside from the vampire-like story I wrote last year. But compared to the latter, I still felt that the latest fanfic I managed to complete had outdone it by many times. It felt mediocre compared to that fanfic. In fact, everything I wrote before the most recent story felt that same way— plain mediocre. It may not seem the same way to others, but to me, it is.

But I guess its a given that when one writes often and gain experience, one would improve its writing. Perhaps it was just the passage of time that built up what I had write now. Yes, it probably was because of that.

After a year and a half from the first time I wrote, I realised that I've changed a lot in my writing style. It may not be the best ever, but it was the best for me so far.

But I'm far from being proud of my own style of writing. I've still got a lot to learn from everyone and anyone.

You might even notice some grammatical mistakes that I made in here. Really need to work on that.

 

Oh yes, and if you guys were curious about that normal fic story I mentioned above that I wanted to put in my school's magazine, here it is! I'm not sure if I'm accepted or not (because the word count is way more than it should) because I sent it slightly later than usual. The representative to collect articles from students said it was fine and that I could just email her but until today I haven't asked her if she got it or not. Hmm...

 

“Good morning, my little sunshines!” exclaimed a lady as she swept the curtains open. Sunlight streamed into the room and submerged me into a pool of light. I rejuvenated from its presence and felt myself fresh all over again after a night without light.

“Well, let me give you a bath, me dear sweethearts,” the lady said, filling a water can with water and showered the ones on my right with it.

When she reached me, she exclaimed, “Oops! This is not for you today!” Then she pulled back her hand holding the water can before a drop of water could splash onto my skin. I silently thanked her in my thoughts for remembering that I didn’t need much water. My thoughts were pulled back to my previous owner. Despite her indifference towards me, she never forgot to provide me with my monthly water needs. Sometimes I wonder if she really cared for me but exhibited indifference because of her problems.

A while later a group of children came into the room, carrying bags of all sorts of colours. They came with a cry of joy, a wide smile spread all over their faces.

“Now settle down, children,” said the lady. “Put your bags in that corner and gather in front of me.”

The children followed the lady’s orders. Some were fighting for a place to put their bags. When all had safely found a place to put their bags, they gathered around the lady. The lady then started speaking.

This was where I had been placed; a kindergarten. Or was it a child nursery? Either way, I was in a place filled with children and all the noises that came with it. It wasn’t the most ideal place for me— the noises the children made were deafening— but it was much better than a quiet, dark, gloomy apartment, where it would remind me too much of my previous owner. It was bright, and the mood was uplifting— perfect to heal the internal wound inflicted upon me. However, this place was not where I wanted to be.

I wanted to be by my previous owner’s side.

But it is impossible now for time could not be turned.

The day I came into my previous owner’s hands was still fresh in my mind. I was bought from my initial owner by a young lady, only to be given as a gift to her friend. Presented in a clear plastic that had miniature sunflower patterns printed all over and topped with a ribbon tied around my pot, I could have never look so well-dressed to meet my heavily contrasting owner would be. The recipient of the gift turned out to be a dull, quiet and indifferent person. Everything she wore was either white, black, grey or the different shades of those colours, which was dark most of the time. Even her apartment was similar to her dressing code. Her hair was tied into a ponytail almost all the time, and she had a silver metal-framed spectacles hanging limply on her flat nose bridge.

To cut things short, she was boring. I didn’t like her one bit.

But all of that soon changed.

Never did I think I would be so attached to her.

 

The children were now hunched over small group tables, drawing on a piece of paper that was large against their small frames, what looked like their dreams and ambitions with colourful crayons and pencils. The lady stood by the doorway, glancing at her watch and at the children repeatedly. Suddenly, the lady clapped her hands loudly.

“Alright, kids, it’s break time!” she announced happily. “Pass your work to me and let’s go, go, go!” Her smile widened. She opened the door wide, waving her hand in gesture to invite the children outside.

All the children obeyed, putting aside their stationeries inside large, rectangular themed pencil cases. Or were they? Then, they took their drawings and passed it to the lady before going out. They lined up according to order of arrival by the doorway, waiting for the lady to lead them. Everyone was rushing to be first in the line, everyone save for one little girl. The girl looked straight at me with one hand clutching the paper containing her drawing.

She approached me, her eyes wide with interest and curiosity. When her figure had completely swallowed the source of light, she reached her hand out to me. I wanted to shout to her, to warn her that it was dangerous, but I had no mouth to say it. I was hoping the lady would notice this little stray child but it was too late. Her fingers were already in contact with my thorns. I had to pity the girl. Her fingers were pressing too hard and my thorns were too sharp for her soft, delicate fingers. Before I knew it, she pulled back her hand and started to cry.

The lady finally took notice of the stray child and what had happened to her. Looking at her fingers that were oozing tiny spheres of blood and glancing at me, she could make out the connection between the two of us.

The girl held out her injured hand to the lady, mumbling words no one could understand as she cried. The lady took the girl’s hand in hers, blowing it softly while she led the girl out. The girl’s voice became clearer and I could her comments on how I had hurt her. The lady reassured the girl that everything was alright with soft, sweet and warm words.

“Don’t worry, Susan,” said the lady. “It’s just a cactus.”

Names. Everything had a name. I have a name, a general name to categorise living things that looked similar to me: cactus. However, I knew better than that. I was different. I was different from other plants and all those that looked similarly. I had thoughts, thought that were absent in all other plants. How do I know? They never seem to respond to my thoughts, and I couldn’t hear their thoughts either if they had any.

I was more that just a cactus.

But my name still remained in its common form: a cactus.

Humans were different. Each individual had their own name. Even the little girl had her own name: Susan. Five letters made her name, similar to my previous owner.

I never knew my previous owner’s name. The only thing I knew was that her name consisted of five letters. On the wall across the window where I was placed in her bedroom, five letters hung on the wall, each letter on different coloured cards, joined together at the ends with a string. It resembled something that was placed in a child’s birthday party or a kindergarten to give the room an optimistic feeling. But it failed to serve its purpose. The colours on the cards were worn out. The letters on each card were beginning to fade. It was as if it was forced up on that wall to mask the dullness of the room, to give a false image on the true character on the room’s dweller. I assumed someone put it up there without my previous owner’s permission.

I couldn’t read human alphabet letters but I knew it showed her name. Several times she glanced at it and gave it a long look. But she never said it out loud. Neither did anyone else.

My first impression on humans was that they interact with themselves a lot. My first owner, who owned a florist shop, spent most of her time speaking to a mobile communicating device. If it wasn’t on that device, she would talk to her customers, or even the people in the shops beside hers.

When I arrived as a gift to what I thought was my eternal home, I had a bit of a shock. It wasn’t that she didn’t own a mobile communication device— she did. But she never used it to talk to other humans. She merely stared at its bright surface during unearthly hours, lighting up her distinct facial features. At times, I thought I saw tears glistening on her cheeks.

Besides the young lady who gave me to my previous owner as a gift, nobody else came to her apartment. Not even the young lady returned ever since. I had been in her care for around two spring seasons, but I saw no one but my previous owner roaming the place. That was the main reason why I thought her place was dull and lifeless, but I never knew why.

My previous owner seldom showed any expression. Her face was blank and unreadable even when she watered me. I thought that perhaps she might have forced that look on herself and I was right. Her actions beat her acting. She often sighed and at night, I could hear soft sobs under her sheets. I longed for her to talk to me, to pour her sorrows to me, and, if possible, shower her tears on me. Perhaps then, I could feel her sorrows and keep them from disturbing her. If only she would share, then maybe the burden on her shoulders could be lightened.

I knew very well she wouldn’t discuss her problems with me nor will she ever pour her tears on me. It was too much to ask from her. We were two organisms of totally different entity. She would not think of talking to me in a million years. She needed someone of the same kind and mentality. She needed a human companion. But she did not have one. Therefore, I started pondering on my options to contribute to her happiness as a plant.

My thought lingered on my past memories in the florist shop ever since I existed. Back in the days, whenever I had flowers, people would stop and stare lovingly at it as a smile crept on their face. Or so I think I had. I could not see my own flower nor can I see how I actually looked in others’ eyes. But I knew I had one when I did. This was because once in a while, there would be an odd sensation pulsating through every part of me for at least two days. Before I knew it, people would smile in my direction, and that’s how I knew a flower had bloomed. I never saw how my flower looked like; how big it was or what colour it was or how many they were in. But I guess it was worth a shot.

So I decided that I would will myself to bloom a flower.

For 8 days and 8 nights, I strived to bloom a flower without rest, willing for the odd sensation to come again against nature’s law. It was a strenuous act, causing me to wilt slightly in the progress. But the result was very satisfying when it was over: her smile.

I had managed to make her smile by the end of the week, and the bliss that ran from my root to my shoot was too wonderful to describe. Immediately I recovered from my danger of dying. I felt reenergised again as if the past days and nights were spent with basking in bare sunlight instead of long hours of endless flower-willing.

But the happiness didn’t last long.

Soon, her condition worsened where my flowers didn’t cast any charm on her. She began to consume medications before she slept, and she would talk in her sleep. Sometimes she would even cry in her sleep. It was inevitable that she was hurt, a pain too deep inflicted by something. Or someone.

How I wished I could move and talk, to pull her into an embrace, to tell her that everything was alright, similar to what the lady was doing to the child who was hurt. I longed to whisper to her words of comfort, so that she would be able to move on. But what could I do? I was just a cactus, perching on my windowsill, watching as my owner suffered like a mere bystander.

For the first time, I wished I was human.

But no, nature did not allow such a thing to occur. So the only thing I could do was to watch, watch and continue to watch.

It wasn’t long till my owner took her own life. She took too much medication on one of the nights, way too much than usual. She never woke up from her sleep ever since. Her body was discovered after a few days, by an elderly woman I assumed as her mother due to their similarity in facial features. Her mother merely sighed and shook her head, as if it was already expected. I felt like scolding the elderly lady for reacting so weakly towards her daughter’s own death. If I was her, I would at least feel shocked.

Her mother and a few other people I had never seen before came afterwards to tend to my previous owner’s body. The room was cleaned by her mother, and I was taken to a new home filled with children: my current home.

Even though the time I spent with her was brief, but it was very meaningful. Because of her, I now knew that I could will myself to bloom a flower, not just wait for nature to work its magic on me.

And most importantly, I developed feelings unfit for a plant like me.

 

 

I don't know if anybody noticed it, but I got the inspiration from the song and the Mv of 'Cactus' sang by Woohyun and Lucia. This is truly a first for me, writing from a plant's point of view. But it was fun xD

But now that I reread it, the flow isn't so nice. What was my friend thinking that this is my one of my 'best pieces'...

 

End time: 2154 hrs (due to many distractions and breaks)