I wonder why I stay up all night writing when I'm just going to delete it all anyway.

**

I mentioned to my parents my half-sleepless night over dinner, and when they asked why I couldn't sleep, I told them that it as because I was writing something and somehow kept thinking about it even when my body just wanted to give in to slumber. I went on to say that I read it over this afternoon at 1.51 p.m. (thus the email) and that I thought it was utter shit.

I received silence in response.

I find that this is usually the case whenever I attempt to talk to people about writing - which is why I don't anymore, not face-to-face anyway. But the thing is, it's incredibly frustrating when you have an aim in mind and what you produce is nowhere close to what you want to achieve. I don't just want to write; I want to write something that I'd read. And since I read Julian Barnes, Ian McEwan, and now Martin Amis, that's a freaking tall order, and I hate that I can't live up to it...yet? I don't even know.

It's made me realise that writing, like every other talent, requires practice. I honestly thought that it was just something you either had, or didn't have, and if you have it, it'll deliver whenever you need it to. Sad to say, it simply doesn't work like that. You lose touch with the craft after years of neglect, and your daily contact with the language in which you write fools you into thinking that it's not like a sport that requires constant training to hone to perfection, that it's not a musical skill like playing the piano that requires hours and hours of practice. It requires as much practice, and hopefully it gets better with age. I don't know.

I do know, though, that it's in there somewhere. All I gotta do is to dig really, really deep and pull the fucking thing out. It just takes time, a lot of it, a lot of which I don't exactly have, and not to mention patience as well, and I've never had that in abundance (what an understatement).

In times of desperation and despair and wondering if I've been lied to my whole life and if I'm just lying to myself, I take comfort in the fact that Julian Barnes only published his first novel when he was 40. There's still hope.

***

School was quite shit today. I felt zonked the whole day. And I still can't do the 9 a.m. class thing.

I just got back from the hospital where my grandma's being kept for observation. She fell down yesterday and hit the back of her head, but thankfully she's fine. The hospitalisation is just a precautionary measure, and a good one at that.

And I'm just so tired right now. I fell asleep at the waiting area of the hospital while we were waiting for my grandma to wake up. I almost fell asleep in her room too.

I'm going through severe Federer withdrawal, and so I'm really glad that I downloaded the semi-finals of the Olympics doubles. Roger and Stan (I can't spell his first name) Wawrinka beat the US Open doubles champions, the Bryan brothers, in the semi's. I find it incredible that Roger is currently ranked 557 in doubles and yet he won a gold medal in doubles. At least his career high doubles ranking is 23.

Actually, I'm going through severe tennis withdrawal. I'm definitely going to make it a point to watch the Davis Cup this weekend in spite of Law IV. See how.

Okay fuck I'm going to sleep.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010