Fall, 2018. New York city.
My innate veins punched into my consciousness. I found myself in a room full of exceptional women whose impressive backgrounds woke me up with an inspiring jounce, 'What have you done with your life?'
Lawyers, accountants, teachers, a UN worker, a YouTube Headquarters employee, an NBC staff, owner of a Business Consulting firm and author, and a successful dance instructor. All New Yorkers. All exuded confidence splashed with humility and delight.
And then there I was. The only Canadian. An Asian-Canadian whose only pride was the literary treasure inherited from her grandmother, an English Literature professor, and defining moments with prodigious artists. As these stages of my life swirled me into astonishing discoveries of the world hidden in words and stories.
However, we were all here on one blissful purpose. To validate something within ourselves. 'Do we have what it takes to share our authentic joy with those who may stumble on it?'
To validate our own literary voices.
It was a writing class that thwarted me into a slingshot of creative awakening.
Our instructor, an award-winning writer, asked us to pen an essay. And I could hear my heart palpitating like an ambulance siren.
A few weeks before I flew to New York, I had a vivid dream about Ludwig Van Beethoven. My passion for classical music would perk me up to compose classical piano pieces. Just for me. And this joy should be kept away from the world.
I did not want to deceive the instruction. Yet I also did not want to deceive what my spirit wanted me to scribble down across the page.
With audacious inkling, I took a chance. Here's what I wrote:
I sit at my piano with a curious heart that dances for a dream. I feel the black and white keys as if carving the angels' language in the air. I see the red-flushed madness in his eyes, holding me captive inside the antiquated tiny room. He knows my secret. He exhales his anger. He catches my hands, grips them.
"What's the point?" he blasts. "You never care, anyway. You just sit here and fall in love with the magic playing out of those keys. How dare you waste my time?"
"I don't want it," I reply. "I just want to write stories."
"Then for god's sake," he exclaims, "make the words sound like symphonies!"
So I sit at my table with a curious heart that lives in a dream. As Ludwig Van Beethoven disappears, my eyes open. Along with a story to tell.
We had to read our essays out loud. When it was my turn, I could hardly breathe. The tremor felt as if my nervous system screamed for death.
And then -
- an intense silence blew inside the room. They all exchanged looks. The instructor stared at me for a moment. No word. Just this intense silence crawling in. I was ready to crucify myself.
And an engaging forum ensued. So the flash 'essay' captivated their consciousness somehow. In ways that I could never even grasp myself.
By the end of the day, my heart fell silent. For their enthusiastic compliments made it feel full. I had been encouraged to turn it into a full-length novel.
Only read by some critical eyes that I personally knew. They all agreed on one thing: it was a ticket to a lifetime dream. Pieces of their subconscious died after reading the manuscript. So I had been told. Then my mentor asked me, "Are you ready?"
It was the validation that I had been looking for. But!
My heart told me something else. My consciousness was more aware of something that compelled me to justify my literary intentions. My truth led me to step out of the lifetime dream.
For three sensible reasons:
I am not writing to impress the critical literary eyes. I am writing out of my own truths as I desire to illuminate, heal, and maybe even save some hearts. Having a name and the substantial rewards are futile endeavors. If one reader would tell me, "The story has changed my heart into something more profound." - then that would be my biggest accomplishment.
I am writing with a voice that speaks of truths. Conventional humans with extraordinary stories cradled behind the facades. Therefore, my truths have a right to defy conventional writing that is dashed with cerebral elements and literary rules. This is why I love Mark Twain, Alice Walker, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, and Guy de Maupassant.
I am writing as a meditative joy. There is no other way to explain it. It is my meditative joy!
And thus, my innate veins have punched into my consciousness. I have found myself living and desiring - my own truths.
My inspiring jounce. "This is my life. And it is my truth."
- Light -