I've spent literal years rejecting every potential pitch for a personal essay that my silly brain has come up with (DESPERATELY), and I am thrilled to announce that I think I've landed on my first one— except I am so scared and nobody can help me with this gnawing doom! It's mine! I said "gimme!" and my brain gave it to me!
I joke all the time about writing autofiction. This isn't really that; it's only fiction in the sense that I have made up a narrative in my head that allows me to avoid confronting the crux of the issue. The narrative is that I don't want to talk about my eating disorder in a way that is meaningful and helpful to me, and I think it's fine. Unfortunately, it's definitely autobiographical. Sorry.
I'm scared of rice. I was going to make a joke, but as I'm writing this I realize that I can't because it's like, yeah, I'm legitimately scared of steamed white rice in a way that would seem so bizarre for a person who is so fiercely attached to the idea of food being tied to (diasporic) identity. What can I say? I'm weird.
PS. I know you've seen me make kimchi fried rice! It's different! There's stuff in it!
Weird that I learned this fear from my Korean immigrant family? Weird that I never had this kind of persistent issue with bread, or even pasta? Weird, weird, weird. You see this hat?
I'm going to write it. Maybe I'll even pitch it. I will eat rice and not feel bad about it someday.
If this was in my drafts (1.20.16 10:35pm), I can tell everyone that nothing's changed.
I haven't written anything in years.
I haven't written anything *for myself in years.
I'm sitting at my desk in my bedroom in Mount Pleasant right now. This is my new(?) place back in Vancouver after a stint in Toronto that actually felt like the longest-most-fucked-up-but-also-so-annoyingly-normal time of my life. Do I have anything to show for it? My parents would say "no." They have a point.
That's not true.
I'm drinking a strong IPA mixed with a low-calorie seltzer. I don't think that anything has really changed, and I don't think I'm not okay with it. If I should be not-okay about it, can't that wait?
I don't know why I'm listening to my "you're 14" playlist on Spotify right now. This was my favourite album in high school? Yeah, I guess it was. Yeah, it's still making me cry and feel weird.
I know why I'm back. I feel weird. I'm happy. I like my big-girl job. I don't like my big-girl responsibilities. I still like writing. It still makes me want to cry.
When I was little, I was an incessant talker and a voracious reader. I brought thick books with me to restaurants, the dining table, the car, school - wherever I might have had a few spare minutes to delve into whichever world awaited me in the pages of my current read. I even kept a flashlight underneath my pillow to sneak in an extra hour or two of reading at night. One of my childhood traumas was dropping jam on my treasured hardcover copy of Breaking Dawn while eating breakfast, my weird eleven-year old fantasy of keeping the novel in perfect condition for my future grandchildren shattering when I saw that raspberry-stained page. You could say I've never been the same since - I never read while eating anymore. In fact, you would have been hard-pressed to find me with my nose in a book these past three years.
So, what happened? Well, for the sake of brevity; high school ruined writing for me. Once writing left me, so did reading. The beautiful world of words vanished from my life practically overnight, spurred by the moment I realized that my English grade during my first year of high school was dwindling on a C+. I dreaded written assignments and novel studies. Writing and reading became chores that I plowed through while stress-crying at 3AM in the morning.
But, Michelle, aren't writers born to write? I thought real writers have to write - writing is the air that they breathe! Typewriter ink is the blood that runs through their veins! Pens and scrawled-in Moleskins are extensions of their tweed-clad-bodies! Words are pouring out of them like the bodily fluids of a 14th century European struck by the bubonic plague! (Ew.)
Perhaps I'm an anomaly in the world of writing, and my brain just hates me and wants me to suffer, but writing is hard. It's draining, exhausting, frustrating, stressful, and most of the time, it's just way easier to quit. I stopped writing because I believed the mantra that all of those websites catered to writers spouted: "Writers cannot not write". Meanwhile, here I was going through yearlong stretches without churning out a single creative sentence. I was suffocated by this terrible feeling of not being good enough. The words I struggled to put together didn't sound anything like the work of the columnists and authors I envied and admired. I wanted to push through this paralysis, but at the same time, I didn't. I didn't want to keep trying when the right verbs and adjectives kept escaping me, and my prose felt forced and unoriginal.
Keep in mind, throughout this whole ordeal, somehow I still knew that I would go back to books and stories. I just felt trapped, waiting for the clouds to part over me and a single ray of light to shine down on my stagnant creative life, finally allowing me to become the writer I'd always dreamed of being. And then I read this quote:
"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners. I wish someone had told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase; they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative, work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know that it’s normal and the important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you finish one piece. It’s only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take a while. It’s normal to take awhile. You just gotta fight your way through."
Basically, this very melodramatic, angsty blogpost is an announcement of my return. I know I may as well be shouting into the void, as currently all 347 of this website's pageviews are from yours truly, but there's a nice sense of security in knowing that this space is solely for me and my own creative growth. However, if someone out there has stumbled upon my little blog, and for whatever reason has read this entire post (or skimmed, that's okay), here's my official "hello" to you!
I bought way too many books in Korea, where I am right now, so I guess I'll slowly be getting back into the reading grind, too. These new additions to my puny library are as follows:
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. I loved The Old Man and the Sea, so I have high hopes for this one!
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes. I already finished this, and it was just okay. I don't know, everybody seems to love it, but I think this is similar to how I was with The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I didn't see what everyone else saw in this novel.
Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. I don't know much about this one, but I'm excited!
The Dinner by Herman Koch. This had a really interesting synopsis, and I was craving a more contemporary read.
The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. I'm hooked on health documentaries - I've watched Fed Up way too many times for someone whose current diet consists mostly of fried chicken, pork belly, and various noodle dishes. I've also seen every movie about veganism and America's f*cked-up food industry that's on Netflix right now. Perhaps this novel will introduce me to the world of health books, at least until Katie Couric makes another documentary.
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. To be completely honest, I'm not sure exactly what compelled me to buy this one. One theory I have is that it, for whatever reason, reminds me of The Shadow of the Wind, and that novel was an essential part of my Korea trip last year.
Currently, I'm reading The Dinner by Herman Koch.
With that, here's me signing off until my next post! And for all my strugglin' writers out there, just know that 2007 Avril Lavigne always has your back.
It's springtime in Vancouver! Summer is quickly approaching and I'm already dreaming of sweet, sweet bingsu and the freedom of lounging around all day with zero consequences!! Apart from the nagging knowledge that the SATs are looming, this summer break will be a welcome cleanse of stress as I steel myself for a year of accelerated Physics, Chemistry, Biology 12, AP Psychology, Pre-Calculus, World Literature 12, History 12, and my most dreaded nemesis - French. Please keep me in your thoughts as I drag myself through the thick sludge that my brain will have become by next May.
I'm so blessed to live in the city and the neighbourhood that I do! When it's sunny and the branches are heavy with leaves that are a vibrant #74DF00, it really feels like walking on the clean-cut set of an iPhone commercial.
Here's the unagi bowl from Shishinori that was like a Vancouver spring in a dish! Next to it is a mason jar full of not-pee green tea. This restaurant is like a weird lovechild between a minimalist art hoe and a hardcore anime fan and I'm into it.
Longer blog post coming soon! Until then, see ya around!
Bless these simultaneously lazy and exciting days I've been having in blissful Seoul, South Korea! So far, our adventures have consisted of weaving our way through throngs of people in Myeongdong and Dongdaemun, avoiding being run over by food delivery scooters, hailing cheap taxis, and bicycling around the apartment complex with my little cousin.
I feel like I'm in a Miyazaki film.
It truly is a cultural hodge podge (the best kind of hodge podge!) around my cousin's place, which was a not-unpleasant surprise after touring through the largely homogeneous land of South Korea. Of course, that's not to say that I didn't appreciate not having to be conscious of my ethnicity wherever I went. For once, it was nice not being "the Asian girl" and instead just "the girl completely butchering the Korean language and complaining about the heat in Russian? Mandarin? Oh, English!"!
Anyhow, I'll be stuffing myself with rice rolls and noodles 'til I burst; who knows when I'll be making the 11 hour flight from Vancouver to Incheon again? Oh Korea, how I'll miss your convenience store treats, grilled kalbi, and sweet bingsu's, just to name a dear few. I'd withstand your sweltering summers, humid monsoon seasons, and fierce winters any day for an icy bowl of authentic naengmyeon #_#
It's 2:17 in the morning and I'm listening to the album, Crazy For You by Best Coast, which is ironic because I'm really not excited to be returning to the Pacific Northwest.
Let me clarify: it's not really the idea of a different coast that isn't appealing to me, rather it's the idea of abandoning this idyllic suburban lifestyle I've always talked shit about before I'd experienced it for myself. As I pumped my legs on the swings toward a cotton candy sky, swatted away the mosquitos that emerged from plush grass, and bicycled down streets lined with spacious houses, I started to daydream about what life would be like if this were my home. Thoughts along the lines of, "Imagine lying on that huge soccer pitch in the middle of the night and stargazing with your friends", were constant.
How much would my life be like an independent coming-of-age film if I could live in the suburbs and do stuff like sneak out of the house and embark on all of the classic adventures that were supposed to come with being fifteen? How cool and different would it be to have to make a day out of going downtown, or "into the city"? The opposite of probably at least 80% of teenage girls living in the 'burbs, I couldn't help but long for a life completely different from the one I was living in an arguably "cosmopolitan" city. For some reason, I just felt more alive in a place with these being its top searched qualities:
Maybe living downtown has something to do with it. More often than not, there's so much activity going on right outside our little condo in downtown Vancouver, distracting you from realizing that you've completely abandoned enlivening your home life. In contrast, there's such an abundance of feel-good, positive energy within my grandparents' home, and I can't help but think it's because you need it if the world outside your walls is so still.
Either way, we're flying back home on Sunday, and then it's off to Seoul. I'll be enjoying this quiet little sanctuary with my family until then!
