I think having almost lost all my unpublished writings and notes and ideas and whatnot in the Great Disk Crash of Yesternight, I finally realised that I do want to write. Yes, despite all the crap I’ve posted here and everywhere, I was never really convinced that I really wanted to write. Where was the burning need? Real writers, I figured, spent their seconds and days and years agonizing over every word, losing most of their hair and gaining massive amounts of McD-invested blubber at the same time.

Then there’s Neil Gaiman, who has the same wardrobe as Batman (all black, not the latex fetish), is eternally in danger of being swallowed by his mop of unruly hair and eats really good sushi.

And then look at me. I keep not one, but two journals – one in paper and one in bytes. I have a massive collection of ideas and wobblelies scribbled inelligibly on receipts, tickets, human skin and whatever near-flat surface I can find. I force my friends, chance acquaintances, dearest of enemies and complete strangers to my site to read what can only be described as amateur drivel. And I’m just this much away from composing slash erotic poetry, whatever that is.

So, that’s a huge lot of humbug, ain’t it, if I keep insisting I’m not sure if I really want to write? I mean, I write nearly every day of my life. Not good stuff, for sure, but still. I write.

This, of course, does not mean that I was meant to write. But I think now I’m way past caring. All I know is I have to write, and whatever comes after, will come anyway. So. Just making a point…

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Copyright © 2006 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.