Prologue
From a manuscript of mine | 2024
Three summers ago, inspiration struck. I wrote ceaselessly for a season, so much so that a book took shape. A second memoir was far from my plans, but the times were turbulent, and I was as existentialist as ever. To make sense of it all, I turned to the pen.
These days, I question the fate of that book. I haven’t touched the manuscript in months. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it, let alone publish it. In case I don’t, there is a piece that I’d like to salvage: the Prologue.
Should the book ever see daylight, then you’ll be the first to have read its opening pages. Hope you enjoy.
I found a pen once, in the driest desert, and it yearned for my finger’s embrace. Between gasps—yet only swallowing hot air—it insisted that the slightest touch would revive its spine. The sight of this pen tore me. It stood limp, lifeless. I nearly caved in, until I observed the barren land where creativity had once flowed. Almost immediately, a bitter current rushed through me. I kicked the quill away, to no avail: the feather drifted back to me. I was desperate for water, but it assured me that only rivers of ink would satiate me.
I begged to differ. Dusty books read by none were tragedies. Authors had died from thirst before, and soon I would join the list. Many moons ago, I believed my memoir could take the world by storm. At the very least, I told myself, it had the potential to do so.
Yet my dreams and reality differed as dawn and dusk. In my fantasies, my book was a blockbuster. In truth, its sales were lackluster. I admit my wishful thinking had only worsened the blow. Perhaps the disappointment would not have hit as hard. The distress would have stung less. “Save yourself from the highest of expectations,” religiously declared the old me. If I had listened to her, my pride would still be intact. I would have saved my faith from shattering into bits.
I could no longer bury my head in the sand; my dreams had misled me. Defeated, I couldn’t help but look daggers at the publishing industry. Its treason had created a rift between writing and me. We barely recovered from the blow, having deserted each other for months.
Many were the reasons for the rupture. Resentment took root as we blamed the unfruitful journey. The traditional route did not work out. My queries had led nowhere. I chose to self-publish, but the book launch fell rather flat. With the disappointments piled up, writing and I went our separate ways. We needed time and space to lick our wounds.
Of course, I was aware of the odds stacked against me. My name did not sparkle on a marquee. My socials did not boom with followers. I knew no soul behind those coveted doors. Sometimes, I would stroll past Simon & Schuster on Sixth Avenue, hoping the mere act of passing by would manifest an opportunity. This was followed by a walk of shame back home. I was delusional before it became a trend.
The pen emitted a screech. Time was ticking, but I remained reluctant. A so-called writer being implored to write, how pathetic is that? I stood my ground, convinced my writing was as good as none. After all, does one not need an audience to be considered an artist? Does a canvas not long to be seen, do instruments not seek ears to fall into, do words not come alive when read? A masterpiece is labeled as such thanks to public acclaim. A classic is only deemed one after standing the test of time, crowned by every generation. Is it not heartbreaking, to consider the art that is eternally bound to being unknown? I pictured the painter, alone in his studio, perfecting his brushwork but for none to see. I saw the writer, sleep-deprived yet delighted, typing in the dead of night before her nine-to-five. I heard the musician refining their tune, then losing themselves in their street serenade, forgetting all about the tip jar. All breathe the same devotion. Despite the burnout, the ardent passion fuels the fire to create.
The heart of an artist beats for art. Yes, writing is my oxygen. I could no longer deny it; these hands were wired to write. On the pages, I find my true voice. When writing, I am most at home. My mind recalled my lifelong love for words. Right then and there, I decided that my sentences would be autotelic. Their purpose would be to simply exist. Whether I am the sole or umpteenth reader does not matter in the end. I write from pure adoration for the craft. For I was once a wordsmith. Words were an ore, and I—mindful of which to pick—would forge them into precious sentences. If I dug deep, I could do it again. I only needed to look inwards. The fire may have been doused, but I could reignite it all over again.
The pen gleamed in the sun. It was a beautiful sight. The desire to write suddenly became an urge. After all, who could stand against nature? It was chemical, this relationship of ours. Symbiotic, even. We needed one another. Together, we did wonders. A magnetic force pulled me in; my hands felt drawn to the pen. Whenever pen met paper, magic was made. It was an instinct I had deprived and starved out for too long. As I looked at my memoir, I saw that the alchemy was not yet complete.
The pen could no longer bear the wait. It had not anticipated this much indecisiveness. Had I not vowed to love it unconditionally? Yet here I was, debating. It cried a few drops of jet black and dried out. I now took its plea to heart. Writing had always been my lifeline. It was my turn to keep it alive.
My eyes softened as they admired the pen, a now-fainted beauty. I knelt down by its side, then picked it up as a prince would a damsel in distress. In a heartbeat, the pen sprang back to life. All felt right in the world again. Natural order had been reinstated at last. With the dry spell now lifted, streams of inspiration gushed from every direction. I dusted off my original copy of Brown Porcelain Skin. The air tasted fresh as I inhaled the winds. I pulled out my leather notebook, stared at the sepia pages, my fingers hugged the pen, and . . .