A few years ago, a fortune cookie fortune stated rather simply:
You will become a famous writer.
I stared at it, not in disbelief, but in the cognition of the steadfast reality I have carried within me for many, many years. It is my destiny. I was just staring at the obvious.
But as time went on, and I settled into complacent happiness, I felt my ability to write shrink into a memory of a desire that may have belonged to someone else. Instead, I worked hard to steady my world, and lost my narrative edge in the process.
Perhaps, I need drama to revitalize myself. Perhaps, I need melancholia.
Someone I know, once alleged that I search for drama in my life just so that I can recreate it into fiction.
Now I know that isn’t true.
Drama just finds me wherever I am. Even when I am complacent to the point of boring, something will simmer within and force me to break the mould. It’s a simmering I cannot control, and yet it’s something I do not entirely abhor.
It’s a simmering without which I would become an empty shell.
Simmering is the stuff of life. And every tragedy (and the not-so-tragic) is fodder for writing.
The only way to exist is to forward march.
So, I am not sure about the fame. Nor fortune. But the writer within me is writing. Again.