To anyone who have read Beats Apart, continuously or episodically, thank you.
The project lasted around a month as intended, and I found myself having learned a lot just from my first piece of fiction. Usually I can never really get into writing long pieces of anything due to my overly short attention span, the common problem of the internet generation. But out of nowhere Alanda, an old friend who I’ve known for quite some time through her various writings and youth movement activities, asked me to write a fiction together, and without thinking twice I hopped on the writing ship and started writing consistently every two days, 400-600 words at a time. Now, anyone who ever had the intention to improve their writing would have remembered the golden rule: That good writing requires you to write routinely. The infinite flow of words does not come out of thin air, you have to constantly dig through your dictionary and thesaurus and every book you’ve ever read and digest them all into your distinctive style. Through writing Beats Apart, I practiced myself into a routine. You can have plenty of ideas revolving around your head throughout the day, but putting it down into concise paragraphs requires more than just meddling around on your keyboard. Add a deadline (we often post the day’s writing just an hour before the day actually ends) and you have the effective way to squeeze out your creative juice. Not the best, though a fine line is clearly drawn between the moments of clarity beyond minutes of full-on thinking and forced ideas that opened potential plot holes. The exercise of routine does not pursue perfection. Routine simply repeats, building the basis of a habit. Perfection comes easier from habit.
To simply build a writing routine would not have kept me going, though. These past months the habit of writing had slowly been fading from my daily activities. But, in writing B/A, (hint: it’s only half fiction) I rediscovered the very reason to write. As of any writers, the real satisfaction comes from the readers who come unsuspecting and end up loving what we wrote. The rebloggers. The quoters. The end-day page reloaders. Those who loved what they read are the ones that opened my eyes, that there are people who appreciate. People who might also like whatever else I still keep in my trove of ideas inside my head. And if they don’t, then a writing exercise it is. Nothing to lose.
In the end, what matters most is the self-realization that I simply love to write. To Alanda and all the readers, I owe you one. Writing is once again my passion.