Tag: conflict

Reworking

reworking

We think much and scrutinize on details. We’re always poring over our work with such intense repetition, until we often get lost in it.

It’s satisfying – to turn over and look at your own work, with pride swelling within your chest. It’s gratifying — to know that your work is worthy of recognition.

But to get there, we need to peer at our work. Sometimes we ask others to look into it, all the while pondering on that word choice or the particular shade of blue. Something stronger? Bold, perhaps?

It’s natural. We’re engineered that way — to rework and to reconsider. To recycle, rewrite, to recommission. And recommend.

But that thirst for precision, that repetitive craving to improve could also become our downfall. Because the longer we work on something, the more accustomed to it we get. Repetition breeds expertise. At the expense of a mundane life.

Remember the thrill of learning crocheting? The details! The scrutiny, the absolution at every twist of the fingers — everything about it filled you with excitement and anticipation. It was the perfect summer course.

But then, imagine having to do that everyday for the rest of your life.

We’d still be looking for that precision, but now it’ll be pronounced. We’d be so used to redoing that we’d be redoing just for the sake of redoing and not for the thrill that it once was.

And therein lies the risk of repetition.

Shakespeare, the Marketeer

 

write on

For a long time, people have believed that writing and marketing are two different entities.

Marketing is the art of selling stuff to people. And writing —  well writing is just bleeding.

But we’ve also seen great writers shine as great marketeers too. And who else should I point out than the beloved Shakespeare himself? (or herself?!)

We know Shakespeare was a good writer. We also know — but don’t accept it — that he was one of the greatest marketeers in history.

I’m not exaggerating.

People have said for ages that good content sells itself. But people have said that for ages without realizing what it meant.

Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets became successful because they were good. But good as in, not with perfect grammar and flawless sentence structure. Shakespeare didn’t care for grammar rules; he took the license and brandished it with such fierceness in the face of the literary world. He violated every rule in the grammar book. He wrote dialogues in poetry, and invented words to suit his personal situations.

He played with spelling, he altered rules, he teased restrictions — but his works were good. And the state approved of them.

So how did Shakespeare manage to sell his “faulty” works to such a well-educated state — to what we now call the golden age of Literature?

Shakespeare cared naught for the templates. It didn’t matter what the rule book said, because he didn’t write for the rule book.

Shakespeare wrote for the people.

He wrote for the poor people, for the uneducated, for the drunk, for the sober, for men drunk with love and for the women behind tapestries.

And he wrote about people. He wrote about envious kings, doubtful husbands, about runaway lovers, of boy kings and tomboys.

Shakespeare wrote for the people.

His works spoke about being human. He created vulnerable stories, he spoke about the things that are in our minds all day. He spoke about sex, about money, about greed and passion. He spoke to our souls, to our inner most feelings. His words resonated with us, and we related to them.

And that’s why Shakespeare sparks excitement in us. And that’s why, even centuries later, you have to spend more than a handful to get your hands on Shakespeare’s works. If that doesn’t make him one of the greatest marketeers in history, I don’t know what does.

Enchanting Much, Is the Order of Words

English insanely makes sense. No matter how you rephrase a sentence, there’s always meaning.

  • Desire is the pendulum never content.
  • The pendulum that desire is, is never content.
  • Never content is desire, the pendulum.
  • Never content desire — is the pendulum.
  • Never content — desire is the pendulum.
  • The pendulum of desire is never content.
  • Never content — the pendulum of desire.
  • Pendulum — desire, never content.
  • Never content pendulum is desire.

I read in Zinsser’s On Writing Well about rephrasing words for a better effect, and being ever so curious, I tried it. I cooked up a random sentence and rephrased it in many ways, and it still made sense.

Ho English!

Time for Some Romance

romanceI don’t much care for romance — well honestly, I hate romance.

I can’t bear to read through sensous words of love in which the boy and girl look into each other for exactly eight seconds before falling for each other. Remember this the 21st century and our protoganists are computer programmers and classical thinkers; statistics matter.

Why don’t heroes gatecrash parties anymore? And fall for the daughter of their sworn enemy? What’s wrong with falling in love with your first love’s cousin — when your first love didn’t reciprocate in the first place?

This is why I don’t read romance. Because it’s too primitive disguised as modern.

But since everyone from my mother to my brother and my cousins (which was all, actually) couldn’t shut up about Love Story, I decided to read it.

Don’t get me wrong; when I say Love Story, I mean the love story, by Erich Segal.

Unsurprisingly, I loved it. And something in it will stay with me forever.

What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful and brilliant
That she loved Mozart and Bach.
The Beatles. And me.

That made me read through the book, and that made me open my mind to romance. In novels, I mean.