The Narrator's Dilemma

Lalat is a writer; well, at least that is what he thinks he is, and although

He stops typing. He pulls away his fingers from the keyboard and leans back towards the embrace of his seat. He looks at the unfinished sentence. He reads it aloud to himself, and then his face grimaces. He feels that the opening sentence should be much stronger than this -- he knows that he can modify it to something else better, but he is hesitant to do so. He likes the sound of it, it has sincerity in it, an element very commonplace in all of his previous writings, but the sentence lacks a certain shock value that he needs to open the paragraph with. He wants this one to start off with a bang, a pow, but he doesn't know how to do so.

"Maybe coffee would help."

He gets up and walks to the kitchen. He notices that there is no more sugar left in the glass container. He reaches for the kettle sitting on the stove. It is slightly warm still -- his roommate had boiled water a few minutes ago; he, too, a coffee lover, but the two of them share not the same type of coffee. Milk is available to substitute the sugar for the coffee, but he dislikes the creaminess that milk causes to the body of the coffee. He prefers his coffee black and thick, and heavy on the aroma, but light on the sugar. After all, it is the caffeine that he is after.

"Cibai ah."

He returns to his seat a bit dispirited. He looks at the computer screen and sees the bloody sentence. He doesn't feel like it, but he reads it aloud once more anyway.

Lalat is a writer; well, at least that is what he thinks he is, and although

He smiles. He can't even start a paragraph, and now, he needs coffee for ideas.

"Great. Even my own sentence is mocking me."

Suddenly, the telephone rings. He waits for the phone to ring at least three times before getting it. He wants to make sure that the Caller ID device manages to identify in time the identity of the caller before answering the call. At the third ring, he finally gets up and walks to the phone. He looks over at the Caller ID screen. The caller's phone number is not one that is on top of his head; so, he reference it to the piece of paper that Anas, his tech-savvy roommate, pasted up on the wall adjacent to the telephone desk -- a directory of close friends' phone numbers.

"Oh -- Haslinda rupanya."

Haslinda is not a real person's name really. There is no name of such printed on the makeshift directory. It's just how he calls the number's owner from seeing it on the Caller ID screen. Each time Haslinda's number pops up on the screen, the Caller ID will print out half of the owner's full name. Each time, and so far, it has never failed to do so -- "HASSAN SRI HASL". He doesn't know who this Haslinda really is, or how she looks like, or where she lives exactly, but he calls her Haslinda anyway. It's just his way of making fun of the situation; toning down his own anger at the realization of knowing that the phone call is not for him, but for dearest Anas exclusively.

"Hello."
"Anas ada?"
"Dia takde."
"Oh, okay, thanks."

He places the phone back into its receiver gently and walks away a happier person.

*****

Lalat! Be like a rose!

Hm. I have to admit, I have no idea what that means actually. Be like a rose? That does not make even the slightest sense. Does that mean to be as inspirational as a rose, or is a rose a symbolism for some other quality? A good quality, or a bad one? Such a simple message, and such a loud one too, considering its brevity and ambiguity.

I really hate these anonymous private entries in the guestbook.

Why is there the need for privacy when all you are saying is undecipherable junk? Would it not suffice your vandalistic desires to just leave a message and sign off using a made-up nickname that no one knows instead? Must it be a private one, and an anonymous one too, and such a short and unintelligible note, and let it haunt me with fiery curiosity, and with endless possibilities, like the drop of sweet blood to a hungry shark? In fact, must you leave your mark, your urine here at all?

"Do you take your guestbook seriously, Lalat?"
"No, not really. It's light reading for me, really."
"A source of entertainment?"
"A source of ideas, in fact."
"But doesn't their praise influence your writing?"
"So does their condemnation, my dear."
"Yes, of course, but that does not bother you?"
"A bit, yes, but I can handle it."
"How about those who say silly unrelated stuff?"
"They are the type that likes to hear their own sweet voice."
"Yeah; so, does that bother you?"
"They are just doing it for publicity, attention."
"But such messages are often anonymous..."
"They are not messages; they are harassments."
"Kinda like trying to mess you up."
"They are annoying, yes, but I can handle them."
"Why do you have a guestbook in the first place?"
"It's for those who are genuine in giving feedback."

Each time the guestbook gets signed, an automated email will be dispatched via a digital horseman and hurried like lightning into my inbox. Most of the time, I would wait until nearing bedtime before receiving the horseman's package, but in some rare cases, I would actually access my inbox right on the spot, provided that no one's nose is looking over my shoulder at the time. Each time the notifying email is opened, and with great anticipation and dread, a short burst of electrical spark will travel up my brain's network of neurons -- Ah! -- and into the proper memory cell cubicle will it end up in the end, embedding into the porous walls of emotions the rhyming folksong-like message, "Feedback is here, so please be dear, ready yourself for comments; straight out your spine, things will be fine, prepare for little romance."

But this particular message is bizarre, don't you think?

The urge to voice out your opinion with regards to something that is written up and published is a genuine urge; it stems up from the most sincere desire to discuss and share what you have in mind on the subject, and to let the author know that, yes, your points are taken seriously, and yes, we the reader, will ponder upon them like that of our own, and although it is often to find appraisal and reverence in the same vicinity as that of harsh criticism and open hatred, the fact that these are essential elements to the driving force called feedback -- they should never be regarded as mere background noise. Feedback is what writers feed upon; their persistent existence on paper and their growth as maturing authors depend on it. Never give feedback that says nothing, you will only poison them, expediting their death, creatively and spiritually.

However, if you care not to provide feedback, grab your tail and walk away silently.

*****

Lalat is a writer; well, at least that is what he thinks he is, and although

He stops reading the sentence aloud and draws both of his hands closer to his chin. He stares deeply into the computer screen and then he closes his eyes shut. He is determined, but he lacks caffeine in his blood. He is motivated, but he lacks ideas to proceed with. He begins to worry. Small dark clouds of doubt linger near him.

*****

"Assalamualaikum."
"W'salam."
"Are you YBLalat?"
"Yeap."
"The one from Chronic Mass?"
"Is that how you got my Yahoo ID?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"I bet that I am not the first to do this."
"Do what?"
"Strike up a chat with you after reading your page."
"Frankly, almost all of my Yahoo chat buddies started like this."
"Hah! Dah agak dah, probably I am the zillionth one..."
"A zillion? Not yet."
"Let me guess: those yang Yahoo you, all are girls, right?"
"Yes."
"Haha..."
"Sometimes it's hard to keep track who is who."
"Ish, popular nya dia, jealous..."
"It gets annoying sometimes."
"But I really like your page, it's very different."
"Thanks."
"How should I panggil you?"
"Just call me Lalat."
"Haha, really?"
"Yeah."
"How did you get that name?"
"From high school."
"Oh -- what's your real name?"
"Faizal -- but one calls me that anymore."
"Do you like being called Lalat?"
"It's better than 'Tapir' or 'Kemek'."
"Huhu~"
"No, seriously -- a friend from high school, we nicknamed him Tapir."
"Teruknya! Kenapa?"
"I have no idea, his nose perhaps, forgot the reason."
"How old are you?"
"I'm 22, and you?"
"I'm one year older than you, hehe."
"Okay."
"So, you kena panggil I kakak lah..."
"Tak nak lah."
"Relax, I was just kidding..."
"I thought so too."
"Your English is good, smooth."
"Thanks -- my mom is an English teacher."
"And your ideas are good, and very weird lah."
"I try to write provocatively, yes."
"Mana you dapat idea semua ni?"
"Rata-rata tempat. Susah nak explain."
"Lama ke you nak write something up?"
"Sometimes it takes days really. Depends."
"Iye?"
"Yeap."
"Dedicated nya -- apa motivasi?"
"Takde apa benefit pun sebenarnya, just for fun."
"Tapi bukannya lots of work and time ke?"
"Yes."
"So? Minat betul ke writing blog ni?"
"Minat writing, yes."
"One komplen, why do you write so long? Sampai penat nak baca."
"Like I said, minat writing."
"Ye lah, but still, panjang lah..."
"Rasa tak puas kalau tulis pendek-pendek."
"Oh tak puas eh?"
"Yeah -- and I malas update, so the length compensates for that."
"Betul, I notice that, your last entry was 2 weeks ago."
"I know."
"Bila nak update?"
"Ntah."
"Kehabisan idea ke?"
"Bukan -- just malas."
"But won't your readers cari you nanti?"
"Probably..."
"I went to your guestbook and people are asking where you are."
"They are just bored, I think."
"I think they just can't get enough of you."
"Maybe..."
"Tak rasa pressure ke?"
"Used to be, but nowadays, buat pekak je."
"So, what is your next update about? Something nasty?"
"Sorry, can't tell."
"Ah -- why?"
"Haven't figured out how to present it."
"Oh -- writer's block ke?"

*****

He always talks about himself in his writing. This fact disturbs him. Once, he decided to write everything for a certain period of time in third person only, using 'he' instead 'I', but after several attempts, he unintentionally convinced himself that the material written in third person sounded so contrived and insincere -- thus, he stopped writing like that altogether; better to stay close to the devil that you know, then to stick to a friendly stranger. But a few months into returning to his first person writings, he felt that he needed to do something with his style of writing. The familiar format that he has been using for years now; he grew tired of that, like an aging wife. He spent quality time thinking how to spice up his writing life once more, restoring back to the good old days, the nostalgic feeling of writing a material like he has never written a material before. To him, the presentation of an idea is as equally important as the entry's content itself. He is obsessed with format, and is always emphasizing on the 'feel' of an entry on the page.

"I don't want this to sound too diary-like; it's not about the author, it's the story."

And he doesn't give a damn what the readers have to say. This is about his writing, the one thing that keeps him awake at night -- even his school homework takes second class seating in this matter, what more is a fan? To hell with the readers, he has supplied them with hours and hours of entertainment and laughter and inspiration in the past, and what does he get back in return? Nothing but comments, more comments, and endless comments. There is always something wrong with his entry, some sort of an argumentative flaw, or a subtle inconsistency in one or several of the paragraphs, conflicting examples here and there, or even the way that he chooses to present the story; this one sounds too fairy tale-like, or that one sounds so immature for someone his age and education level, or the topic for the last update is not appropriate for the public or too explicit or simply hurtful. Everyone is a critic these days.

"I need to find a correct tone to write this, and a common theme to bind all parts."

But he can't help but feel that he is, to some degree, responsible for his words. Some claim that you are what you write, in the sense that your writing reflects what you think, and it affects how others around perceive you as a person, inside and out, in public and in the blogging domain, and although he does not fully believe in this claim, and he cares not what other writers think of the statement above, he can't help but feel its burden of truth. He realizes that one of the main reason why he writes is to put forth his brand of ideas and related issues to the center of people's attention, regardless of how idiotic and lewd. Again and again he tries to remind himself of this intention, but always would the comments of those who religiously visit his page be a constant haunting to his body of work, and despite his stand that he will always remain objective in his writing, the sight of his guestbook being pounded mercilessly by those who insist that he stop claiming that the author is merely the medium -- puts him in a dilemma.

"I must do this right. I must. The starting needs to be perfect."

He takes a deep breath. As he holds it back, his fingers twitch. Then, he types.

Lalat is a writer; well, at least that is what he thinks he is, and although many close to him remain skeptic of this ambitious claim of his, not a single day goes by that he not write on his blog the best that his talent could produce, that his focus could sustain, that his observations could be mustered to be discuss -- even if that means he is to be misunderstood by the many who adore his work.

He stops typing. His fingers are still twitching like mad. He exhales in relief.

"Okay, that's good, that's enough for today."