M.T.
11-09-2012, 02:43 PM
Preface
This is a book you already know. Maybe you’ve read it. Maybe you’ve seen it as a film. Maybe you know someone who knows someone who is related to someone who has lived this book.
Maybe you’re me.
This is not a book that I wanted to write. It’s whiny, self-indulgent and immature. The book I wanted to write was epic, profound and sure to be turned into a movie. This? This is a coming-of-age story.
Nobody reads those. Well, you do. Trust me: you’ll hate it.
It’s a sad life for a coming-of-age writer: you write a book that no one will respect, hardly anyone will read and nobody will like. It’s an unwritten rule that one must not like a coming-of-age story.
Why? Because by liking such a story you admit that your life has been like this. And nobody wants a coming-of-age life.
I had one. I own up to it. I fulfilled every cliché. I contemplated suicide, like every good teen. I hated myself. I hated life. I hated people who contemplated suicide, hated themselves and hated life.
I hated myself. I hated people who hated themselves.
I had a good life. None of the above was tragic. Of course it wasn’t. It’s life. It’s not tragic.
It’s always bittersweet. I had a pretty good run. I dreamt about living forever, like every good teen. I loved myself. I loved life. I loved people who… no, I didn’t. I loved myself. Isn’t that enough?
When I was a kid I thought that people writing about their teens were exaggerating and that people who wrote about their childhood were lying.
Both are true, but one thing leads to the other and you cannot help either.
Let me say it out loud: Every adolescence sucks. So does every childhood. I don’t believe people who say that they had a happy childhood (nobody says that they had a happy adolescence anyway).
You didn’t have a happy childhood. Believe Freud. You were scarred.
And you simply didn’t realize it until the moment you became a teenager. That’s the moment when all of your scars break open and you drown in your own blood. I warned you. It’s whiny and self-indulgent.
Bear with it or go now.
By reading this book you will maybe remember your own adolescence. You won’t like it, but that’s not why you read books that remind you of your adolescence. You read them to feel better about where you are now. FYI: this never works.
In the end, you ignore the bad parts of the book and think “Oh my, wasn’t I just as young and passionate and wild and free? And now I’m … I’m… (that’s the moment you start crying)”
It’s like giving birth. We gave birth to ourselves over the first 18 years or so of our lives – we mustn’t remember the pain, otherwise we wouldn’t ever actually give birth to anyone. We wouldn’t want anybody to live through this crap that was our “golden youth”.
We only remember the good times. We have to.
And there were good times – there were plenty of them and they were awesome.
This is the moment you realize that you have become an adult: You ignore the bad times even as they are happening.
As a child, you suffer the moment. You are a slave to the present. It can lift you up and it can drown you mercilessly – that’s why you need an adult: somebody who seems to have more than just the present, somebody who seems to know the future and has learnt from the past, somebody who knows that the present is but fleeting.
As a teen you start to wonder how you do either. You’re not quite here and not quite there, which is not right, because you’re always right where you are. Still, something feels off, just because everybody is making such a buzz.
And as an adult you realize that no. You don’t know the future. You haven’t learnt from the past. You’re just running after the present that is running away from you. Or are you running away?
Wondering is what keeps you moving.
And moving is what keeps you living.
This is the beginning of my new novel - feedback would be much appreciated! :seeya:
This is a book you already know. Maybe you’ve read it. Maybe you’ve seen it as a film. Maybe you know someone who knows someone who is related to someone who has lived this book.
Maybe you’re me.
This is not a book that I wanted to write. It’s whiny, self-indulgent and immature. The book I wanted to write was epic, profound and sure to be turned into a movie. This? This is a coming-of-age story.
Nobody reads those. Well, you do. Trust me: you’ll hate it.
It’s a sad life for a coming-of-age writer: you write a book that no one will respect, hardly anyone will read and nobody will like. It’s an unwritten rule that one must not like a coming-of-age story.
Why? Because by liking such a story you admit that your life has been like this. And nobody wants a coming-of-age life.
I had one. I own up to it. I fulfilled every cliché. I contemplated suicide, like every good teen. I hated myself. I hated life. I hated people who contemplated suicide, hated themselves and hated life.
I hated myself. I hated people who hated themselves.
I had a good life. None of the above was tragic. Of course it wasn’t. It’s life. It’s not tragic.
It’s always bittersweet. I had a pretty good run. I dreamt about living forever, like every good teen. I loved myself. I loved life. I loved people who… no, I didn’t. I loved myself. Isn’t that enough?
When I was a kid I thought that people writing about their teens were exaggerating and that people who wrote about their childhood were lying.
Both are true, but one thing leads to the other and you cannot help either.
Let me say it out loud: Every adolescence sucks. So does every childhood. I don’t believe people who say that they had a happy childhood (nobody says that they had a happy adolescence anyway).
You didn’t have a happy childhood. Believe Freud. You were scarred.
And you simply didn’t realize it until the moment you became a teenager. That’s the moment when all of your scars break open and you drown in your own blood. I warned you. It’s whiny and self-indulgent.
Bear with it or go now.
By reading this book you will maybe remember your own adolescence. You won’t like it, but that’s not why you read books that remind you of your adolescence. You read them to feel better about where you are now. FYI: this never works.
In the end, you ignore the bad parts of the book and think “Oh my, wasn’t I just as young and passionate and wild and free? And now I’m … I’m… (that’s the moment you start crying)”
It’s like giving birth. We gave birth to ourselves over the first 18 years or so of our lives – we mustn’t remember the pain, otherwise we wouldn’t ever actually give birth to anyone. We wouldn’t want anybody to live through this crap that was our “golden youth”.
We only remember the good times. We have to.
And there were good times – there were plenty of them and they were awesome.
This is the moment you realize that you have become an adult: You ignore the bad times even as they are happening.
As a child, you suffer the moment. You are a slave to the present. It can lift you up and it can drown you mercilessly – that’s why you need an adult: somebody who seems to have more than just the present, somebody who seems to know the future and has learnt from the past, somebody who knows that the present is but fleeting.
As a teen you start to wonder how you do either. You’re not quite here and not quite there, which is not right, because you’re always right where you are. Still, something feels off, just because everybody is making such a buzz.
And as an adult you realize that no. You don’t know the future. You haven’t learnt from the past. You’re just running after the present that is running away from you. Or are you running away?
Wondering is what keeps you moving.
And moving is what keeps you living.
This is the beginning of my new novel - feedback would be much appreciated! :seeya: