humility 101

For as long as I can remember writing a novel has been on my list of things I want to achieve in my life before I die. That and getting a degree from Harvard, renting a house in Santorini Island and the Irish countryside, being an editor of an international publication, going to Antarctica, sitting in on a meeting at the United Nations, and skydiving. And unlike most of the above, I've been working on writing a novel since... oh, since I was about thirteen years old? Most have been crap, I must admit, purely an outflow for my adolescent angst. But there has been one in the pipeline for the past five years, slow but steady. The only thing I really like about it thus far is the prologue, but even that is no where near ready for anyone to read. I'd been planning on spending a good chunk of this summer working on it more, and I have been a little which is good.

A few days ago I realised I needed something to do between patient appointments during the day so I haphazardly picked up a book that's been sitting on my bookshelf collecting dust for six years (a book I "borrowed" from a friend back in high school) and starting reading it! A little book called "Slaughterhouse-Five" by Kurt Vonnegut.


For the past few days, including today, I've been lost in Vonnegut's world: I've laughed out loud, I've stopped to re-read paragraphs over and over again, and I've paused in awe and wonder, savouring each delicious word, each scrumptious phrase, each brilliant thought. I've paused in awe and wonder at his sheer brilliance.

I love that great books have a way of finding me when I least expect it. And even though I'm very thankful, the timing I gotta say pretty much sucks cos Vonnegut has officially put my pathetic attempt at novel-writing to shame.