For most of my life, I’ve wanted to be alone – far away from the drone of noises crying excitement; away from the blaring horns of buses and cars; away from the busyness that surrounds life.
At times, I’d wish the ground would open up and swallow me inside into a world of maddening oblivion. In those times, everything felt hazy. Every step I took made me feel immensely tired. Yet I wanted to run away to some place where nobody could find me.
“I want to be alone,” I’d tell them when they’d coax me to attend their parties.
“I want to be alone,” I’d tell them when I’d be fighting the adamant tears from escaping.
“I want to be alone,” I’d tell them when they’d ask me if I were okay.
“I want to be alone,” and they’d quickly scurry off in a desperate attempt to give me some space. They’d always respect my decision and desire and wouldn’t bother to ring me up until I did so.
Now that I think of those times, I find myself wondering if I really wanted to be alone.
When I told them I wanted to be alone, a part of me feverishly craved for someone to stay behind an offer me a shoulder to cry on.
When I told them I wanted to be alone, I wanted someone to stay behind and hear me out.
When I told them I wanted to be alone, I wanted them not to leave.
When I told them I wanted to be alone, I meant, I didn’t want to be.
I agree we have complicated notions. Complicated emotions.When we are, in fact, bubbling with so much to say, we cut short with a simple ‘Nothing’. When tears prick our eyes, we blink them back and smile. When we are hurting deep inside, we still manage to pick ourselves up and walk.
It is about knowing what those sweet nothings hold. It is about knowing what those smiles hide. It is about knowing that no matter how strong a person pretends to be, they still have a vulnerable side.
And how I wish, back then, each time I’d uttered, “I want to be alone,” someone would have pulled me into a hug and whispered, “No. I know you don’t want to be.”
Perhaps that would have solved half of the problems of the world…
It wouldn’t have been a surprising thing if it hadn’t been 20 notifications at once. For a person like me who has always maintained a low profile in the school, I was surprised someone or a few people even took the chance to visit my profile. I presumed the notifications were those of people liking my posts or something, but when the Facebook app finally managed to load completely, what I saw… scared me.
Mornings were supposed to have a schedule. I used to leap out of my bed, faster than a rat in trap and rush into the shower before anyone else occupied it. The usual clanking of metal utensils downstairs confirmed that Mom was busy cooking breakfast for all of us, and at occasional intervals, she’d shout to me and ask me to come to the table. Everything in the morning happened in a rush because no one was willing to wake up ten minutes earlier.
However, something was strange about that morning. Either the house was unusually quiet or I was too lost to keep a track on the drone of noises. The sky wasn’t amber but grey, exactly like how I was feeling when I scrolled through the notifications.
“XYZ Confessions tagged you in a post.”
“R commented : This is precious.”
“T commented : Check this out! That girl deserves this!”
“S commented : Lol.”
“P commented : So fucking true!”
Even before I had opened the entire post, I knew it had to be something bad, because the comments came from people who I really didn’t like a lot.
I remember my lips quivering as I clicked on the post and waited with bated breath for the post to load. A hundred apprehensions clouded my brain and suddenly, the schedule of the morning was forgotten. When Mom called for me to come downstairs, I lied and told her I was dressing up, when in reality, I was still sitting on my bed, chewing on my nails, waiting to read the post.
Every second of wait was killing me.
And when I happened to finally read the post, it killed me. Goosebumps arose on my skin when the slightest wind brushed past me. The comments started blurring and when the pain started settling across my nose, I realized I was on the verge of crying. Questions shot through my mind. Who could have written something like that? Why would anyone hate me? And why have some of my friends liked the post?
Mom called for the umpteenth time and after getting no response, she decided to come upstairs herself.
The moment I heard her footsteps on the wooden staircase, I took a deep breath and slipped under the blanket again, burying my face in the bulges of the pillow.
“What?” she asked, entering my room. “Why are you still in bed?”
“I’m having a headache. I don’t think I can go to school,” I mumbled.
“But you have a practical test today!”
As much as I didn’t want to go to school that day, I knew I had to. I couldn’t miss my practical exams. But a part of me was okay with the prospect, if it meant not having to face the students in the school that day. I was afraid that they’d talk about me in the hallways. I knew my classmates were going to have a questionnaire ready for me. And I knew I couldn’t take all that.
However, after Mom’s constant persuasion, fifteen minutes later, I sat in her car.
“Do you still have a headache?” she asked when we reached the school’s parking lot.
I shook my head and managed to give her a convincing smile. After her car had left the school premises, I walked slowly towards my class.
Yes, they were talking about me. Everywhere. Be it the crowded corridors where group of girls sneered and made dirty comments or bathrooms, where everything was discussed in hushed whispers or my class where the recent post on the confession page was as trending as hash tags on Twitter – they all talked about me. And it was tough to put on a pretence. It was difficult to behave like nothing had happened when everything written in that post, affected me a lot. I acted like it was okay with me, but deep inside, I was breaking.
Over the days, though the discussion died down, I found it hard to face someone or to talk with them, because at the back of my mind, I always had a perennial fear about what he/she might be thinking about me.
All my frustration started to build up. I lived in constant fear and doubt. Each night, before I went to bed, I thought about the people who hated me and could have posted that. Too many names came to my mind. Every minute that I was free, I whiled away my time on the Confession page, stalking every post, refreshing the page every five seconds to check if there was another confession about me.
Then one day, I decided that it was enough. I couldn’t live my entire life with my face glued to some stupid Facebook page. Once or twice, I took out my frustration on posts, commenting on how derogatory certain things on the page were and that they must be stopped, but I was faced with even more criticism. Some told me that I was plain jealous because there were no good confessions about me. Others retorted that it was none of my business.
I deleted my Facebook account. I knew it was no use talking to deaf ears. And I never visited confession pages anymore.
Until last night.
One of my friends happened to forward me a link to a post on the same confession page. The post called a girl too fat and that she must get a life. Below were several comments, criticizing the girl on her weight and making cheap remarks on her clothes.
It made me sad. Depressed. To think about what the girl might be going through.
We all have flaws. Perfection is something that can’t be achieved. So what if someone is someone, they could never be? Does it give them the right to tell her whatever they wish? Does it give them the right to bully her to a point where she starves herself to fit in someone’s books?
As I happened to scroll through the various posts, I wanted to know WHY? HOW? How could people be so rude? How could they be so insensitive to post things like this about another person?
Confession pages were supposed to be fun. But halfway through, they presented a darker picture to all of us. People started using it as a platform to post rude and derogatory comments about someone and to spread rumours. Seventh grade girls were called “sluts” and senior girls were the so-called “bitches”. Are these called confessions?
I was frustrated.
Just because confession pages allowed the confessor to be anonymous, didn’t mean one could bully someone to no extent?
And what about the people who actually run these confession pages?
The few posts I saw were pretty rude and the admins of the page were quite okay with it, even joining the line and adding a few more shameful remarks!
Amidst a hundred positive things, a person will only remember the one negative comment told about him/her. That one negative comment, destroys a life. People drown into fits of depression. There have been cases of suicide due to instances of cyber bullying. After how many such incidents, are people going to learn something?
What have we done to the social networking portals?
The sky is winter white. The horizon gleams with a thin streak of grey clouds. The grass below us is wet with the first few drops of the summer rain. A slight northern wind caresses our skin, whispering strange dreams. Against the backdrop of mesmerizing beauty, somewhere behind us, crickets chirp to some unheard tune and the poor little pigeon, flaps its wings and flies off to find some food for her kids. The few stale drops of rain trickle down the calloused branches and seep into the thirsty ground.
He tugs at my shirt and his eyes burn into mine as I look up at him. His dark pupils gleam with curiosity as he studies me.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I push myself up and stand beside him. His fingers intertwine with mine and he pulls me lightly, urging me to take quicker steps.
The circus is here in the town, again. He wants to go to the circus. He had once told me that he held a special liking for the circus. And I had never bothered to ask him why.
As we walk on the bare grass, its tips pressing against the bare soles of our feet and flicking drops of water, he tells me that the smells will entice me. He tells me that the place will feel warmer and so better than that under the blue, infinite sky. I don’t believe him.
He tells me that the faint aromas of cotton candy and apples will tease my senses to no end, until I join them. Then, as I will walk to the stall, the magnificent smells will couple with those of the wet asphalt and lift me up to the clouds. He tells me that that is happiness. Absolute perfection.
As the noises become closer, his steps become more frantic. He pushes past the hordes of people, dreams glistening in his radiant blue eyes that have never failed to amaze me. They hold a sincerity, so profound that I can feel myself live the stories that his eyes hold.
He begs me to join him on the Ferris wheel. Amidst the howling chaos around me, I hear him tell me that the sunset from veranda will make my life perfect – that the streaks of orange and purple merging into the abyss of blue will enthrall me.
I watch him with awe, demanding to know how he knows so much about circuses when he had never visited one.
I’m afraid of clowns, but I don’t tell him so. My heart sinks when the acrobats defy gravity. And I am afraid of the fire that the ringmaster holds. I want to stand up and walk away quietly, slipping from his hold. I want to hide somewhere – far away from the world where no one will ever find me again.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, yet again, his lips parting slightly.
Before I can answer, he turns back to the stage.
The circus is over; now he wants me join him on the Ferris wheel. Grumbling, I follow him to the stands.
We are ushered into a cheap, gold painted cabin that sways to the slightest wind.
The clouds are gone. The sun is peeking out from its golden robe, spreading warmth all around. Though the darkness is descending, the sun stays there, perhaps, determined to present me a sunset.
Resting my elbows against the window, I lean out and watch the Ferris wheel slowly picking up speed. We are leaving the ground, floating up with the clouds. The sun spreads its arms, waiting to embrace us in its golden light.
From up there, the people look so tiny. I’m not afraid of them anymore. The lights that flicker on the street below, seem like iridescent orbs and fireflies. I glare back at the mocking swirls of colour, wondering how a sunset can bestow so much beauty all around me. The sunrises are supposed to be the ones filled with hopes; the sunset carries a plethora of hopes as well. The radiant glow sings the legacy of the sun. I find myself being lifted higher up to a world unlike others. It feels like I’m sitting on a cloud. It feels like I’ve finally found my place in the world – here. It feels like everything I have never ever felt until now.
This is the world I had dreamed of when I had been a kid – where sunsets don’t bring pain; where one can stand on the sidewalks and watch the world go by; where one can see the silhouette of the cityscape against the backdrop of fiery red.
“What are you thinking about?” he demands this time, his gaze not leaving mine. He raises his thick eyebrows and clasps my hand, begging me to tell him.
I don’t admit anything aloud.
As I stare into the distance, watching the daylight linger and a hundred possibilities emerge, I say, “Nothing.”
I have grown up listening to stories. Fairytales. Stories of war. Stories from Grandma. Stories of returning soldiers. And so many more. So have you all, probably.
I believe that the stories I have heard have the greatest contribution in making me the person I am, today.
The best part of a story, in my opinion is the essence of the tale – the pain or the sorrow it delivers or the bundle of joy that hits us after reading the same. The characters do play a significant role, but in the end, the story is what we are left with – the one that stays with us forever.
Sometimes, I like to miss my regular train and wait awhile at the station, because I have this (strange) habit of observing people. Each random face that I come across leaves a distinct impression on my mind. At times, I forget them. Then some days, when the weather is cold and I’m sitting by the window, watching the mist settle down from the mountains, I remember them – those people who had once graced a scene along with me. The crowded places mesmerize me, actually. Instead of the maddening chaos, what I find are melodious synchrony of people from various spheres, backgrounds and families. Each one of them tells me a story. Their eyes tell me of the conquests from their pasts. Their sighing and frowning tells me of the regrets they have. Each time, they bend down to kiss their children, they tell me of their love stories.
Often, I find myself looking at the lone man at the far end of the train. He holds a newspaper and squints as the old light flickers terribly in the compartment. He wants to know what is happening around him – what is happening in the world! Or perhaps, he wants to take his mind off certain things. So he hides his tired face with those sheets of paper. Does he have a family, I wonder. I think of his wife waiting for him, staying up late so that she can see her husband before the end of yet another day. The children have been put to bed and now, she sits at the dinner table, staring at the clock, having a hundred apprehensions run in her mind.
As the station draws closer, the man folds his newspaper and tucks it underneath his coat. His shoulders fall as he breathes out a sigh of relief. He has made it past another day. Isn’t that quite an achievement in itself?
After he gets down at his stop, I see a young girl board the compartment.
She is dressed in a rich red dress that exposes a lot of skin. The few women beside me frown in disappointment on seeing her attire. She is probably headed for a party. Every few minutes, she stands up from her seat and checks herself in the reflecting windows, making sure not a strand of her hair is out of its place. She wants to look as gorgeous as her friends do. She is seeking delusional perfection.
I have the urge to go to her and tell her that she looks beautiful. However, I want to know her entire story. Why a late night party? When is she going to return?
The woman sitting beside me keeps looking at her. Is she in awe of the dress she is wearing? Does she envy the fact that the girl is young and bold and the woman sees her youth in her? Or does she disapprove her clothes? Doesn’t she see the story that the girl is telling? Is she so busy doing a character study that she forgets to enjoy the story?
The train jerks to a stop and I have to get down. The stories remain incomplete. My questions remain unanswered.
As I get out and stand on the platform to watch the train leave, I see their silhouettes against the window. They are moving, going far away. I do not get to know the other stories they carry and it frustrates me to no end. I wish to meet them again – somewhere on the road, maybe on the same train again.
A cold wind caresses my skin and I realize the train has gone and it is time for me to leave as well. As I walk down the street, under the canopy of stars, I find myself thinking about the man. Did he reach his home safely? Is he having dinner with his wife and telling her about his day? Has the girl reached the party? Are her friends complimenting her on her dress? What about the woman? Has she gotten home, yet? Is she sitting with her daughter and reliving her own youth?
Under the faint moonlight, in the silence of the night, their stories haunt me. In some parallel universe, each one of us is a story. We hold tales of remorse, pain and joy and losses. Those tales are what we present to the world. Our stories are immortal. They are as infinite as the universe that traps us in its care. And these stories continue to live beyond time and space, presenting wonderful vignettes to lost travellers.
I have never seen a person cry. For most of my life, the people around me have always been happy. When the day of tears arrived, they left.
I know people cry when they are in pain. They cry when every breath is laboured and things do not seem to be making sense. People cry when they are weak. And some cry, even when they are strong. People like you.
Mom used to say that it is okay to cry. For one day, every tear will dry up and you can stand up again. She often used to joke around and say that crying helps clear the vision. She had a weird sense of humour, I agree. Though her words never made sense back then, I think they do, now.
Every time a person falls; every time a person is in pain; every time a person cries, it helps them get a newer perspective. For we take off our rose-tinted glasses and retrospect. And by the time we are done crying, we know already that we’ll never be crying again for the same reason.
In some wickedly strange way, crying makes us strong.
There’s a thing about Disney movies. They are real. Fairies, godmothers, princes and mermaids do exist. At the stroke of midnight, somewhere in a forgettable corner of the world, a prince finds a glass slipper. The mermaid finds a man and falls in love. A frozen land is gifted with the magic of sun rays and glistens in gold.
But there’s a thing about us – we are natural pessimists. The dark haunts us instead of the light. Instead of believing that we may fly if we have a million balloons attached to us, we mentally remind ourselves that it is impossible. Who told so? Why do hot air balloons fly then? You’ll say, it’s different. You’ll probably start explaining me Archimedes’ principle.
And this is where we stop believing in miracles and magic. We tell ourselves that real life can never be a Disney movie. So when the prince finds a glass slipper, he starts blinking so hard that he almost loses his vision. When the man sees the mermaid, he suddenly wakes up. And when summer comes, we talk about science.
But what if, what if, all this is magic? You and me? What if we hold magical powers but fail to realize that? What if we can fly but we’ve never tried because we are not willing to take the risk? What if all we see is not real, but all that we dream is? What if the lives we live in the day are a dream, and the ones we spend sleeping is actually our life?
Probably, the biggest difference between us and Cinderella and Snowwhite and Elsa and their fairy tales and our un-fairytales is the fact that they believed in miracles and magic, and we don’t.
“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.” – Lanton Hughes, American poet.
All my life, I’ve grown up reading stories. So have you, probably, and many other people.
I accept I was a nerd back in high school, though not your typical nerd from out of a teenage novel! I missed my P.E. classes to read books in the library. Though it was clearly against the rules, the grey-haired librarian didn’t seem to mind. Nor did she ever complain to anyone that I spent a half of the school hours hiding in there.
When she didn’t have a class, she’d choose books and give them to me. She even let me borrow two books when we were allowed to take only one!
On a fine autumn day, she asked me if I write stories.
Being only in sixth grade, her question took me by surprise.
“No,” I replied. “I only read.”
“You should try to write a story someday,” she told me.
“But no one will read it,” I stated.
“I will,” she promised.
I never got a chance to give her my story to read. I left school the same year and I didn’t really have a chance to contact her.
How or when I began writing is a memory that has already left my mind. All that I remember is that I used to write secretly. I was afraid of how my piece of writing would be received by an audience. In between classes, in the lunch breaks, I would sit in a lone corner and scribble a poem or two in the last pages of some copy. I knew no teacher bothered to look at the last pages and so, my little secret was safe.
Until one day. My English teacher interrupted a class and asked me to meet her in the staff room during the lunch break.
When I visited her, I found her reading something intently. As I walked closer, I realized that she was going through the little poems I had written.
“You write so beautifully!” she exclaimed.
I really didn’t know how to react. Was I supposed to be scared because she had found out? Or was I supposed to be happy because she felt it was good?
“Don’t ever give up,” she continued. “You have an extraordinary talent. Keep this dream alive and someday you’ll reach there.
She reminded me of my old librarian.
I found a confidence after hearing her. And since then, I’ve always shared my work with people.
People often ask me if I have ever dreamt of becoming a writer. That very question never fails to take me by surprise.
“Yes,” I tell them. “It is my dream to become a writer.”
It is a dream that has been with me for as long as I can remember. While some dreams come and go, this stays with me.
Someday, I’m going to write something for the old librarian to read. I remember her promise.
Someday, I’m going to thank her for igniting my dream.
Someday, I’m going to wake up and live my only dream.
I still remember a couple of lines from the same poem which i had scribbled at the back of my English copy. it reads like this-
“They told you, dreams are important,
That dreams are hidden somewhere in the sky, beneath the golden hue;
Recently, I had a stroke of good luck to land on a very beautiful novel on Wattpad. It was titled “Dark Blue”. With a very very interesting and attractive cover and a blurb, the book instantly drew me in and I decided to sit down and read it.
It was the very simplicity of the book that drew me in. The author had tremendous knowledge of character development and by the time I was on the second chapter, her characters had already sprung to life inside my head.
What actually sets this book apart is the way it connects to the readers instantly. Each one of us has been in a place where it is difficult to find our voice and we have to remain confined in the shadows because we are afraid to say something. Or simply put, we don’t have a choice.
The story is about your average, next door girl whose parents have high expectations from their only daughter. We see them everywhere. And the characterization is utterly beautiful. The thing that sets it apart from the many Wattpad novels I’ve come across is that the girl’s clothes aren’t described! It is sincerely irritating to come across novels which focus more on their character’s dressing sense rather than what she is going through. With intricately weaved details and beautiful descriptions, the writer has certainly managed to make her novel stand out.
The girl loves the night sky. In fact, when the world grows darker, she finds her escape. She finds her voice in the midst of the never-ending darkness. For her, the stars speak a million stories. For her, the world up there is better than the one where she lives.
Her dialogues are sincere and touches a reader’s heart. I remember having those goosebumps while reading certain parts of her story.
Though the character is projected to be a confused teenager at first, one later finds out that she was in fact bullied. Living in abject fear, she has lost her ability to voice her opinion. She fears them. She is afraid that if she says something, something will happen to her. So she keeps quiet and agrees to their every word.
Until, she meets Oscar.
Recently, I had an opportunity to have a short interview with the author. Here’s what she had to say about the questions posed by me-
Me – Tell us a few things about yourself?
She – Hello and bonjour world, my name is Yueh-Chia (known as starfromouterspace, or you can just call me Yuey) and I’m 16 and from England. I am slightly crazy, actually like school (please, no hate) and I like watching sport. I have a bad habit of leaving mugs on the windowsill (record I think is 10 so far) but I think I am getting better. Physically cannot survive without music, and have had break downs when I couldn’t find my iPod. My favourite band is The Script and I have crushes on cartoon characters…. (But how can you not love Flynn Rider or Hiccup?)
Laughs way too much at the smallest of things, hate when people judge on assumptions and the past, always thinks of comebacks several hours too late, and wishes one day that I would stand up on a podium and comeback at all those people who hate and bully people for being themselves.
Perfectly alright being on my own- remember, one is never alone.
Why did you join Wattpad? Had you always been looking for a site where you could share your work or you happened to stumble upon this site for free books?
Well, I think I was looking for free books to read, and I stumbled across Wattpad. I read books on Wattpad for about 7 months, and then I made an account around July 2013. I’ve always written from when I was younger and it took me a while to pluck up the courage to post my first story on Wattpad.
What is your favourite pastime? Let us put it this way, what is one thing people will always find you doing whenever you are free?
You will probably find me listening to music and probably dancing like a lunatic in my bedroom. Or playing the air guitar. Or singing horrifically out of key and pretending I’m a pop star. Or else on my laptop or phone reading on Wattpad, drawing, re-reading books and writing.
What is the craziest thought that has crossed your mind?
Generally I have a lot of crazy thoughts…. I think one involved a mono-rail, a jet and a quest for one of those highlighter things with five separate colours……. And that mono rail looks suspiciously like the train in the Hunger Games, actually now looking back at it…. I should sue… (strokes metaphorical beard).
Ever read a scene from a story and wished you had been there? Please tell us what scene it was and from which book?
Ah. Now that is a difficult question. There must be hundreds of scenes that I wish I was in. From the top of my head currently, I would say the end scene from ‘Between the Lines’ by Jodi Picoult (random fact, that’s where I got the name ‘Delilah’ for ‘Dark Blue). I won’t give it away, but I think it’s very magical. Being in Harry Potter- I would have loved, loved to have gone to the Yule Ball. In fact any scene with a ball, I would wish to be in.
Where do you get inspiration for writing your stories?
I get my inspiration from music- in my stories, there are quite a few song lyrics and references and normally I take the plotline of songs and transfer it into a written story. Good music contains so much meaning. I also get inspiration from surroundings, nature and landscape and design- sometimes I combine the two together. For example I once wrote a story called ‘Nuvole Bianche’ based on the sky and the piano piece by Ludovico Einaudi.
Twelve years from now, where do you see yourself?
Twelve years from now, I see myself as being a successful designer or top engineer or a bestselling writer. Maybe I’ll have found someone (at fricking last) to settle down with and I see myself treating my Mum and Dad to everything they deserve for their support during my whole life (wishes can come true, can’t they?)
What is your craziest wish? Becoming a bestseller or maybe flying?
I have a lot of crazy wishes. Being a bestseller would be one- how awesome would that be!? Sometimes I wish that I was a popstar, a movie actress, director (fat chance) or a Disney animator. Being a spy or scientist for MI6 would be extremely wicked or a commentator for F1. I also wish for world peace, gender equality and no racism. I won’t list all my wishes because that list would go on forever and ever and ever.
Share with us some of the cuisines you’ve tried and the best from the lot.
I’m actually originally from Taiwan, though I was born in England, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to tempt me with chicken feet or pigs trotters- but I do love a good Hot Pot at Chinese New Year. I also love sushi (especially rice and seaweed triangles) and spaghetti and satay rice. Sometimes, it’s a Chinese food overload, and then I crave good old British classics like Fish and Chips. Or a nice chilli con carne.
I’m suddenly hungry! Do you ever plan on writing an autobiography?
Haha, one step at a time. But I think I might- it would be very cool and it might just show people how crazy I am. Fingers crossed that if I ever do write it, that it will be an auto biography telling the story of my blinding success rather than a fall from grace.
How would you describe your everyday life? Cliche?
My life is….. well ‘normal’. I suppose with the occasional drama along the way that even I don’t think is drama, until I’m telling someone and they’re staring wide eyed at me and telling me ‘how the hell is that not drama!?’. I go to an all-girls private school so there can be a lot of drama, but it’s how different people look at normal. For example for some people, partying every day is normal, but that’s not normal for me. But nobody’s life is just normal. It’s all different to everyone’s perspective. It’s actually quite difficult to write an average character in a story- there’s just the creative side of us that makes a rather stereotypical average character- like in movies, that average character in a movie is just NOT average in real life. We just, without knowing really, create an average character that maybe we would like to relate to, but then we throw all the drama of a story, and it goes from average to unbelievable. You can do so many things with a made up reality, but the hardest of all is replicating the human being in writing. A cliché characters life would perhaps be made out to be ‘perfect’- and that doesn’t exist. It’s quite similar to the average character. When does it stop being average before it becomes cliché and vice versa? What do we expect?
What, according to you, is the most overused plot on Wattpad? The bad-boy-falls-in-loved-with-an-innocent-girl or I-live-with-fifty-handsome-boys or I-love-my-brother’s-best-friend? Do you think that writers are looking at the market status before coming up with a story?
Oooh, now I have to be careful here and try not to go into a rant. I would definitely say ‘bad boy’ stories- any story with ‘bad boy’ in the title, has a ‘bad boy’ in it and a ‘nerdy/innocent’ girl who happen to fall in love with each other, get on my nerves- essentially they are re-using plotlines and it becomes very difficult to distinguish whose original idea it was (but now I just doubt how it ever started as an original story and it literally just popped out of nowhere.) Why can’t they put a spin on it, or explore different types of relationship or have two ‘good’ characters for once? The living with loads of boys one I think it was over used, especially when the ‘Walter Boys’ was around. It could be an original idea if instead it was just… well closer to ‘normal’ people! (and we’re back on the ‘normal’ subject) Normal people with normal problems and not just people with the looks of a super model and the luck of a field of four-leaf clovers. It’s quite nice however to see takes on other fairy tales (Cinderella is probably used the most often) but I think that maybe people should try to look at in a different perspective – maybe something like ‘Sydney White’. Fan-fic wise, I don’t normally read fan-fic, but I’ve currently been reading loads of Dramione fan-fics and seriously, it’s quite hard to see who stole from whom. I could rant a lot more about fan-fics (One Direction and Werewolf ones especially) but I won’t rant about it. For now.
I do think that some people do look at the ‘Whats Hot’ lists before writing. Most often I would see ‘bad boy’ stories with un-imaginative titles being uploaded for just a few days, yet it would’ve already attracted many views, even if it was poorly written (and believe me, I have seen some shocking stories, no offence to anyone). It’s just as though there is a mini media centred, celebrity style world where ‘bad boys’ is the equivalent of trying to achieve that size 0 figure in reality. I think it’s a shame because some people only look for reads and votes and they don’t particularly care about structure and whether it is unique; once again the thirst for popularity has crept in from a celebrity life or playground and tainted something. But stories are about creating your own realities – maybe there aren’t enough bad boys out there, or people are just pining for Harry Styles (which I just don’t get. Sorry to One Direction lovers, I just don’t get the hype around him.) To aspiring authors, try and break out of the mould and just write something, taking your time, so it’s so different that it seems crazy and most importantly, you feel and love – but in the end, you’ll feel a lot better about writing it rather than a recycled idea. Write for your own sake – not to become a ‘media celebrity’ or to gain popularity. If you persevere, you will get there a whole lot quicker than you think and with much more satisfaction.
Do you think 13 is an unlucky number? And I promise this is the last question! You must be bored!
You know what, no. I don’t think I do. Numbers are like humans. A number is a number and why hate or be scared on a particular number when there are millions and millions of numbers out there you could hate or be scared of?
Finally a big thank you to the brilliant akan_great16 for interviewing me.
*And in a voice that Elvis would be proud of.. ‘THANK YOU AND GOOOOOOD NIGHT’ (cue the credits)*
So there you go! The novel “Dark Blue” has been added to Wattpad’ sponsored reading list “Emotional Ride” and can be found by clicking on the book cover at the top or here.
With 63.1K reads on it already and a massive amount of support, there’s no doubt the book is going to go all the way to the top. There’s a sequel to the book as well, titled “Light Blue“.
A huge thank you to @starfromouterspace for this amazing interview session.
Stay tuned for more interviews from Wattpad authors.
('cause caffeine is known to solve problems of the world)