Glory days

"And leaves you with nothing mister but
Boring stories of glory days"
-Bruce Springsteen

I was about to begin a series of posts on the most beautiful songs in my world when Richard the Lionheart enquired:

"Ask yourself whether you 'write for a living' or you 'live to write'".

Much as I like good old rock and roll, I wasn't about to deny Richard.

Blame it on my post-colonial mentality, if you like.

God save the King.

I wish I can tell you I live to write.

I wish I can tell you I write for myself. That I write because I have something to say. That I write in search of self-discovery and amazing adventures. I wish I can tell you that I worship words, wisdom and wit. I wish I can say "I write, therefore I am".

But I can't.

And I certainly don't write for a living.

So why do I write?

In the place of a real answer, I offer you a story.

When I was 9, I took part in a story-telling competition in school. My first time telling a story. My first time in front of a big crowd. On that fateful day, I launched into the story and halfway through, to my horror, I realized that I did not introduce myself. So, I stopped.

And introduced myself.

In the middle of the story.

My friends told me I came in last.

No kidding.

(If only the judges had seen Annie Hall, they would have recognized my genius.)

3 years later. Another story-telling competition. I was nominated again to take part. Apparently, everybody forgot my humiliation.

But I didn't.

So I worked hard. Tape recorders, mirrors and mother. My weapons in this war against the tyranny of shame.

The day came. I introduced myself. And I told a beloved Chinese story involving a dying old man, his quarrelsome sons and a bunch of chopsticks.

I whispered, I raised my voice, I changed my pitch for each character. I executed every word as I have done in my rehearsals. I was consumed, with belief and with passion.

Until that day, I never knew how the time between "Thank you" and hearing the applause could be so long and yet so rewarding. I never knew how it was like for strange people to come to you and pat you on the back, one after another. I never knew how it was like for the Tiger Woods of storytelling, the champion of champions, to come and humbly lay his crown before you.

And I never knew how deafening and rewarding applause can be. Or how by some strange form of magic, the applause and the heart beat as one.

I gave my all in that competition. And I received so much more.

I miss the passion. I miss the adoration. I miss the glory days.

Perhaps, that is why I write.