That day, on a humid Sunday afternoon, I sat by the window of a wooden cafe with the view of a quiet and tree-lined street. It wasn't a big and fancy cafe like you can find easily along the main streets of Senopati or Kemang, but cozy enough to be the place where you can comfortably catch up with an old friend. Not to mention its laid back atmosphere which made me feel like I was in Bali.
The smell of a coffee strongly lingered in the air along with the hurly-burly that came from machines and movement. While taking a sip from a cup of already-melted-ice coffee milk, I was reading a classic book by Italo Calvino that I bought last December. I had started the first chapter in January but could not even manage to reach the halfway point. This fact was not surprising to me as I always have a hard time going through the classics than the modern ones.
"Ring, ring, ring," just then the bells at the front of the cafe suddenly rang, and I looked up spontaneously to the door. A familiar face looked back at me, smiled, and approached my seat. We hugged as she apologized for making me wait. I said to her that I didn't mind.
It had been a year since we last met each other, so the conversation went effortlessly. We talked about my friend's new job, my plan this year, her plan next year, and many other things about our lives. Until we finally end up talking about something that we never missed whenever we meet. Something that we have in common. Something we both love but at the same time makes us afraid.
"So, how is your writing going on?" I asked her while taking a spoonful of fried rice. It wasn't anything special but it was enough for my empty stomach.
"Mmmm, still the same as before. I mean... I have tried, but whenever I finish and read the drafts, I feel hesitant."
She slowly rolled her spaghetti while looking at it in a not keenly way. "I always have this perception that they aren't as good as the ones I wrote in my good old days. And that hinders me to write and even more to publish it publicly."
I was silent for a while as I was thinking about what to say in this situation.
"Honestly, it's been difficult for me too lately... I always feel like my writing has lost its soul. No matter how many times I reread and rewrite them, they end up going to the drafts. It even crossed my mind that perhaps I must feel completely miserable to finish them."
I surprised myself as I had never uttered such a sentence before and indeed hadn't even fully formed the thought until this very moment.
She put down her fork, looked at me, and smiled.
"But we shouldn't be like that, huh?"
Indeed. I did not tell her that day, but to stop writing only because we feel like what we write now is not as good as what we wrote a year ago is merely the same with the idea of "I want to stop eating my own food because the one I cook today doesn't taste as good as the one I cooked yesterday" or "I want to stop reading because I can't finish the book I read today as fast as the one I read last month" or "I want to stop sleeping because last night I couldn't sleep well".
What I should have told her that day is no matter how good or bad she perceives her scripts, it doesn't really matter as long as she keeps on writing. Because we cannot stop living today just because it's not as good as yesterday. Because maybe someday we will produce something way better than the one we thought is already our best. Because maybe the best is yet to come and the only way to get it, is by carrying on.
The smell of a coffee strongly lingered in the air along with the hurly-burly that came from machines and movement. While taking a sip from a cup of already-melted-ice coffee milk, I was reading a classic book by Italo Calvino that I bought last December. I had started the first chapter in January but could not even manage to reach the halfway point. This fact was not surprising to me as I always have a hard time going through the classics than the modern ones.
It had been a year since we last met each other, so the conversation went effortlessly. We talked about my friend's new job, my plan this year, her plan next year, and many other things about our lives. Until we finally end up talking about something that we never missed whenever we meet. Something that we have in common. Something we both love but at the same time makes us afraid.
"So, how is your writing going on?" I asked her while taking a spoonful of fried rice. It wasn't anything special but it was enough for my empty stomach.
"Mmmm, still the same as before. I mean... I have tried, but whenever I finish and read the drafts, I feel hesitant."
She slowly rolled her spaghetti while looking at it in a not keenly way. "I always have this perception that they aren't as good as the ones I wrote in my good old days. And that hinders me to write and even more to publish it publicly."
I was silent for a while as I was thinking about what to say in this situation.
"Honestly, it's been difficult for me too lately... I always feel like my writing has lost its soul. No matter how many times I reread and rewrite them, they end up going to the drafts. It even crossed my mind that perhaps I must feel completely miserable to finish them."
I surprised myself as I had never uttered such a sentence before and indeed hadn't even fully formed the thought until this very moment.
She put down her fork, looked at me, and smiled.
"But we shouldn't be like that, huh?"
Indeed. I did not tell her that day, but to stop writing only because we feel like what we write now is not as good as what we wrote a year ago is merely the same with the idea of "I want to stop eating my own food because the one I cook today doesn't taste as good as the one I cooked yesterday" or "I want to stop reading because I can't finish the book I read today as fast as the one I read last month" or "I want to stop sleeping because last night I couldn't sleep well".
What I should have told her that day is no matter how good or bad she perceives her scripts, it doesn't really matter as long as she keeps on writing. Because we cannot stop living today just because it's not as good as yesterday. Because maybe someday we will produce something way better than the one we thought is already our best. Because maybe the best is yet to come and the only way to get it, is by carrying on.
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