Ever since I was a child I’ve harbored a fascination for all living things. That fascination soon evolved into affection, to the point where I was unable to watch a creature—be it animal, fish or bug—suffer without crying, or tearing up in the very least.
But that didn’t include humans.
Well, it did, in the physical sense. I couldn’t bring myself to punch or kick anyone, even in jest, because I thought it would hurt them and I knew how it hurts. But I never stopped to think that other people had feelings too, ones that could get easily hurt depending on my conduct. I was on good terms with my parents, so they never had a chance to see how cruel I can get with words. Of course, that cruelty was never intentional. Nonetheless, more people than necessary were hurt by my comments.
“You’re really fat. Do you eat a lot?” “That dot on your face makes you look weird.” “Why don’t you talk like everybody else?” Call it brutal honesty, perhaps, or childish innocence—whatever it was, my peers hated me for it. In fact, I ended up being closer with boys than with girls because they were used to such teasing and found my sense of humor, well, acceptable. Girls on the other hand saw me as insensitive and downright mean.
I learned this the hard way. Blissfully unaware of foreign opinions, I was minding my business one school day when a bunch of girls I had been “judging” recently came up to me and sprayed insults at my face. I can’t remember them all; I’m sure the word “ssagaji” (싸가지) was included in there somewhere. All I could do was just stand and gape in amazement as one of them started tearing up, repeating the “mean things” I had said to her before, and another shouted curse words at me. I didn’t realize how much of an impact I had made on these girls with my simple words, and I was baffled. I never meant any harm. I was just telling them what I had observed, and even thought they would thank me for it later. Suddenly gripped by an anger that was unnatural for children my age (I was only 6), I snapped, “Well, I never told any lies.” I carefully concealed the fact that their words had hurt me tremendously, along with a dawning realization that this was what I had done to them as well.
2011년 10월 26일 수요일
2011년 10월 15일 토요일
Thought Pooping
I think I'll restart something that I used to do a long time ago, when I just started writing. I call it 'thought pooping', though I could just as easily call it 'random train of thoughts' or 'string of nonsense that wastes my time as I write it'. Basically I start writing on a basic topic or what's on my mind at that particular moment and just take it away from there. So I could start with global warming and end with Jack the Ripper, if my train happens to lead me in that direction.
I just re-read that previous paragraph and realized, god, it's hideous. I've been reading works by Korean-American immigrants at the library and walked away disgusted every time, mainly because I could tell when it was written by a Korean-American. I'm not talking about the people who were born in an English-speaking country and can't speak a word of Korean. Their writings are indistinguishable from native speakers' work. No, what I read are works by Korea-educated people writing in English, and I simply cannot abide their writing. Oh, they may try their best to sound American. The grammar might be 100% correct and the idioms perfectly mastered, but there's just something underneath the surface that shows, like translucent skin covering the organs. It's as if I can read the countless grammar lessons behind it, the hours spent mastering the conjugations and memorizing vocabulary words, memorizing that "as...as" is used to compare things and "used to" is used for showing past actions. It's as if I can see the EBS teacher with his rod in front of the blackboard.
How can I see that? When I read an English piece written by a Korean, there's a general feeling of...what should I call it....orthodoxy emanating from it. It's perfectly square, the grammar contrived to fit the molds. Colored within the lines, you might say. And how meticulously so! The writing reeks of dictionary paper. At least that's how I see it.
Some of the writings on other students' blogs (although those don't disgust me!) feel that way too--almost fanatically proofread. But they are students, who are still learning. Who knows what wonderful things they have in store. I just hope that they won't end up like the self-proclaimed 'professional' writers who publish half-baked crap that lacks the natural-ness (?) native writers have.
And my very first paragraph was exactly like that.
God, I sound so mean in this. I sound so intolerant of Korean writing, when I myself am part of the same demographic! This is ridiculous.
I just re-read that previous paragraph and realized, god, it's hideous. I've been reading works by Korean-American immigrants at the library and walked away disgusted every time, mainly because I could tell when it was written by a Korean-American. I'm not talking about the people who were born in an English-speaking country and can't speak a word of Korean. Their writings are indistinguishable from native speakers' work. No, what I read are works by Korea-educated people writing in English, and I simply cannot abide their writing. Oh, they may try their best to sound American. The grammar might be 100% correct and the idioms perfectly mastered, but there's just something underneath the surface that shows, like translucent skin covering the organs. It's as if I can read the countless grammar lessons behind it, the hours spent mastering the conjugations and memorizing vocabulary words, memorizing that "as...as" is used to compare things and "used to" is used for showing past actions. It's as if I can see the EBS teacher with his rod in front of the blackboard.
How can I see that? When I read an English piece written by a Korean, there's a general feeling of...what should I call it....orthodoxy emanating from it. It's perfectly square, the grammar contrived to fit the molds. Colored within the lines, you might say. And how meticulously so! The writing reeks of dictionary paper. At least that's how I see it.
Some of the writings on other students' blogs (although those don't disgust me!) feel that way too--almost fanatically proofread. But they are students, who are still learning. Who knows what wonderful things they have in store. I just hope that they won't end up like the self-proclaimed 'professional' writers who publish half-baked crap that lacks the natural-ness (?) native writers have.
And my very first paragraph was exactly like that.
God, I sound so mean in this. I sound so intolerant of Korean writing, when I myself am part of the same demographic! This is ridiculous.
Shawshank Journal (what happened to my early draft?)
I first learned that King was insane after I read one of essays, “Why We Crave Horror Movies”, an essay which had captured the ego of the average human being and cast it in a grotesque light. Terrifying for us readers outside King’s mental circle, but I reckoned it would do marvels for his character development in fiction.
Shawshank Redemption is one of such works. Paired with King’s knowledge of life within the prison community (presumably second-hand, as he didn’t serve any time himself), his comprehensive approach to the human psyche created an utterly realistic drama that was delightful to read. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the story is how it managed to keep its head above the subject matter. Many a writer has written a prison novel, some of them based off experience. But in many of those novels it is easy to get caught up in descriptions of life within the walls, as there is an abundance of words just waiting to be written on the subject. And yes, King does include many descriptions. What he didn’t feel the need to do was explain the ways of prison life to his readers. He just let us figure it out ourselves, leaving us to picture the cells and the walls and not read about them. It’s the tried and true method of showing, not telling, and King does it beautifully. And instead of wasting time on backdrop, he jumps right to polishing the characters.
Even with the heavy subject matter and cultural references thrown at us, the readers never doubt Red and Andy’s reality for an instant. They might as well be real men, people that may be living in the state prisons even now, planning an escape or accepting their institutionalized life. King must have spent I don’t know how many years looking inside himself and others in order to achieve the level of solidity he has in Shawshank. It’s not just Red and Andy—after all, Red is one of the few honest men who own up to their crime, and Andy is just full-out innocent. It’s not hard for the readers to identify with them. No, it’s the other minor characters as well, who have indeed committed heinous crimes, may or may not admit to them, and may not be the kind of people you’d want to hang out with, but all of them show a terribly human facet of themselves. Like the rapist who carved marble as a hobby, or the coin collectionist. King therefore highlights the prisoners and criminals--ones we might overlook as mere scum--as human beings too. This is what makes his writing so compelling--we can read a portrait of our world in his books. And that is what every good writer does.
Shawshank Redemption is one of such works. Paired with King’s knowledge of life within the prison community (presumably second-hand, as he didn’t serve any time himself), his comprehensive approach to the human psyche created an utterly realistic drama that was delightful to read. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the story is how it managed to keep its head above the subject matter. Many a writer has written a prison novel, some of them based off experience. But in many of those novels it is easy to get caught up in descriptions of life within the walls, as there is an abundance of words just waiting to be written on the subject. And yes, King does include many descriptions. What he didn’t feel the need to do was explain the ways of prison life to his readers. He just let us figure it out ourselves, leaving us to picture the cells and the walls and not read about them. It’s the tried and true method of showing, not telling, and King does it beautifully. And instead of wasting time on backdrop, he jumps right to polishing the characters.
Even with the heavy subject matter and cultural references thrown at us, the readers never doubt Red and Andy’s reality for an instant. They might as well be real men, people that may be living in the state prisons even now, planning an escape or accepting their institutionalized life. King must have spent I don’t know how many years looking inside himself and others in order to achieve the level of solidity he has in Shawshank. It’s not just Red and Andy—after all, Red is one of the few honest men who own up to their crime, and Andy is just full-out innocent. It’s not hard for the readers to identify with them. No, it’s the other minor characters as well, who have indeed committed heinous crimes, may or may not admit to them, and may not be the kind of people you’d want to hang out with, but all of them show a terribly human facet of themselves. Like the rapist who carved marble as a hobby, or the coin collectionist. King therefore highlights the prisoners and criminals--ones we might overlook as mere scum--as human beings too. This is what makes his writing so compelling--we can read a portrait of our world in his books. And that is what every good writer does.
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