Seeing

So.

The draft of the poetics essay has been written, and comments obtained, mainly from someone I respect very, very much.  And he identified the thing that made me increasingly uncomfortable while I was completing the draft (even though I didn't mention it): That is: To write as I do now is a good thing, but it has remained insular. If I truly believe that writing helps me escape from my ego, I haven't really been able to escape it completely, or even very well.

I think this is partly due to the fact I didn't have the skill to write about the other, or about things that matter. But, as it turns out, it is also because I doubt I can be able to write persuasively from an other's point of view. This would be a failure in imagination, wouldn't it? And the reason behind this failure to imagine is a decision not to attempt to find a way of re-imagining one's reality (which is all in one's head).

The classes in psychological realism in fiction have helped me move beyond the place where I started writing (which is the concern of a particular mind). And this entire experience of studying creative writing might actually help me engage with society instead of continually failing to do so.

It's funny how writing continually reveals to me the weaknesses in my own thinking and behavior, and pushes me toward confronting them, once and for all.