The root of all suffering

Every year, I am always in charge for one big project from my studio.

My first year was filled with an epic journey, my second year with a fantasy story, while last year I was involved in a biography.

All of the three started similarly. I poured my heart out to write every words, I think about every details, every possibilities, every emotions each scenes can give. I believe that love is the soul of every work, so I try to put as much love as I can to these stories. I want to make people believe, I want to make my audience put on the shoes of my characters and feel every sensations brought by every occurrences. I want them to felt the excitement, the joy, the spirit and the agony, so I let myself filled with all of these feelings.

Then they will all turn sour over several “revisions”. Some revisions are harsher, some feels more empathetic. But they are revisions after all. I will fight for some parts, and I will let go the other parts. But then the parts that I fought for will be scrutinised and eventually got altered. All the love I gave is gone along the way. The stories I held dear became another writings I have to deliver, and when they launched the final product, it became nothing like I imagined.

As a creator, I always felt huge grief when I saw my baby woke up as a Frankenstein. But as a service provider, I know that it’s part of the deal; they paid me to do it, they can do whatever they like to it. It’s just when all the products didn’t get the response they hope, I already lost all the words to save it. I can only wish that I fought harder, stood my ground and stayed true to my judgement. If only I could make them listen, maybe this story would have better chance.

But I smiled and wavered. I nodded and continue to wrote whatever they want me to write, with bitter positivity that will keep them happy in their own world.

There were times that I decided to write without concern. I felt like maybe I misinterpret the use of my passion. For all I know, the passion that I poured to generate love creates a certain attachment, and attachment is the root of all suffering. Maybe I have to find something different to fuel my work. Maybe I have been doing things wrong. There must be better way to give love to my works without forming hazardous attachment to them. Since at the end of the day, I never really own my work, as “the birth of a reader must be at the cost of the death of an author”

But I cannot just accept all these desecrations. If Roland Barthes is right, then I supposed to put up more of a fight. Because my audience never get to kill me, my clients did. None of these projects ended as truly my piece of work. They’re just chopped down, piled together and patched up version of it. So I do not want to yield my method just yet. I still have to give love and passion another chance. Because maybe it’s simply not my time. Maybe there’s another chance, another place, another circumstances, that I can finally convey all the details, emotions and message that I tried to communicate from the beginning. Maybe one day my work can survive and reach the eyes of the audience.

And until that day come. I shall grief for all my dying children.