Sunday

8:03 a.m.

I am on the verge of a creative breakdown.

I've been ruminating on a feature film concept since June but my muse hasn't been cooperative. The story idea came from Purple who, when asked what propels her to wake up everyday, told me about this community who managed to rebuild their livelihood after Yolanda. She has accommodated all my queries and has emailed tons of readings, articles and reports. I'm even in the loop for the on-site training and am ready to book a flight once they finalise the dates.

But I remain unfeeling and uninspired.

And a tad insecure too. Have I lost the magic after leaving television? I have not written a decent script in more than a year now. I've always believed that a writer who is not writing is not a writer. That I am only as good as my last work. One year of doing nothing had this glaring after-effect. This dry spell is the worst I've had in years. I am suddenly devoid of anything. I must be depressed again.

No wonder I harboured this deplorable antagonism for them. And why I cannot lower my pride to reach out and make amends, to at least salvage a portion of the burned bridge. They wasted my time, exhausted my patience, and repaid my loyalty with mediocrity.

Ah, pathetic thoughts, of pathetic people, of pathetic me.

10:54 a.m.

Its been two months already. It ended after almost a year of vicious bargaining and more than a year of frustration and restlessness and outright hostility. Despite wanting this freedom for so long, I feel a bit down. Blame that blasted dinner.

Tin's now an editor for Bloomberg, Jay's moving to an Australian risk assessment company, Rey's swinging it at the BOC, Purple's an established environment activist, Ziel's almost done with law school, and Thea's a litigation lawyer for a top firm. And me? Current status: jobless. With an unfinished masters degree, a pile of incomplete first drafts, and a motivation that's close to none.

12:02 p.m.

"You can finish it in two weeks."
"I can't."
"We have the training."
"I lack the discipline."
"You're a mess."
"Yeah."

2:40 p.m.

I burned this week's daylight by watching Japanese animated movies and reading shonen manga. Stupid hero learns how to use the tools with a 'never give up' attitude. In the end, hero mastered the craft and the prize: recognition from colleagues who now regards him as a genius. I love these stories the most, for some weird reason.

Last weekend, I watched that notable Shinkai movie and replayed Hosada's adapted film of the same theme. These dropped a realisation: I used to create stories of this nature, with a simplicity that snowballs into poignant complications that lack mainstream storytelling's 'bigness'. I'm not a found story writer but I'm also not a mainstream storyteller. My sensibility has always been nestled in-between.

More than half a decade in the industry and television ate my soul, limiting my thought process to the capacities of the idiot box. And maybe that's the problem: I continue to think like a soap opera writer. Maybe I cannot nail down my feature film story because I still have that boxed and outdated mentality.

My argument with Jules sort of confirmed this. My snobbish responses to his criticism (not of me but of an article I shared) riled me up. But after a few responses, I realised I was getting gungho on a non-issue. Why do I still defend journalism when I'm no longer a journalist? Why do I try to explain social science research when I'm no longer a social science researcher?

Now, I swing that question to my current predicament: Why do I still think like a soap writer when I'm done writing soap operas? - 11/6/2016