A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Hafiz Noor Shams, the author of The End of the Nineteen Nineties, a book that is part-memoir and part-history of Malaysia.
In it, he discusses the most salient challenges of living in a fragmented multiethnic society, whereby Malays are the dominant race in terms of governing the country, as well as being the most entitled to various benefits including access to public education, and better options and opportunities for business, investing, and land ownership.
He grieves over the 1990s, a time when Malaysia enjoyed strong economic growth and modernization, and a sense of Malaysian-ness prevailed over Malay-ness.
During his talk, I learned that he had written the book for 10 years, before finally having it published recently.
A decade is an insanely long time, I thought. So much in our lives can change in 10 years.
Feeling curious, I raised my hand during the Q and A session and asked him, “What kept you going all those years?”
As he explained, what kept him engaged in his work was the process itself. Writing the book was a form of therapy, as it forced him to process the wide range of emotions that he was feeling about Malaysia, though mostly, it was anger.
A lot of times, he would channel his anger into his writing, thinking “fuck this” and “fuck that” while he furiously typed line after line. But once he went about editing, he would have a clearer and more objective understanding of what he was feeling. In turn, he could rewrite something better.
For one thing, he considered the possibility that his idea of the 1990s in Malaysia, that he had been grieving over, never actually existed in the first place.
Hafiz’s answer to my question reminded me about one of the great beauties of art, in that it moves and heals not only the audience, but perhaps more importantly, the artist themselves.
The process of making art helps us process ourselves. It keeps us sane by giving our chaotic thoughts an orderly home to live in. By engaging ourselves in the process, we may become better people, and in turn, our art becomes better too.
The novelist Kurt Vonnegut said that the point of practicing art, no matter how poorly, is to “experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.”
Personally, I find this to be largely true. I’m often asked about how I have managed to post articles every week in the past 5 years or so without burning myself out. And the answer, as simple as it might sound, is that I really love the process.
As someone who struggles with depression, this blog has saved my life many times over. Especially during difficult days where I wrestle with suicidal feelings and the urge to fall back to self-destructive habits, this blog provides a welcoming respite. I constantly have ideas on what to write, and pursuing them is a constructive way to channel what little energy I may have.
Perhaps, not unlike how Hafiz approaches his writing, I see much of the writing and editing process as a form of mini-therapy. Many of the articles I write are addressed to myself first, as I make sense of whatever is on my mind, or give myself a bit of encouragement to keep pressing forward, one day at a time.
To make sure I’m not simply thinking out loud, though, I do my best not to write at the last minute, but to continuously do it a few bits at a time throughout the week.
Additionally, a rule I have for myself is to give it at least a day after a draft is finished before I start editing. This way, I could attain a fair distance from my thoughts and feelings, and be able to articulate them more objectively. (And hopefully not say something I would later regret.)
By the time an article is posted, I feel fulfilled. I have “experienced becoming,” so to speak. And I feel excited to start the process again.
It doesn’t do good for you and your art to treat the process as a mere marshmallow test, one in which you’re miserably powering through for an end reward.
As Steven Pressfield quips in Turning Pro, well, “Fuck the marshmallows.”
The journey is its own reward. The process is the point.
Izzat Zailan 