There was a time when I wrote depressing stuff like this on the regular, much to the dismay of the people around me.
A downer, they called me. As if I’d forced them to live with my angst. They also threw out other adjectives like cringe, annoying, and lame.
Perhaps my biggest crime wasn’t the cringe or the regular servings of depresso. Perhaps it was taking their words to heart and not writing anything negative for years after that.
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I’ve started putting down books more lately. I’ll give them one chapter of boredom before I cut my losses and move on to the next book. I used to be a completionist when it came to reading, but as I grow older, I realise how little time I have to read all the books I want, so I’m learning to be more meticulous with my reading time.
It’s not the books, it’s me. I’m aware that different authors have different styles, and not all of them are going to suit me. I’m fine with that. The literary world is entirely subjective, and the path to bestsellery often consists of just craft and luck—both unmeasurable.
Your Friendly Malaysian Writer 