Eric Tian

The more I read, the more my writing standard increases, and the more insecure I am in my ability to communicate. The clear, crisp writing in authors I admire paralyses me; it reveals the flaws in my craft and sets an impossibly high bar for what is acceptable. I worry that my words are poorly chosen, that my sentences lack elegance, that my paragraphs fail to construe and capture an idea.

Frankly, if I hadn’t made this blog and journalling a habit, I’d probably be too intimidated to write at all. When I read my old posts, ones I was proud of at the time, the grammar errors, vague ideas, and imprecise language now scream out at me. Knowing that my current writing standard will be under the same level of scrutiny in the future is humiliating. Maybe it is best to avoid all this.

But of course, with any pursuit, we all begin on a spectrum of mediocre to utter garbage, and it is only through repetition and reflection that we improve. It’s what any good parent tells their child, any good teacher tells their student, any good friend tells another: find something worthwhile, and do it over and over and over again until you suck a little less, and eventually, after some effort, you might achieve some level of competence.

And when it comes to worthwhile pursuits, learning to communicate, and developing a mastery over words, is right near the top of my list.

From The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux:

“Are people so unhappy when they love?”
“Yes, Christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved.”

This week’s theme: The Phantom of the Opera. Over the span of five days, I read the original novel by Gaston Leroux, watched the 2004 film adaption, then experienced the live musical performance in Melbourne with my partner. From the initial reading, then throughout the performances, one question kept arising in my mind: why are the main characters in this adored musical so amazingly unlikeable?

The Phantom of the Opera revolves around three main characters: first, the phantom, a.k.a. opera ghost, our mysterious antagonist who turns out to be a disfigured, talented man named Erik with sociopathic tendencies; second, our damsal in distress, Christine Daas, our angelic soprano and Erik’s key love interest, who appears unable to think for herself; third, our handsome protagonist, Viscount Raoul de Chagny, our innocent, passionate young noble and Erik’s love rival over Christine, who makes absurdly naive decisions in the name of love. Each of these characters have glaring flaws and I found few admirable features in any of them. This confused me: main characters were meant to be likeable, I assumed, and portraying Erik, Christine and Raoul in this way was surely a disservice to the audience and the overall narrative.

But as I explored the story further and read other people’s analyses, I found that what turned me off was exactly why others enjoyed this classic. What happens when you put three imperfect characters – a mysterious sociopath, naive opera singer and love-obsessed young royal – in a love triangle, amongst tragedy and death at an opera house? Well, you get an interesting story.

Many of the most alluring stories are full of imperfect people. If all characters were perfectly rational and morally upright, you wouldn’t get something worth following. Good drama requires a spanner in the works; inconsistent motives, flawed characters, absurd decisions. The contrary is predictable, unrealistic and boring. The Biblical stories or Greek myths, for instance, wouldn’t be the same without the rebellious Jews or the promiscuous Gods. There is something about imperfection that makes a story more touching and engaging.

This is why the ‘monsters’ portrayed in the likes of Frankenstein, Dorian Gray, Count Dracula and The Phantom of the Opera have such a mysterious appeal. They are, on one hand, brutish, without morals, pitied at best, feared at worst, yet simultaneously fascinating characters, as their imperfection creates tales of magic, and serves as reminders that even we, as the audience, with our own degrees of flaws and demons, are capable of great stories as well.

In some contexts, like baking bread, or learning to write, it is wise to avoid shortcuts. The skills of kneading dough and basic grammar are fundamental to greater success.

In other contexts, like creating a start-up, or navigating, it is wise to consider shortcuts. The tried and tested route isn’t always the best one. Ingenuity and creativity can beat a conventional path.

The trick is often realising which situation you are in.

From a Buddhist Koan:

Once upon a time, as a man was walking through a forest, he saw a tiger peering out at him from the underbrush. As the man turned to run, he heard the tiger spring after him to give chase.

Barely ahead of the tiger, running for his life, the man came to the edge of a steep cliff. Clinging onto a strong vine, the man climbed over the cliff edge just as the tiger was about to pounce.

Hanging over the side of the cliff, with the hungry tiger pacing above him, the man looked down and was dismayed to see another tiger, stalking the ravine far below. Just then, a tiny mouse darted out from a crack in the cliff face above him and began to gnaw at the vine.

At that precise moment, the man noticed a patch of wild strawberries growing from a clump of earth near where he dangled. Reaching out, he plucked one. It was plump, and perfectly ripe; warmed by the sunshine.

He popped the strawberry into his mouth. It was perfectly delicious.

When you do things quickly, something magical happens: the activation energy of doing new things shrinks. The pressure of the task at hand disappears, it becomes less daunting, and you’ll be inclined to do more.

The days I manage to do the most study, or read or write the most, are when I wake up and immediately start working without thinking – taking the cold plunge. After a few minutes, the work feels natural. If I leave the task undone for too long, a certain weight builds up, a sort of ever-increasing resistance to start, until the task seems unsurmountable.

What’s worse, is if you do something slowly, you might get an ever-increasing pile of things to finish. You start adding things to the to-do list that never get crossed off. After a while, you begin to lose faith in yourself that you can do any task at all.

This doesn’t mean to be careless. But it does mean to work faster than you think is healthy, to push your standards to a higher level. If the task carries less activation energy in your mind, then you’ll do more, and then you’ll finally get good at it.

Eventually, you will be faster and better than you thought possible.