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Declaring that writing is a medium, and industry, in irreversible decline isn’t something new. From the apparent meaninglessness of book authorship wrought upon by market logic to apocalyptic visions of a post-text future (as The New York Time’s Farhad Manjoo and Gawker’s Jordan Sargent had purported), writing appears headed for perpetual crisis.
Growing up, I was a kid in love with ideas and stories. Having kiddos perpetually glued to a screen wasn’t in fashion then, and every Sunday at Grandma’s I would take a hula hoop, pretend it was a magic school-bus, and take my younger cousins on field trips to make-believe realms filled with all sorts of oddities. In primary school, I created a fantasy role-playing game and got my classmates to become knights and mages for a year using nothing more than a 2B pencil, a jotter book and my vivid imagination. Every single occupation I aspired towards – archaeologist, historian, diplomat, writer – was about, in some sense, telling great stories.
Singapore has told the world a great story, and as much as I detest the heat and the crowds at home, I am still very much addicted to this read. But as young Singaporeans like myself continue the narrative, I wonder if all the trappings of a great story have left us blindsided to the reality of what’s going on, just next door.
