I’ve always been writing. As early as 8 or 9, I journaled. Then I burned them because I learned the concept of shame as teenagers do. I’m not sure if my mom got me started to write, in a diary, but later on she started reading them as soon as she sniffed that I was having the hugest crush on my godmother’s son. Whether or not she really did read my diary is up for debate. Not that I wouldn’t put it past her. Also, her reading my diary is not the root of the shame that fueled my sudden need to burn a few journals.
But I am on a very conscious, very aware writing journey. For starters, I’m in New York. The more people I meet, the more I realize and the more I am reminded of why I am here and why I am alive. One of the reasons of which is to write. I find that I use words very well. I also find it all the more apparent that I communicate very effectively when I write it down first. I tried expressing appreciation to someone and I fumbled like an idiot. His gratitude was genuine. I guess it goes to show that everyone and anyone will take any form of appreciation. Meanwhile, eloquence cannot be delivered impromptu.
My current writing journey is specific. I’ve gone through a lot of changes since moving out from my comfortable Muntinlupa suburb to a neighborhood in Queens, New York. There was a theater company that left me high, dry, and dismayed. Then there was a voice teacher who wasn’t just the voice of God; he made me hear the voice of God coming from my own vocal chords. Then there is stuff about a topsy-turvy roller coaster ride of faith and synchronicity and power.
I need to write to reconcile all that I’m feeling and everything that I’m going through. In the backdrop of all the things I mentioned in the previous paragraph is another story, which happens to be the story of my faith. In the last five years, I soul-searched on the Internet and found ideas, ideology, and theology and the struggles of understanding it all. I learned that it was okay to doubt and not believe. I learned that religion is more complex and at the same more simple that it ought to be. This made my mind and my intellect traverse between defining be as Christian, Agnostic, Pagan, Atheistic and then semi-finally to Pagan-Christian.
I write to organize my thoughts and get to know myself. In the first few weeks of living in New York, I was harboring a reputation back at home for writing mile-long emails to friends and family. I can imagine that reading 1000 word emails is a labor, especially to friends who have since gotten jobs and started businesses. Not that I am offended, if ever they think this way. My writing is really about me, and not them anyway.
There are times when I doubt my talents and my abilities, and ultimately, my existence. Whenever in doubt, I remind myself that I am a writer worth my salt, words, and thoughts, just as I am a singer worth her God-given vocal chords. I do this by reading the very emails I sent to my friends. What I find and read is amazing. Reading what I put out can be self-serving, but I can’t deny that I am being edified by what I write. Ultimately, I learn, I am writing for myself.
I keep a blog and a journal, so most of what I write is non-fiction. My life is so interesting, and the distance between Manila and New York suddenly becomes a revelation of how colorful my life has been. I was talking to a friend about a specific event that happened in my life. This friend slapped my arm in mid-story and said “Pam, you are too much! You should write a book!” I could only laugh and respond with “You know, you’re not the first one to say that to me.” In fact, she wasn’t the second, and nor was she the third to say that to me in a week. My life is just too damned interesting and I am not complaining.
I try to write poetry, but I find that there is so much effort to bend language and wield metaphors to describe something colossal. My professors in literature say it takes them years to edit the poems they write. I cannot blame them. I wrote one on Gather.com not too long ago. It was a joy to write but a labor to produce. Not that I’ll not give a go again.
I wish I wrote fiction. I tried writing fiction but I’m stuck on characters who resemble (too much) the people in my life, if not myself. I think I fuss too much about characters without wanting to develop them. I have to learn to move the plot.
Pammu I love you; but you realize that if you follow me, your tumblr will be spammed with lovely Japanese boys and rainbows and fluffy gheiness, yes? If so, then please indulge in the goodness that is my tumblr. :D If not, it's okay if you don't appear in my follower's list the next time I check. :)) I miss you!
You know what…it’s fine. The more you post, the more I know you’re alive and sane. I miss you loads! <3
“They want me to write differently. Certainly I could, but I must not. God has chosen me from thousands and given me, of all people, this talent. It is to Him that I must give account. How then would I stand there before Almighty God, if I followed the others and not Him?”—