i bought a laptop a year ago so i could learn how to write again. the key word here is learn, because just recently, when i started going through a massive ordeal in my life, my plate of silence was more than i could manage in one sitting. mentally and emotionally, i was hemmorhaging and i could not tell a single soul because i realized i really didn’t know how to write.
when i was in elementary, after reading a book on ancient egyptian rituals, i wanted to become a mortician. thereafer i realized it would gross my parents out, and would be too messy (i had read the entry on embalming by way of esophagus and nose) and so diverted my secret childhood dreams of being a funeral parlor worker to becoming a professional roller blader and singer instead. i would sing on skates, i figured. to amy grant’s baby, baby in a black velvet fedora and paisley t-shirt dress.
somewhere in my elementary life i had quiet dreams too. i remember writing Ann M. Martin of the Baby-sitter’s Club fame and reading her response ( a whopping ten pages) of club and personal history during show and tell in fourth grade. thereafter i started buying books, cloth covered journals and fragrant ballpoint pens with my lunch money. i fell in love with print - the smell of bound books, the annual readathon, ordering every month from scholastic books, doodling on a clean ruled page in my lock and key diary - all these events marked the start of my affair with writing.
in high school i came back to the Philippines and my dreams involving writing were temporarily shelved during the first three rocky years of puberty.in senior year i didn’t join the creative writing class because i missed writing, but because it was the cheapest elective and the only one that didnt really require me to move around, interact with other people except during groupwork (and this was minimal) and would give me the chance to catch up on my note/letterwriting to my crushes and friends (this was the only pen-spiration i had been getting lately, so it didnt really count).
my affair started haunting me in the latter part of sophomore year in college, when i mustered up enough guts to join the literary and political essay writing contest sponsored by the journalism society. i took first place in that contest. the following year, i was tasked to become one of the two associate editors in chief of the society newsletter, after i decided to take up journalism after winning the said competition. winning had to be a sign, didn’t it?
it was a sign. a sign that obviously said, great writers don’t have it easy from the start. i thought after bagging the contest and being declared editor everything would be laid out for me. i hated studying, and studying writing? you have got to be kidding me. i played my cards loosely, and consequently, lost a lot during the last two years of my university life. yes, i did become editor in chief, and was class president two years in a row. but failure was also my middle name and i almost didn’t graduate on time.
hanging by a thread - that’s the position i was in, my natural science professor told me during the last few weeks of the term. if i wanted to graduate, i should show my interest in doing so, he stressed. i had lost my passion for everything then, i had lost interest even in THE affair. i had left it all to chance and charm and pride - and these dont really get you anywhere in the real world, which at the moment for me, was the academe.
i had forgotten that to achieve something, you have to work for it. i know some people claim luck is the ultimate accessory and it may be true for some. but what if you’re not that type of person? what if you start out thinking you’re that type of individual - lucky in the game of chance - lucky as a match game - and never lift a finger to work for what you want - and when the whole game goes up in smoke you’ll think it’s the end of the world? some say the ancient game played by the gods - fatem or destiny, still rules the universe. never underestimate though, what you can work with in between two point of fate - what you can achieve with free will if you put your mind to it.
fate has brought me to reconcile with my lover - that which is written - once again and it is only now that i understand so. after college i was hired as corporate communications staff for a multinational energy firm. i had no experience. i had a solid paycheck, no real friends, and a business card. i was not writing, i was running errands. i was setting up for exhibits, events, cocktail parties - i was doing budget and balancing - i was calling suppliers and doing inventory. my break came when my colleague kissed employment goodbye. i did some layouts and copywriting for in house collaterals, and made some minor decisions on my own. still, no real writing. my ex-colleague was replaced by my present sidekick, and since, the workload has gotten more demanding, and there is a lot more stress, which means a big chunk of my salary goes to therapeutic development aka spa treatments, and some writing, which doesnt interest me a whole lot since it’s work related anyway.
these developments in my life - loss of love, misunderstanding with friends and family, heartwrenching moments and sorrow inducing experiences - intertwined with brushes with mirth and joy - instead of turning schizophrenic, i have realized that i have to rekindle an old flame so that i can finally have a real outlet to express and nurture my emotions. i realized that when i started going through a lot in my life, the lessons i learned and are continuing to learn are worth listening to, worth sharing, and if i learn how to write again, when i bleed, you can bleed with me, or you can come to terms with your own pain, and we can come back to the page that sticks with you, again and again, until you and i find healing.
