“Then why didn’t you
become a writer?” a colleague asked me once – too quizzically, I began to
think he was mocking me. I was telling him writing is, was, and has
always been my therapy and my passion. He smartly asked me back why I
wasn’t working in the media.
Well, you really don’t
need to be in the media to write, do you?
Some six years ago, I
found myself fascinated by this craze they call web logging or blogging. Publication
in an instant. I fell in love with it. And who wouldn’t? You have the power
right at your fingertips (literally) to say something however and whenever you
want to. There’s a downside to this, though. This newfound freedom to put your
thoughts in the cyberspace is prone to abuse. Some use it as their personal
venting space talking gibberish. Some use this to spread false rumors and
inaccurate reports. As for me, this kind of new media allows me to be a writer
in my own right. I have always been the quiet type around people. But when I
feel strongly about something, I want to be heard. And although I am more vocal
now that I’m older, I will always go back to my first love: the written word
and its beautiful progression – from being just a faint wisp of idea floating
around this universe until it finds its way to me. Inspiration strikes. And
when it does, it hits like a storm. Unstoppable, unrelenting. Words sail
through like bullets and I find myself furiously typing my thoughts out in pure
white heat.
Six years ago, in this
same blog, I said that people have their own reasons why they write and that
the reasons vary from time to time. So now, six years later, I attempt to list
down the reasons why that burning flame of passion never seems to die out.
I write because I’ve
always been such a dreamer. Of things. Of places. Of times. A hopeless
idealist. And when reality frowns upon that idealism and shatters it painfully
into a million pieces, I retreat to where it all started, my heart bleeding
profusely over a love lost, friendship wasted, or failed endeavor. Living in a
world that can’t stop talking, my pen silently bears witness to every sorrow as
it slowly ebbs away, giving in to joy and ultimately, to hope.
I write to create memories. Someday, I’d like to look
back and imagine how I felt during each milestone in my life. I write to NOT
forget. I
think we often suffer from some sort of memory loss, although I highly doubt it
is deliberate. Human as we are, we have a natural compulsion to remember all
happy thoughts and just forget the ones that ripped us to shreds. Sure, it’s
easier that way. But we have got to remember the lessons, the wisdom that kept
us going until we finally found the strength to pull ourselves back together. I don’t want
to forget these things – the little details and the experiences that made me
who I am today. And who I will be tomorrow.
I write to keep my
personal sanity in check. It makes me think. Once. Twice. Many times. It makes
me argue with myself. Crazy, I know. And I don’t actually know how to explain
this without sounding nuts, so I’ll leave it to the expert(s) to do the
explaining. Norbet Platt said: “The act of putting pen to paper encourages
pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which
helps us regain our equilibrium.” If you were to ask me, life does not always manifest
itself in the obvious. You have to scratch beneath its surface, dig through
your thoughts, and burrow through your own fears and doubts to find the gold
that truly matters. Whatever that gold is, I leave that up to you.
I could go on and on. Tomorrow
and the day after, I will only find more reasons to write. Even if it means I have
to face my demons (sloth, lack of discipline, perfectionism) to get my writing
done, I will keep writing. Until I become a better writer. And until I become a
better person. :)
