A Big Question MarK

“Read, read, and read. Read everything-trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.”
-William Faulkner
I am a writer.
None of my books have ever been in print, or even completed for that matter. Nothing I have written has earned me money in any way. My writings are not presented to the general public and most do not even know that I’m a writer. I do not even know if I’m a very good writer, I have no way of knowing because so few people have read and commented on my work. But I feel that above all else, I am a writer. When I write I feel that it is what I am meant to be doing. Writing gives me strength and spirit. Writing feeds my soul. I am a writer.
This is what I figured out so far based on what had happened to me for the past years.
“I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all.” – E.B. White
I have not written anything for quite a while now, except of course the usual home works and paper works my professors require me to submit as a requirement to pass the course. I have not poured the contents of my heart and soul in writing and have not even visited my blog to put an update of my daily activities.
I am not a connoisseur with words neither do I claim to have the gift of gab. I guess, all I am a lover of self-expression, a lover of honesty, of revealing my soul, of lamenting every now and then anything about my self, about my life and about almost anything that my indefatigable mind could grasp.
My love for expressing myself began when I started keeping every day record of my life, from the most exciting to the most boring. I asked for my tita’s old notebooks, she classified a recyclables and then I started sitting down each night and recalling the events that occurred the whole day. Each day I tried not to be taken over by my sleepiness, not before I have finished my journal for that day. That virtue ( of patiently keeping a comprehensive record of my existence) came to me when I realized that we would not have the Bible to read today and inspire all Christian religions if the prophets like Moses, Matthew, Mark, Luke and the rest of the editorial staff of that very influential book did not write every detail of their experiences. When I was 12 years old, writing a journal became an entertainment more than a responsibility. I was very young and very enthusiastic to write and pour my heart out on to my journal, about everything from girls to my mother’s spanking and my titas’ scolding, subjects that I would hesitate telling another person. My journal became my best friend. I have poured out my deepest secrets to it, my happiness, my sadness, my dreams, my frustrations, my whole being.
When I had my first crush, or must I say, my first crush in high school, I was able to write my first love poem. I think my ever-first poem was about my crush. We can really be very creative when talking about the heart huh! Then my love poems turned into life-reality poems. When you are so focused and dedicated on writing a poem or anything at all your mind would help you push yourself into that direction. All we need I guess to be able to write something is to really feel our subject and write down everything that comes into mind. After writing our hearts out editing would be easier.
“I think I did pretty well, considering I started out
with nothing but a bunch of blank paper.” – Steve Martin
I was in high school when I realized that my sitting down every night with half-opened eyes just to write on my journal paid off. I won a city-wide creative writing contest that really was a surprise because I started writing my entry half an hour before the contest was supposed to finish. We were given an hour and all I did the first half hour is look at my paper, the other contestants, my paper again, the contestants again until my eyes strained from doing that eye exercise. Almost teary-eyed I closed my eyes and then suddenly a light bulb appeared. That was the first time that I believed the cartoonist who first thought of the idea of a light bulb appearing would fit the real emotion of a person who found something that is likely to be a genius idea beyond oblivion. I was able to write a six-stanza poem that the judges loved for my surprise. That was the time that I started believing in myself, in my talent.
And that blank paper has gone along way now. After winning that competition, everything happened so fast. Things stated to flow and it was way hard to manage. I was persuaded to join the school paper and serve as one of its writers. I endured the pressure, the expectations and the patience. Eventually I became the editor-in-chief of the said paper for two years, which was the longest so far. I was also chosen as one of the contestants in high school press conferences where I also unexpectedly reaped some awards.
Luck just did not end there. Even college days, where I am certain that school publication was way stricter than high school, came to me as a surprise. The exam that was given to be part of the prestigious group of writers was just out of curiosity for me for I know that I still have much to learn to qualify. So when the news of being accepted broke to me, unexplainable feeling went all over me. Again, I deemed that I am a writer.
“No passion in the world is equal to the
passion to alter someone else’s draft.” – H.G. Wells
Honestly, what had happened to me was like a rolling coaster ride which was really exciting and elating. The fame, respect and honor that writing had brought me made me feel I was really blessed and that really I was destined to be a writer. One could easily be blind folded in this kind of situation and I for instance, had nearly experienced it. But like any other ride, time will come that the fun ride has to stop to have some repair. Unfortunately, that was exactly what had happened to me. I need to stop to learn more. A lot more.
“Am I really a writer?” This question occurred to me when the continuous failure and rejections came my way. My editor did not like my draft, I did not meet the standard of the publication, and I can not meet the deadline, these were just few of what I had to bear as I pursue writing. There even came a time where ideas were nowhere to find. And I really find it hard to construct an essay or an article for that matter. During those times, frustrations were all over me.
It was in college that I had realized that writing was not easy and not even a slightly one. There I had experienced an overnight work while squeezing my mind to fabricate words as I fight the urge to sleep but at the end, revise everything. It was still clear to me up to now the feeling of disappointment when I received my paper, which I shared, drops of tears and tears, instructing me to revise everything. Holding that failed paper was hard to accept knowing that it was not only that piece of paper which was rejected rather it was more of me who have fell short. Writer’s every output was a copy of their mind, of how it work and how it think, so when this paper, you consider masterpiece did not meet any standard, it was your whole self that was declined. These were just few of the so many pieces of a whole picture that depicts how complex writer’s life is.
“Write without pay until someone offers pay. If nobody offers within three years, the candidate may look upon this as a sign that sawing wood is what he was intended for.” – Mark Twain
It was just ordinary for a young a writer like me to aspire this craft as my career in the future. At first, I thought it was near to possibility, but as the day passes by, reality came to exist. Writing is not profitable and I can not make a living out of it.
I can still remember that day, as I play the lollipop in my mouth, when I told my mom that someday I will be as rich as my grandfather and that there will come a time that money will no longer be a problem for me. I still have that dream and the eagerness of fulfilling such was still burning here inside. And because of that, I have to stop fantasizing that writing is for me.
Before entering college, my mom asked me what career I would want to pursue. Since, writing was the only thing I am sure I really love; I told her that being a writer is all I want to be. I know she will agree and she did. But she reminded me that writing was one of those careers where money was hard to find. At first, I thought it was not true and that she just wanted me to pursue medicine but later I found out the truth. Most of the writers, at least in the Philippines, struggle to live.
From there I have realized that I may not have writing as my sole career but still I can express my self at any time possible. It will neither hinder nor deprive me from chasing what I really love. It just a matter of doing everything to accomplish it. So here I am right now, pursuing a career way different from writing.
“You don't write because you want to say something,
you write because you've got something to say.”- Scott Fitzgerald
A "writer" is a person who produces literature--that is, a novelist, poet, and dramatist. I think it is generally true that in all cultures, they write to say something, either to share or to inform. And I have my own reasons why I write. Usually, I express myself in writing to share things that pop-up in my mind for that specific day. Most of the time, my writings has no directions.
It was only in college that my purpose of writing had totally changed. Of course, the sharing of emotions and feelings will always be there but I was more directed. When I was in the publication, I write to serve my fellow students. I write to bring out the things that they should know. It was nice to hear when someone tells you that he/she was very thankful for he/she had learned something. Or more, it was very humbling in my part when someone told me that he/she shares same experiences and I had written it exactly how should it be written.
“Writing is no trouble: you just jot down ideas as they occur to you.
The jotting is simplicity itself - it is the occurring which is difficult.” – Stephen Leacock
A writer said, “Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.” I often do that when I push myself to think of something to write. If I start writing a if my pen wouldn’t stop because I am flooded with so much ideas to write I know my masterpiece would be great but if I sit down, staring on the blank sheet of paper in font of me, hearing the ticking of the clock ad feeling he movements of the objects around me I am really not in the mood to write. Like what another writer said, “The faster I write the better my output. If I’m going slowly I’m in trouble. It means I’m pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.” This time I must admit that I’m in trouble. The flow of ideas is not so vivid like when I wrote the first few paragraphs. So just to have something to write for this paper I pushed my words and now I must stop.
I know now the answer to the question, “Am I really a writer?” or I am jut claiming to be one.