And it all began like this

I am just a writer, I know.

Already I am experiencing a few frustrations as I write this entry. For one, the photo isn’t turning out the way I wanted it to turn out – it’s just nudged to the left, enough to be noticed, and for me to scurry to edit things at the very last minute, to no avail. I’d usually spend time trying to figure it out, but as I type this it’s entered early morning, and I’d be spanked if I stay up further.

I started writing when I was really young. I mean, I practically grew up with newspapers around me, even if nobody from the family worked in journalism. I remember marvelling at how the small letter A was written, and I attempted to copy it on every blank scrap of newsprint I could find in the Sunday magazines of the newspapers at the time. Then I began signing those insurance forms that you would usually see in publications such as the Manila Bulletin. I think that was the only time I faked my information; you had to be hypothetical, of course. I was just six.

I started writing what I amounted to newspaper articles in the third grade. Together with a few friends, we would write articles, collect them on pieces of bond paper folded together, and have everybody else read it. I remember being so proud of what I have done – I essentially started a trend, and I used to think I was responsible for the school administration’s idea to publish an official newsletter. There was even a point when I took things so seriously, I took out issues every week and had readers pay a peso every time they would read it. I even called it “rent”.

High school slowed me down. A lot of things basically happened, and although I tried to “start again”, so to speak, it just wasn’t happening. Sure, there was me doing three issues (or maybe four) in third year, but somehow it didn’t seem practical anymore. We were busy with things; I, on the other hand, was becoming wary of seeming weird, especially when people would see me with a pencil and pieces of bond paper with handwritten stories, usually written spontaneously, and drawings that tried to be photographs.

Fast forward to today. I still write – or, technically, blog – but all my dreams for writing for something have been basically squashed. I tried, in high school, to get into the school paper and wasn’t accepted. Same thing right now, with The Lasallian, and although the current editor-in-chief (I think) had encouraged me to join, I thought I’m already too busy with too many things to have another one take over.

So why do this, you ask? I guess it’s the passion, and the thrill. I think I’ve taken the next level with blogging, and I’m taking it too seriously again with the cameras and the notebooks with terribly illegible writing. But I know I’m doing something I’ve always enjoyed – well, probably except for holding the pencil and getting my hands dirty in the process. Now I can just tap a few keys and I’m done.

And if you’re any curious, my handwriting’s better than my counterparts.