There are events in our life, especially the ones that carry extreme emotions, seem difficult to write. I mean, writing in detail. A Long prose. A vivid personal essay. That is maybe because, when we are happy, words fall short and our thoughts are partial. Remember, "Don't make promises when you are happy. Don't make decisions when you are angry." Or ,"The grass is greener outside the fence."
A new perspective. A more rational self. Subdued emotion. The time when all the hormones have reverted to its equilibrium. Call it thinking in perpective.
Writing is talking in print. The good thing is that what is written can still be erased, or backspaced, or deleted. That makes it a better medium in communication than speaking.
Back in college, my curriculum, included Intensive Writing. First day of class, when all students expected (including myself), that professors will only do meet-and-greet, submit-your-classcards, and here-are-the-course-requirements thing. But no. Our professor, Sir Warlito Caturay, brought in a CD player and pressed play Tina Arena's "Burn", of which after, we were made to write about the song. First day. One composition. And every meeting, thereafter, came another essay. And then I realized that if I write, I make myself happy. Thus the creation of this blog in 2008. Since then, this has become a repertory of my daily life adventures.
When I'm home, I sometimes giggle or smirk or to a little extent grimace (in no particular order) when I read my high school essays that my Lola fastened and kept on file. My juvenile writing. My cliched introductions. My very long sentences. Over the years, Grandma, took care of all past issues of our school paper with my news articles, feature essays, and editorial stories. Some parts were yellowed already as a sign of old age. But Lola have them as her priced possesion. That made my heart twist a little. And that inspired me to write more stories because Lola took pride of them. And I promised that a book will soon be published as an addition to her collection. Call it the evolution of writing.
Why do I write and when do I write are two things that every writer carry with them. It is like their shadow. Something that, apart from the pen, is just around, following every word written, every phrase deleted, and every idea born. For now, I write because of two reasons. First, it is challenging. In fact, very challenging, would describe it better. Second, it is immensely rewarding.
Writing is like wrestling. The transformation of ideas into words. The translation of events into stories. The creation of imagery using words. These things wrestle in the writer's mind. And when things are not in order, the writer is put in a prison where he himself created. And where he himself only knows how to escape from. Will you agree then that every story written is hard work. A product of great love. A piece of himself.
I write because the reward is: I made myself happy. And my Lola. And my family. My writings are accounts of my life. And in the days to come when I look back, these pieces of myself will soon make up the big jigsaw puzzle that will spell what difference did I make while I'm alive.