Why I write
Someone emailed asking how long it takes me to write entries to this blog. The quick answer is, I don't have that much time to spare so I make do with whatever time I have which is often not much. Sometimes I can dash off a piece in 10, maybe 20 minutes; or the entire given time I can sit in front of the pc online. Sometimes, the entry I am currently writing sits as a screensaver in my pc at work, something that I return to every now and then and whenever I can snatch time from the thousand and one things that ordinary work drones like me have to do, until it assumes some form fit for publishing.
I do wish I have the luxury of brooding over and delicately crafting the entries. But I know that if I do that, very few entries would ever get past my often harsh critical eye.
I fancy myself a writer (blush). That's the worn-out excuse I give whenever I am asked why I bother. I try to be better at it - and someday, I hope I can do or be that. My fondest dream is to be able to save enough money to buy a farm somewhere in Batangas (Tagaytay would be perrrrfect, but I know that is beyond my means), grow fruits and vegetables, and write and read and write all day and night. What bliss it would be to finally have all the time in the world to write.
But why do I do this? Quite frankly, I do not know.
I started writing when I was in high school. But I never got serious about it, although many of my teachers (bless their souls) did encourage me with lavish praises. It was in College when I did try to learn how to write. I was editor of my College paper and of the annual book, and on the side, I moonlighted as columnist of a weekly newspaper. However, to this day, I still can not find the courage and the willpower to actually revisit what I wrote then - I think it is a punishment that awaits all writers: to be haunted by their past hysterical attempts at this craft. But I still write, or try to. And for this, I am extremely thankful to the internet and whoever thought of this blogging thing. At least now there is space for my rants and raves and my often senseless and tedious prose.
To me, writing is therapeutic. It's like having a long conversation where I get to clarify my thoughts and my confusions. The more I write about whatever it is that I am thinking about, the clearer it becomes to me. And then before I know it, it has achieved some form; like an opinion that I never thought I really had to begin with or a point of view that got crystallized.
But more than anything else, I think writing keeps me sane and grounded. The few minutes I spare writing for this blog has been doing wonders for my sanity and health- I have only been blogging for two months and wonder of wonders, in that span of time, I have been able to keep my blood pressure within manageable levels.
So to all of you who write me to tell me that they keep track of my blog, thank you. You are all doing me a great favor.
I do wish I have the luxury of brooding over and delicately crafting the entries. But I know that if I do that, very few entries would ever get past my often harsh critical eye.
I fancy myself a writer (blush). That's the worn-out excuse I give whenever I am asked why I bother. I try to be better at it - and someday, I hope I can do or be that. My fondest dream is to be able to save enough money to buy a farm somewhere in Batangas (Tagaytay would be perrrrfect, but I know that is beyond my means), grow fruits and vegetables, and write and read and write all day and night. What bliss it would be to finally have all the time in the world to write.
But why do I do this? Quite frankly, I do not know.
I started writing when I was in high school. But I never got serious about it, although many of my teachers (bless their souls) did encourage me with lavish praises. It was in College when I did try to learn how to write. I was editor of my College paper and of the annual book, and on the side, I moonlighted as columnist of a weekly newspaper. However, to this day, I still can not find the courage and the willpower to actually revisit what I wrote then - I think it is a punishment that awaits all writers: to be haunted by their past hysterical attempts at this craft. But I still write, or try to. And for this, I am extremely thankful to the internet and whoever thought of this blogging thing. At least now there is space for my rants and raves and my often senseless and tedious prose.
To me, writing is therapeutic. It's like having a long conversation where I get to clarify my thoughts and my confusions. The more I write about whatever it is that I am thinking about, the clearer it becomes to me. And then before I know it, it has achieved some form; like an opinion that I never thought I really had to begin with or a point of view that got crystallized.
But more than anything else, I think writing keeps me sane and grounded. The few minutes I spare writing for this blog has been doing wonders for my sanity and health- I have only been blogging for two months and wonder of wonders, in that span of time, I have been able to keep my blood pressure within manageable levels.
So to all of you who write me to tell me that they keep track of my blog, thank you. You are all doing me a great favor.
Comments