Writing Then and Now

Writing means a lot to me. It's one of the few activities in which I can feel free and be myself. It doesn't matter if my output turns out to be a letter, an essay, a poem or just some crazy imprisoned thoughts wanting to be released from their confines. If I didn't write at least once or twice a week, I would feel incomplete...as if some part of me were missing. There are even times that I find myself itching and reaching for pen and paper at midnight when I should be on my way to Dreamland with or without Krueger-influenced dreams. I feel as if I have to write what's on my mind right at that moment, lest I forget the words in the morning.

It's funny though because when I was in grade school, I hated compositions. The dread of seeing my theme paper returned all covered with big red marks (circles, comments and grammatical corrections) was something I want buried in memory. I never got a grade higher than 85%.

There were three things that got me interested in writing. The first were high school journals in English. For us to hone whatever writing talent we had, our English teachers from sophomore to senior years requested us to keep a journal. In it, we could write whatever we wanted -- deep or shallow reflections, violent or controlled reactions, an even adolescent attempts at poetry. We could even accompany our essays and poems with drawings and pictures. Creativity was what they were trying to draw from us.

I enjoyed the exercise very much because of the informality. Because no one was dictating what to write and in what format, I felt at ease. I found myself taking the exercise seriously to the point of regarding my English journal as a personal diary. I remember writing about myself, my insecurities, my disappointments, my crushes, my fave bands and yes, even my pets. Teenage angst, in short. It was very cathartic.

Second was my sudden interest in reading whatever my hands could get a hold of. Mysteries, short stories, poems, labels, signs, ads and even the backs of milk cartons. The discovery of new words to add to my then meager vocabulary, and the idea of astounding and amazing classmates who had never read any book from cover to cover, spurred me on to write, to try them(new words) out for size, and yes, I humbly admit...to show off. I was very sarcastic.

Third was my being an outcast in class. I didn't have any body odor nor bad breath. I smelled okay -- My Mom said so. She wouldn't lie, would she? -- but my classmates never flocked to me nor did I light up their world when I came near them. The reason? I was not in their league. I was from the wrong side of the tracks. I was not from Ayala Alabang, nor was I from any of the plush villages near our school. I was from Alabang Gilid. "Who needs people like you when I have the twins, Pen and Paper, for company?", I thought. And that's when I began writing furiously -- day and night, noon and midnight, dusk or dawn. All the writing paid off when I surprisingly bagged the First Prize in a Poetry Writing Contest. It was very therapeutic.

Moving on to my college days, I still dabbled in the printed word. Writing weird essays in English 2, dissecting a classic novel in Literature, making a one-page personal reflection paper in Philosophy or handing in attempts at satirical feature articles for the school organ, excited me. On our Graduation Day, I received a Certificate of Recognition for Creative Writing as well as a Silver Medal for Campus Journalism. It seems that The One Above never forgot me for I always got rewards even when I wasn't expecting them. Now, I hope I'm not getting melodramatic.

It's been years since I graduated from college. Now that I'm back into writing but in a different venue and media, I hope I'll feel the way I did once in a writing class ... euphoric.