A Ripped Page In My Diary

I don't know if someone would be interested in my story but if you just happened to pass by and accidentally read this one, I hope I won't bore you with the details.

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My story wouldn’t be too different from anyone who chose this path--writing.

For you to become a writer, you have had read tons and tons of stories or poems, etc.

You were a reader first, simply put.

The first time I read something it was a paperback, a love story, classic old one--a genre that I am not ashamed I still love till today. It was so simple and other may say that anyone could write it but after that there was no going back. Something in me stirred that day and I told myself: I want to write something like this too.

When I was in my quite so younger years there were three writers who inspired me to write.

One writes heavy drama.

Other one writes action/fantasy.

And the other one writes humor which I think who inspired me the most. (I hope it’s evident or nah?)

They were my “mentors” though they don’t know me at all.

You read and you read until you feel like you want to do it too. Write like them. Be like them. And wonder how it feels like to write.

Until such time it becomes natural for you.. like breathing. Something no one has taught you yet, instinctively you know how to do it.

It was something you get accustomed to--writing and in time it comes to haunt you.. a soft whisper in your ears, like a sweet caress or other may say calling…something like you’ve always wanted all along that you just figured out.

The writer in you was born.

Was that the same for you? For me it was.

But then there was something different about just wanting to write and to write and share it to other people and I really find a hard time crossing that line then.

Sure, I know I could write but I was never confident enough to share it to anybody.

There was a moment in my life that I feel like I would die if someone would read my story. I had no confidence at all and I feel like it would just be criticized. And that’s how I feel then.

So how did I cross that line?

Actually I didn’t. It just so happen that there was a teacher then who asked us to write an essay. I have no recall about the topic was but what I would always remember the words he said when he called me to get my paper:

You construct words quite well.

Plain words yet something in me stirred. It was beyond happiness. Such a simple word yet I felt like it was worth more than getting a perfect score in exam.

You could say that was an exaggeration but for me it became a door that opened my mind: Why not let them read my works. It’s fine if they wouldn’t like it. Better than for it to stay hidden and locked up in my drawer.

And that when it all started. I write and write without a shame if anyone would love it or hate it or don’t care about it.

I just wanted to write and share. But I must say that when someone appreciate your works or criticize it, it inspires you to write more and be better than before.

I write random things. I write plain old experience and make it look like fiction. Or fiction and make it look like it’s a real thing. I confessed sins I wouldn’t admit to anyone. And I basically write what’s on my mind.

You see when I’m writing it’s like a drug. Something that heals me yet gets me too addicted that sometimes I feel like quitting. But it was the high I get always get back to. And also the low I get when it subsided. I don’t want to do it anymore and yet time and time I see myself, doing what I do best. Baring my soul and leaving trails of tears and blood I shed. For everyone to see.

Writing brings out the masochist in me I never knew existed.

And there were times when I want to ask a stranger reading my works did I somehow helped you in a way I couldn’t imagine? You see there’s a magic in it. You write solely for yourself but then unknowingly it touched someone’s heart that was an amazing feeling. Something priceless. Like something you can leave behind when you are gone.

Something immortal.

It was a pure bliss of having to do what you love the most. Until time comes and it was stolen for me.

Not who, but what.

And it was the scariest thing that happened to me. It was the day when I lost it all. The day has come when I couldn’t write anymore.

Words don’t come so easily like before, and I felt like I was drowning and the only thing that could save me was gone and left me all alone.

It was a battle I admit I lost and was too coward to face again.

Hence, after years of abandoning it, it was just recently I gather enough courage to try again. And I am glad I did.

It wasn’t first love. It was true love. And you know what they say about true love. You’ll come back no matter what it takes.

And that was writing for me.