Mighthier than the Sword

I recently listened to Katrina Legarda speak about grammar and punctuation and writing styles in class. It’s one topic I can thankfully relate to, unlike the trial techniques and arbitration proceedings and stuff in the past classes, things as alien to me as rocket science.

I know that some people are as averse to writing as I am to, say, math. I know that addition and multiplication and basic stuff like those are important, but algebra, geometry and trigo? I almost did not make it thru high school bcoz of these devils. My philosophy is, if X wants to know what Y equates, positive A can run along and help him. So there. I even wrote something about hating math. Too bad I didn’t keep a copy. It would’ve made for a nice blog.

I have always enjoyed writing. I remember in grade school and high school we’d be given like the whole of English or Filipino class to write a composition, and while most everyone would groan and whine I’d be humming. I’ve always looked at it as a form of expressing myself in a way that is concrete and lasting. I mean, you can tell a story and make people laugh or cry, but after that, you can relive it only in your memory. Yeah, you can always re-tell the story, but the second time may not quite convey the same emotions anymore, or maybe you said it all wrong the first time. But if it’s written, you can edit it, and keep going back to it whenever you feel like it, and it stays exactly the same unless you touch it.

I write essentially for myself alone. I don’t need to be published or read by other people. And when I manage to write something I am completely satisfied with, then it’s a different kind of high for me. It’s inexplicable. Of course, it doesn’t hurt when other people say nice things about your writings. It’s something more profound than, say, a compliment about how you look, bcoz there you have to think, is it really you or your outfit from Theme or Kamiseta or wherever. But when it’s your writing that people like, it’s as if they approve of you as a person, your way of looking at things, your sentiments.

Anything at all can inspire me to write. I can compose an entire story out of the title of a poem or a line in a song, or write on and on about something as silly as wildflowers or a toddler’s antics. When Malk and I are in the middle of a discussion and I’d suddenly get quiet, he’d say, “You’re blogging, aren’t you?” And I’d giggle bcoz it’s true, I’m forming an idea for a blog in my head. (This is what you need a good friend for. To find you doing something utterly selfish and completely useless – like shopping, too – and lets you do it, anyway.)

I would’ve taken Journalism in college if Uncle Ben didn’t dissuade me from it. He’s a prolific writer. He wrote for magazines and comics before his family migrated to the States, and even there he wrote all these poems that won awards and cash prizes. He would read Neruda on his vacations here. He advised me to take up a practical course so I could land a good job coz he said I could always write on the side, anyway. (Of course, I think what he had in mind was something other than what I do now, i.e., blogging during working hours.) He passed away a few years ago, but his legacy lives on, if only thru his runaway bestseller, the tragically lovely poem, If You’re Ever Going to Love Me.

To my sisters, Jewel and Malk and his friends and all my friends who read my blogs and who, even if they are too shy to post their comments on this site but text and email and say nice things about what I write, thanks. You inspire me to keep writing week after week. I’m not about to compel you to keep reading, but, hey, it wouldn’t really be my loss, would it :)