Over a week ago, I started an ambitious project – a fictionalized memoir about a long-lost friend. Prompted by an incident that reminded me of my erstwhile bosom body, I scrolled through my writings to gather material. Pretty confident of my ability to tell a story, I launched into writing it.
Two days later, I had stitched together freshly-written chapters and old journal entries into what I thought was a coherent narrative that though far from finished, sketched the storyline and dynamic between the two main characters.
My boyfriend, whose curiosity might have been piqued by some of the details divulged, impressed upon me that I have a story that needed to be “put out there”.
Not fully trusting my boyfriend’s judgement – he was, after all, my life-partner who knows the intricate specifics and wild experiences of my life, and who has always encouraged me to translate them into creative pursuits – I asked a friend look into my draft. This friend was not just another close associate who knew me well; he was a writer and editor, someone I expected would provide a frank appraisal of my work.
And boy, did I get what I needed to know. No, the writer-friend did not issue harsh criticisms, though he did promise to be cold. But he managed to tell me in so many words, that I was a lousy writer. Of course, I am putting words into his mouth.
He never got around to commenting further than the first page of my 13,000-word-manuscript because I suspect, he became as nauseous as I was when I began editing my work. I kid you not. After reading through my writing, I got the urge to belch out the beef steak I had for lunch.But, since I did not want to empty my stomach and starve my creative impulse, I settled on the conclusion na marami pa akong kakaining bigas.
Scrutinizing what I had written with a detached, critical eye, I not only noticed grammatical errors and inappropriate word usage, but also long-winded sentences that sounded flat and uninteresting. Plus, because I included previous essays, the manuscript reeked of self-indulgence – revealing to me, more than anything, that my attempt at writing a book was a plea for validation as a writer, if not as a person.
Yet, far from dampening my spirit, these realizations now push me to do better, to study the techniques, and to practice by writing and writing – as if my life depends on it.
To override my inner critic that stomps out my urge to write and weakens my resolve to improve my craft, I started the recommended Morning Pages by Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. Referred to as stream-of-consciousness writing, I allowed my hand to glide through the pages of my journal, scribbling away anxious feelings and defeatist thoughts, replacing them with affirmative phrases that egg me on to continue writing. Each morning, I would open my journal and just write, proceeding in the prescribed non-judgmental manner.
Needless to say, I do not plan to go on writing this way, no matter that it is a helpful practice towards unleashing the artist within. Rather, I intend to create thought-out pieces and captivating stories that are edited neatly and flowing smoothly. To be honest, I’m uncertain whether I will eventually succeed, but it will not be for a lack of trying.
But then, to write, one must also read. So, the other day, I took out books from the office library, committed to reviving my love of reading and learning writing styles in the process. I have also been visiting blog sites, fascinated by the way established writers drive home a point, or weave words together into compelling anecdotes and thoughtful essays.
At 50 years old, you could say I am re-inventing myself as a student of writing, and well, of life. Having had so many stops and starts to developing this craft, I hope this time, I would be more conscientious in “putting out there” written pieces that entertain, inform, and perhaps inspire.
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when the kettle hums 