Pakialamera as I am, I have observed that one of my friends who loves to write has not made an entry in her blog for quiet a while now. I asked her why is that so. She said that she is in her best writing element (only) when she is heartbroken. When she is dejected by a would-have-been, could-have-been love affair. I need not ask or add anymore to that. She is one happy jowa for years now. Sige, friend. Edi wow to you. 🙂
Another friend is on a writing spree when she has so much to say but can’t or don’t say it directly to the party/ies concerned. Writing, needless to say, is her best form of expression. As I would put it, some people speak better when they write.
That goes to me as well. So, guilty as charged.
As far as my dilemma is concerned, in writing, there is the opportunity to read back and put a great deal of thought on what I want to say before making it public. There’s no room for mispronunciation. Free from grammatical errors as much as possible – which many of my possible readers are very critical of. Or so I think. Or because that’s the kind of a critic I am, too, albeit uncertified. In writing, my train of thought is more organized, as again largely because of the fact that I can go back and read from start to finish, analyze and edit to no end until I deem it “Ay, ang Ganda nito” or “pwede na ‘to”. Yes, I do praise my own work of art. Wuw, art. To this day, the only note I wrote that I did not edit at all, spontaneous and heartfelt to the letter was Open The Floodgates Up. Written in the wee hours of the morning the day after my father passed away.
While I have a clear understanding of how and where two of my friends take out their inspiration to write, I, on the other hand, do not have a solid reason as to my how and where. Sometimes, I have ideas that I want to expound. Sometimes, books make a good starting point. Sometimes, I come across topics that I want to dig deeper. Sometimes, I chance upon conversations – some overheard, some I am directly a part of, some come from interviews of my people of interest, some suggested, some simply wala lang. In short, inspiration wise, I have nothing in particular. At least, none yet.
Just when I think that traveling to places I never thought I’d set foot at this time in my life would make a perfect inspiration for a wandering tale, I am proven wrong. Or when conquests that I thought would be too difficult to overcome are fought and won would make for an inspiring story to share, I am also proven wrong.
Amid all the perfect ingredients to write a good one, I have observed recently that I am having a difficult time getting to the end of my message without digressing too much, without injecting unecessary sentences, thereby hardly getting anything done. Hence, the countless number of notes in my drafts folder. Ang dami!!!!!! Nakaka bother sa dami. Ergo, this attempt.
Okay. I guess, one of the reasons that holds me back from spitting “it” out is my concern of being judged. Oh, little miss perfect, why don’t you just leave and let me be for good?
A favorite local filmmaker of mine who graced the Ted Talk stage said that the best time to write your heart out, no spelling, no punctuation or grammar factors to be conscious of is when your heart is overflowing, not with joy, but with sadness. Iyong parang gusto mong matulog forever sa sobrang sakit. “Saksak puso, tulo ang dugo” level. Kebs sa reaction ng makakabasa. Importante, nailabas mo ang mga hinanaing mo.
Because a broken heart, regardless of the assault, is a state that no one can judge anyone, a state that just needs to be felt and dealt with. Positively, I hope.
I am not in any way close to heartbroken as of this writing. I may have had my share of what-is-going-on and efff-you-people not too long ago, but not even those enabled me to write something to my satisfaction. Something that could make me smile amid kadramahan. That is great writing to me. That is how I know I wrote a good one. When it gives me genuine joy regardless of the circumstance.
So before I screw up and make this yet again another one of my unfinished litanies, I will stop.
My heart is full. I’m good.
Because for once, and finally in a very long time, I made sense.