Mahabang post 'to! Wala lang, this was the result of a big-time inferiority complex when I was completing my English project. i just really felt that my writing was horrible. After talking to a whole lot of people about it, I changed my mind and I was really inspired to write this down. Yes, I know it sucks, but I cannot be blamed for things I write in my moments of inspiration. Get used to it!
This is dedicated to all those who helped me grow as a writer: my family, friends, and schoolmates. Many thanks and lots of love especially to the following: Gushi, for being my best friend and standing by me always, Kate, my "wife", Usagi-chan, and writer companion who always gave me support in my writing, and Sir Joey, Kajoey-kun, my English 1 teacher who guided me through writing and through life, and still continues to.
Okay, on with the stupidity! ^^
~~ She Continued To Write ~~
There once was a girl who wanted to write. Ever since she was little, she wanted to write. She was young and hopeful, so when she decided she wanted to write, she did. She wrote everywhere; on yellow pads, tissue papers, and receipts. She wrote everything she felt and everything that entered her mind. Her parents cooed with pride over her whenever she showed her work, and they told all their friends that they had a brilliant budding writer for a daughter. And the girl was absolutely happy.She continued to write.
Her writer's spirit grew with her writing.
The girl grew older, and she went to kindergarten. She began writing more stories and poems, and her teachers were very proud of her. They put little stamps on her stories, tacked her poetry to the classroom wall, and hung blue ribbons on her work. Her classmates loved her, and she was treated like a princess when it came to writing. And the girl was very happy.
She continued to write.
She continued to open new doors in her soul as she wrote more and more.
The girl grew older, and she went to primary school. She wrote more and more. Her teachers were still very happy with her writing, but her classmates were not. They sometimes criticized her work, and made fun of her when she made mistakes. The girl was taken aback and rather confused with all of it, for it was the first time someone had not liked her writings. But her parents and teachers explained to her that she was still a good writer, and criticism was given to her in order to help her grow into a better writer. The girl took it all in, understood it, and accepted it. And the girl was quite happy.
She continued to write.
Her maturity as a person as a writer increased as well.
The girl grew older, and she went to elementary school. She wrote more and more and more, but this time, her teachers did not show such pride and joy in her works. There was a lot of competition, and there were many more experienced writers. Comments by her teachers became a common thing on her papers, always scrawled in bright red ink. For the girl, seeing that bright angry ink scrawled across her painstakingly written words was like having her own pen stabbed back at her. Also, this time, her classmates did not like her work at all. Their criticism was harsh and often. The girl struggled to believe that this was all to help her become a better writer, but it was difficult to do so. Sometimes, when the criticism was just too much for her to take, in the silence of her heart and of her room surrounded with her papers, she would weep bitterly for her wasted words, words that no one appreciated any longer. But she kept writing nonetheless. And the girl was fairly happy.
She continued to write.
But not really.
For the first time, the girl began to force herself to write the way she always had. For the first time, writing was not for her pleasure anymore. The girl saw the works of her peers, and she began to feel inferior to them. Their works were brilliant and unique, and the teachers adored them. But her own works were viewed as dull and typical, and the teachers ignored them. The girl now struggled to keep up, and made herself write. She tried to write on yellow pads, tissue papers, and receipts again, whenever she felt like it, but she threw these out in her anger at herself. And in her heart, the feelings of inferiority began to grow. After a while, she could not enjoy writing anymore. And the girl was no longer happy.
She continued to write.
Or tried to, anyway.
The girl grew older, and she went to high school. She fought to keep writing, but in her mind she felt that she was fighting a losing battle. She was surrounded by so many writers, writers who were good at their skill and were praised for it. Feelings of jealousy, competition, and even more inferiority tangled themselves in her heart like poison ivy, and her writing spirit was poisoned with it as well. She began to hate her own writing, and would crumple up her work in self-disgust. She fought to be just as good as her peers, but somehow she believed that she could never be. In vain, she thought, she read countless books and attended advanced creative writing classes. Her professor was great and her classmates very skilled. She would have found them an inspiration, but instead she felt low and stupid. She cringed whenever she was called to read out loud her work. She hid her feelings behind a facade of aloofness and loud humor. But she wept tears of frustration late at night, in the lamplight gloom where she sat with pen in hand and paper on desk. Her tears dotted her words and made them blurry and strange, much like the darkness that was slowly seeping through her. And the girl was very much not happy.
She continued to write.
But not for much longer.
After a while, the girl stopped writing altogether. She could no longer feel joy at the soft scratching sounds of pen against paper, at the ability to give thoughts and ideas and feelings form on a physical level. She felt lifeless without her writing, but she felt lonely with it. She was tired of trying to be the best, pushing against a wall that she felt she could never move. She no longer shed tears nor struggled. She had given up the fight. And the girl was clearly not happy.
She no longer continued to write.
Her soul felt cold with apathy and her heart froze with indifference.
The girl grew a few days older, but in her eyes life was long and dreary. There was no feeling in her life without her writing. But on one fateful day, a thought entered her mind, as all her other thoughts did. But this thought was different. It was a thought that needed to be written down. The girl felt a strange feeling coursing through her tired soul. It was a feeling she felt long ago, when she had still happily scrawled on yellow pads, tissue papers, and receipts. But her stubborn mind commanded her not to pick up her pen and get her thoughts down. She was afraid to be hurt by her own writing, like she had been so many times in her past life, a life where she wrote. To pick up her pen once more was to return to that life. She wanted to take the risk, but was afraid that she would fall. And the girl was not happy.
She no longer continued to write.
But feeling, thoughts, and doubts persisted.
The girl could not stop the feelings coursing through her being. She felt like she was being burned from the inside out, but the burning felt warm. It was like a welcoming flame melting the protective ice she built around what used to be her writer's spirit. And so, after days of battling within herself, the flame burned through the ice at last. She picked up her pen, touched it to paper, and wrote. Feelings of uncertainty and fear flooded through the cracks that the flame had burned, but strange joy came with it as well. And the girl was a bit happy.
She slowly but surely continued to write.
Time started to pass more quickly as her pen fluttered over the paper.
The girl was learning how to write all over again. She learned from her past, from her parents, friends and teachers who stayed with her all the way, from her life. Her fingers shook, her paper was rumpled from constant erasures, the ink spattered over the paper due to her shaky hands, and her handwriting was almost illegible. But she was learning. And the more she wrote, the more she learned. She realized that her fears and her comparisons to others had stilled her writing spirit, and her writing with it. She thought, if only she had overcome her fears earlier, perhaps she would not have been this lonely now. When she lost her love for writing, her ability to write had been lost as well. When her writing became forced, her writing was no longer what it was. It was harsh and strange, learning all these things once more. But the girl had been awoken from her slumber, and she resolutely scrawled her resurrected words onto the paper. And the girl was kind of happy.
She slowly but surely continued to write.
Her writing spirit returned, and so did her courage.
Finally, she dotted one last i and crossed one last t, and then she put down her pen. She had filled several pages with her words, and feelings of relaxation and satisfaction crossed her heart. She smiled at her words for the first time after many a full moon. Her fears were gone at last, and she could write with joy again. She wrote everywhere once more: on yellow pads, tissue papers, and receipts. She wrote down everything she felt and everything that entered her mind. But she always returned to the first story she wrote after her slumber. It was this story. As she reread her words, her writer's spirit seemed to soar, and all her past demons fell away, leaving only freedom. And the girl was finally happy.
She continued to write.
As I continue to, until now, and as I will forever.
~~ Eruanne
current mood: thoughtful, inspired
current music: I'll Remember by Madonna (don't ask me why... biglang the song just popped into my head)
