The one Where I Start Picking up the Pace Again

Whatever that means. That’s just the first thing that came to mind when I thought what title this one’s going to have.

I haven’t written anything for a long, long, long time. Hell, I haven’t read anything for a long, long, long time.

I used to read and write a lot, back when Netflix wasn’t a thing and binging on TV shows wasn’t the acceptable norm. My glory days of being a school paper editor-in-chief are over. I don’t think my high school peers remember that anymore; I don’t even remember that anymore. It’s like lifetimes ago because I have evolved into so many different persons all throughout my life that different people from different phases of my life probably know a different version of me. And I have learned only recently that that’s okay. That just means we grow or mature or evolve. However you want to call it.

Exempli gratia: When I was in high school I was a grammar Nazi, nothing escapes my scrutiny. I was ruthless. We had this thick book of grammar rules in our English class and I would study over it during the class. Especially the parts that we couldn’t discuss in time. Too many pages, too little school time. But now that you fast forward to the adult version of me, I don’t edit people’s grammar anymore. Because when I started working for an Australian company, everything I’ve learned on that thick book of grammar rules just flew out of the window. Everything I’ve studied is American grammar. When you encounter Australian grammar after being Americanized for a long time, it feels as though a rug has been pulled out from under you and you realise that the grammar that you know is not the only grammar in the world. Some people actually call the trunk of the car as boot and pants actually mean underwear for others. That some people living far down below call McDonald’s as Maccas. When I learned all of that I felt so tiny and humbled and the world felt like it’s this huge, uncharted territory for me. The version of me now thinks that editing grammar is borderline racist. But that’s just me.

It’s nice getting started to write again. The muse hasn’t visited me for a long, long, long time. Why, what happened, you ask? Well, life. Life happened. Life happens to all of us, doesn’t it? Life gets in the way that’s why you don’t play your guitar anymore, or why your painting set is gathering dust near the TV or why this blog doesn’t get the merit that it deserves from its owner. Life always gets in the way because we all live on deadlines, and work, and commitments, and paying bills, and making sure everything is done so other people would have a perception of you as having it all together.

It feels nice to feel inspired to write again. I haven’t written anything in a while and I guess that’s why I’ve been feeling down, confused, and just living life on autopilot. I’ve read somewhere that even as a child, you already know what you want to be or do in this life. You were born knowing what your Personal Legend is (Okay, the Personal Legend thing I got that from the Alchemist *wink*).

I always tell everyone that ever since I was a child I wanted to be a doctor. Well, it’s true. But even before that, when I was in 1st Grade I wanted to dabble in books. I used to make magazines and books. Maybe that’s what I really wanted, to write. But I don’t say that to everyone because it’s not as impressive as saying you want to become a doctor. People would usually raise their eyebrows and ask “Really? What do you write?” and sometimes, when they’re relentless, they’ll ask “Can I read your work?” And that’s when I’ll clam up. In my mind I would say “Well, I have at least a dozen of unfinished manuscripts in my Mac and flash drive and a long, unfinished one, hand written on a yellow pad paper which I wrote right after graduating from high school (Because I really wanted to be someone after graduating from high school)” Because being a writer sort of needs some proof. I don’t know if I’m any good. But I love doing it. Isn’t that the point?

Another thing that sort of gets to me is that when you tell other people that you are a writer, or aspire to be one, they always give you that weird look like, “Really? For Real?” Like it’s not a real job or something. Or that writers are very boring, studious, serious people. We’re not. We’re just like everybody else. This is probably just our way of making ourselves heard, at least on my part it is.

2 thoughts on “The one Where I Start Picking up the Pace Again”

  1. What makes a good writer?

    Ha, grammar nazi, we all have Ms. Olande to thank for that! As I was reading this, my mind automatically played a reel, as if I was watching what I was reading. And I see you, in our all white uniform, scribbling something in your handbook, making sure you’ve noted it, before it flutters away- the idea, for your next editorial.

    Don’t stop writing. It’s who you are. I’ve always thought you were one of the greatest writers I’ve been blessed to know. Not that you need any or some sort of validation, but I still think that about you. Your voice is too strong, not to be heard. Your ideas, too beautifully put together, not to be written down. So what makes a good writer? I think, it’s her conscious decision to pen it all down, in a way, only she would know how.


    1. Thank you for the encouraging words. I don’t exactly know who you are but I’m guessing we went to the same high school since we had the same teacher in English. I think I have an idea who you are, though. 😉😘


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