I could still remember it as if it happened just yesterday. Our 2nd grade teacher in English asked us to write a poem and to make an illustration that matches it. I remember that, at the tender age of six, I had written about the sunset. I remember putting words in to make the poem a rhyming one, because at that age, I was still under the impression that a poem is not a poem if the lines don't rhyme. It wasn't a spectacular poem, but I remember that the teacher chose to put it on the bulletin board, and my heart swelled with pride to see something of mine-- my brainchild-- in that board at the back of the classroom. My classmates crowded around my work, complimenting me without really understanding the effect their words had on my psyche.
I didn't know it then, but from that day on, I had loved writing with all my heart. For wasn't writing easy? All I really had to do was look into my heart and words would start pouring out on paper. Sometimes, I didn't have to do any thinking at all. Writing was easy; it was like breathing for me. As I grew up, though, I've learned to hide behind my insecurities, thinking my works weren't good enough. I have read books and stories and poems, and I know that what my pen writes on paper are no match. They are but lousy attempts to write from someone who doesn't really know how to convey her thoughts in words that are as beautiful, as coherent, as fluidly written as the ones in books.
Protective and secretive. That was how I was about my works. I sometimes would write something and feel proud that I've accomplished something, but then I'd read it a few minutes later and think that what I wrote was crap.
But there will always be individuals out there who are better at writing than I am. There will always be people who might not understand my stories, might not get the meaning behind my poems, might not be touched by my songs. But this is what I do. I write. Sure it's not Shakespeare, or Wordsworth, but it's me.
So here I am. Here are the pieces I hold dear, simply because I know nobody else could have created them other than me. They may not be as beautiful or as great as I'd like, but heck, they're mine. For one person to be touched by what I write is enough reward.
2 comments:
oh crap I typed a really long reply and hit the wrong button and it got erased.
I'll try to reconstruct it:
Something about...
Every writer feels like his first or second or third (or so on) draft is crap at some point,(that's what editors are for! :D) but without those drafts, there wouldn't be masterpieces. Even Leonardo Da Vinci had lots of sketches done before he painted the Mona Lisa, and even then, there are still people that think the Mona Lisa is just an old painting of a chubby woman with a weird non-smile. But the point is that Leonardo (presumably) liked working on it; he was happy working on it. If just one person likes it, it was worth making, even if a million others don't care for it.
And the beauty of our writing club is, we all have our own strengths and weaknesses and we can see each other transform and evolve as writers! that's really cool! :)
and I wanna share with you guys the sentiment behind the name of my blog, throwingtheball: it's like our writing is a ball of self-expression. It doesn't matter if anyone catches the ball or not, or if someone liked catching the ball or hated that he got hit with it; what matters is that we threw the ball. We can even throw the ball upwards and catch it ourselves. What matters is that we expressed our inner creative selves and we are all the better for it :)
here's to us writing! :) looking forward to more reading and writing! :D
i really like that statement about throwing the ball. :) i remember that back when i was younger, i didn't want anyone reading my works. but then i read something about how an individual's talent or skill would be wasted if he were not to share it with others. so i started to share some of my works, even if i was still so insecure about them.
but i'll keep writing! :) it's always best to keep nourishing one's creative side.
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