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The first time I tried my hand at fiction, it was a (semi-) disaster. In third year high school, I started writing while suffering from that affliction called love (or what seemed like it). I had a tremendous crush on this girl, and I wanted to write a tale about unrequited love.
What turned out instead was this four-part miniseries, wherein my character attempts brutal murder on my crush's character. (The best part is, in one scene I described her room in detail as I imagined it— and it turns out that my description fit pretty well with reality.)
Scary, but true.
Not that I was (or am) deranged. The whole plot line turned dark and sour early on when I learned how unrequited unrequited really was— she had a boyfriend at the time that I didn't know of, until later.
(Yes folks, I started writing because I was a love
sick boy.)
That pretty much scared off my crush (who also happened to be part of the same barkada, or clique, that I was in). And I stayed off writing with characters based on people I know (or at least tried to). I did try my hand in writing a novel, and found out how really bad my writing was (and my friends were too nice to criticize it. Hah.)
So, most of the writing I did in high school from then on was for the school paper, the Counterpoint. I became news & sports editor, and basically harassed my staff. (If any of you happen to have been my staff, yes, I admit I harassed you. :P)
College came, I went, and then...
During the second semester of my sophomore year, our English teacher asked us to write semi-fictionalized accounts of the scariest moment in our lives, bylining our stories with a pseudonym. We were to make copies for each member of the class, for the benefit of discussion and criticism. I took up pen and paper and decided to write about how I got lost in a cemetery when I was six.
I was cynical about the praise I got (after all, everyone in class had already formed a suspicion as to which story was mine— and most of their suspicions were correct, and I did nothing to confirm nor deny their guesses), but it did stroke my ego. What more, our English teacher, Ms. Uychoko, asked me if I wanted to participate in a writing workshop.
Me? Writing workshop? Unbelievable.
The workshop was fun. I got to meet other bullshit
artists aspiring writers, and generally learned a lot about
writing. As an added bonus, I got to meet writer and columnist Butch
Dalisay.
So, what I intended to explain in my twelve or so paragraphs of rambling exposition was that I do love writing, even though I'm cynical about my skill as a writer. And that I'm an uninspired hack who wrote all of my stories while under the influence of large doses of caffeine and/or sugar (which, by the way, also increases my code output).
I hope you do enjoy my trivial exercises in writing. Barf bags are available at the door for your use.
So, the big question on almost everybody's mind is: why do I write?
Actually, I have no clue. I usually get really strange ideas in my head, situations and plot ideas, that I jot down from time to time. back to top