I’m not much of a writer.
I actually prefer reading over writing. That way, I can indulge in the pleasure of immersing myself in a good book – blocking away the nuances of a demanding world – to escape into another literary dimension where anything is possible. Reading is one of my fabourite hobbies. It’s simple and straightforward. You can do it anywhere and, mostly, at any time. The best part? You don’t think as much as when you write.
For me, whenever I read, my mind goes on a personal self-reboot mode. All prejudice about reading materials, storylines, political ideals, and personal opinions go out the window — at least, temporarily. I let my mind adjust to the author’s writing. I try to give him or her a chance to entertain me and to present his or her points cohesively. If the book is good, then it wouldn’t take much for me to include it in my “favourites” list. IF it’s really good, I may end up fangirling over it and devote a lot of my time reblogging quotes off of the book. Like I said, earlier, I am quite content and easy to please. It wouldn’t matter if I disagree with that author’s points, or if I think that book is too disgusting for my liking. If it’s good literature, it’s good literature – even if that book is talking about shit (or literal shit).
Writing, on the other hand, is a problem for me.
I am not much of a writer. I try to avoid it as much as I could. As can be observed in this blog, I’ve written at most only 30 entries for a span of four years. There’s that love-hate relationship wherein I get struck by a good idea or a good enough motivation to write, but as soon as I try, the whole idea of writing a word or two strains me. I don’t know if that’s the case for other people, but that’s how it is for me. It’s not a physical strain, I believe it’s mostly psychological. I’ve conditioned myself to avoid writing as much as possible that the mere idea of it discourages me from picking up a pen or typing on a keyboard.
Recently, though, an interesting thing happened.
It wasn’t overly special. It was actually quite an ordinary incident.
Comfortable Confusion Productions has decided to wrap up its editing of its first short film, Mga Huna Huna ni Erlinda. The girls and I all decided that we should show the video to our lead actress before she leaves for China this month. It’s unfortunate she couldn’t watch the final exported output with the rest of the cast because she’s leaving soon, so we asked her to check out the video while it was still being edited.
While Jimma and Jennie entertained her with the video, I was trying to write a short write-up about Comfortable Confusion. It wasn’t very impressive. It was just long. So I asked Jennie to edit it, saying it’s too rough and she could cut/edit it the way she wants.
Jennie then remarked,
Why do you think your writing is bad? Why do you feel insecure about your writing skills? Your articles are good.
I just laughed it off and told her that I’m not much of a writer. But Jennie insists that I write well enough. So she asked me to write more for Comfortable Comfusion’s wordpress site.
And that’s when I started to write compulsively. There’s no specific drive. I just can’t stop writing. I started writing for the Comfortable Confusion blog, the Comfortable Confusion Facebook page, my assignments, and even started rewriting on my blog. There’s a compulsion and I don’t understand the trigger. It’s just there.
At this very moment, as I’m writing this, I’m thinking of other articles to write. I’m even considering writing everyday for this blog – just as soon as I figure out how to rename it (or if I should).
And just like that, I’m publishing this post…without any editing or rewrites or drafts. I’m writing this as it is.
I’m probably gonna regret this later. But, like in most things, I don’t really think about what I do – I just do – and as for what happens next…I’ll leave that up to my impulsive, hyperactive future self.
Love Me (draft) by effinfabulous on deviantART