My Path to Blogosphere
I haven’t considered myself much of a writer, but within the past five years, I find myself dreaming of and thinking about writing freely. It first came to me as a recurring urge that I simply must submit myself into. Occasionally, I would grab my trusted pen and paper (or my laptop), whichever is nearest, and would start the process of writing down my thoughts–a process of introspection, an articulation of my reactions and interactions with the world I am in.
Having done much of that in the past, I just stopped. I stopped writing freely and was consumed by school. Though I did write at that time, my writings ranged from literature analyses to research papers, and well anything else that’s required by professors as indicated by the class syllabus. I haven’t done much of the writing that I am in need of. What is this that I speak of? It’s that kind of writing that allows me to express my connections with this world–my opinion on certain issues, the emotions I felt on a specific instance or two, a thought that crossed my mind and altered my behavior the next day, and so forth.
A month ago, I read Sylvia Plath’s biography and was really inspired by her love–her zest, her passion– for writing. She lived and breathed in writing, and her work was a reflection of her thoughts, desires, and experiences, all interwoven into works that we all consider to be both touching and heartbreaking. Yes, she was troubled, but she was a genius and a womn beyond her time. Reading her bio made me realize more of how I miss writing freely, creatively, and personally…and so, my longing intensified.
Finally, yesterday, as I was finishing up Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, I had an epiphany. In one of the chapters, though it was a main theme throughout his work, he specifically wrote that there are two kinds of writers: those who write for their loved ones and those who write for an anonymous audience. Then, he spoke of the fear of being forgotten, of being a lost fragment in individual and collective memory, as one of the many reasons why some write–because in words do some people seek immortality. Of course, interpreting it as such was my own, and Kundera could very well be speaking of something more or less profund, but what is important is that there is truth in what he said, that indeed some people do write to immortalize themselves. Somehow, in all of these, I find myself to be in between and more. I write not only for those whom I love and for the anonymous audience that I may or may not have, I write to express, to address, to de-stress, to digest, to invest, and the list goes on. So now, as a (re)solution, this urge led me here and enticed me to start a blog.
I resolve to writing ultimately for myself, to keep my sanity intact and sometimes just to let loose and to let my imagination roam and for it to be lost and then found. I wrote, I write, and I will write freely today and onwards.