So many things are going on with my life right now (e.g. death of Papa and lola, post-grad insecurities, blackheads and dirty pores) that whenever I feel the urge to write, it just does not happen. One of my favourite Filipino writers has an advice for it: “pukpok ka lang nang pukpok.”If you are the type who can come up with haikus about pimples or love on bus in just a minute or two, lucky you. I can’t. I haven’t had creative outputs in bazillion years. It was one sky-lit evening (amidst our neighbours’ videoke reverberations) when I decided I cannot be a writer (or a singer for that matter). The reasons being:
1) I never finish anything. Like a lass to her lover, I always leave things HANGING.
2) I (think) am very sensitive to criticism. Proof: Sleep becomes elusive when I post a stat and no one “likes” it.
3) I am stupid. You know those 100-things-to-read-before-you-die kind of thing? I don’t think I’ll even get halfway through it even in my next life (Refer to Reason 1).
4) I cannot commit. Not to a relationship, not to a tattoo, not to a lover. Much more to a finished book.
And so I cannot be a writer. My career options, then, take me to being a 1) pole dancer, 2) a starved volunteer to an NGO, 3) (in the words of Cristine Reyes in No Other Woman) a boring housewife, 4) a slave to the corporate world, or 5) an owner of a small thrift shop with candy canes and lanterns and Christmas lights even when it’s not Christmas. So, while I dream of my Pulitzer (or Palanca) that never will be), let me write something just for the hella sake of it.