I don’t really reflect on myself as a writer. I don’t know if I’m denying it, or I’m just being humble, or perhaps I’m just afraid to be criticized if I would assume I am. All I know is, I love to read and I love to write, and I don’t need a label for that.
I used to write on our school papers during my high school times, in both languages: Filipino and English. I even contributed couple of poetries for our literary folio, some are even written on my native tongue Pampango. Sometimes I really need to be inspired to write, sometimes not at all. Rain and thunder can inspire me. Colors inspire me. New pen inspires me. If I am perhaps a real writer I never had an excuse, not of course when I am attack by procrastination.
Like any other who writes, I read everything. But I don’t really flatter myself seriously critiquing other people’s writings. I just feel bad whenever I catch myself doing that. I try not to nitpick others work because as we all know, no two minds think exactly alike and what piece of writing means something to one person may mean something totally different to someone else. It’s true, relativity that is. It’s one of the things that distinguished writing under art. Unlike math which is my cruel enemy. There is no formula in writing, there’s no wrong and right answer.
I am actually posting some of my old writings if you must notice, mostly poetries. I want you to glimpse me with them. They were old, dusty and unpolished. They reflect naivety, innocence, optimism and idealism. They were antique, ergo they possess an authentic graceful and aesthetic within.
