Buried Stories

Back in grade school, I wanted to be a writer.

Graduation retreat 2005, our retreat facilitator asked us to draw a symbol of what we wanted to do in ten years. I distinctly remember drawing a quill and a bottle of ink on a quarter of a long bond paper.

I hid that paper until just before I entered my 3rd year in high school.

Up to that point, I believed that I really could write moving stories crafted with words so poignant it might melt my readers' hearts. I was wrong. You see, I know I could write. The thing is, I couldn't continue writing. I'd think of an idea, a topic, a story, and I'd actually start to write them down. I'd get short, powerful outbursts of inspiration that would get me writing for hours, even days... until I stop to rest. And when I rest, my writing halts. I would not know how to go on with the story or topic I was writing about anymore.

***

Fourth grade. I had dreamt of being a young poet-novelist. I had this idea of a writing style for my first novel: prose juxtaposed with poetry within the novel. A young man writing a never-ending song to the woman who holds his heart. Every events of their colorful love story would merit a part of the song that plays on the background inside the young man's head that only he could hear.

However, there were two major setbacks of making that happen then. First, I had no experience whatsoever in romantic love. What I knew about love back then were what I had seen in the movies, or had read in novels and fairytales. Second, I started writing it with the phrase "Once upon a time in a faraway land" which could be fine if  only it was meant to be a fairytale. But it isn't. So when I pitched it to my closest classmate at that time, she just laughed and said I was too corny to be writing.

So I stopped it.

Come the final years of grade school, I would be the feature writer of our school paper. The writer dream was still with me, albeit a different kind of writing. But whenever I write, my classmate's words -- "masyado kang korni" -- would play in my head the way the never-ending song was supposed to play in my protagonist's head.

***

Seventh grade. I enrolled in a special arts program at school focusing on Creative Writing. I thought being in a formal program on writing would help me with my "outbursts" problem, what with it being a regular after-acads class. And I thought it somehow did, honestly. When we were just starting, I could write a healthy mix of poems and short stories impromptu. Our CW teacher would task us to write five to ten poems, or a five-minute creative speech, or a complete short story just in a day and I would deliver. I felt like I could really go on being the writer I had wanted to be.

I was wrong.

Just about five months into the program, I felt writing's appeal slipping through me. I started to turn up to class fewer and fewer times, and opted to attend the other art classes (particularly theater) instead. To me, the other art classes were a welcome distraction, an exploration, even, of what I can do outside of writing. I could still write, but my writings were not as inspired as they used to be in the first five months. It went like that until I "explored" another field: Mathematics.

Unlike literature, which I have loved from when I was a little child, my relationship with Mathematics had always been a tumultuous one. I hated it, I loved it, I hated it, I loved it. The cycle went on and on and on like that at different times of my life.

It was during the dying days of eighth grade that I figured, I may have loved Mathematics more than writing. Just before I entered ninth grade, I threw away that little piece of paper with the drawing of a quill and a pen. I decided, I am not going to be a writer anymore.

So I stopped writing.

I still wrote in the form of news articles for the school paper. But, I definitely stopped writing.

***

Tenth grade. Blogs and Creative Corner stories (kids today would know these as Wattpad stories) were gaining attention among us girls at school. Once again, I took interest in writing a novel, like what I did back in fourth grade. But it wasn't the story on the never-ending song -- I did not know how to go on with that anymore. It was about a lost love that has come back to collect from his beau.

I did not start writing that novel right away. Rather, I "tested the waters" first. You see, that "masyado kang korni" still played in my head whenever I tried to write. So to test the waters, I started a little journal of anecdotes. It was an open journal for anyone in the class to read. My closest friends loved my writing style in that journal, and the others really took interest in it. That journal served as my morale booster. Soon after, I started to write the novel.

Every time I finish a chapter of that novel, I'd make my closest friends read it. Some would praise my writing style, some would check my grammar, and some would question the authenticity of the feelings evoked by my chapters. That was where I failed. My novel was not authentic enough to be a mirror of life. How could I even write a novel about love when the closest I had to a having a love life at that time was receiving an anonymous pwede-bang-manligaw note?

So I stopped writing.

In attempting to write that novel, I realized, I was not living fully during high school. I have never invested enough in my emotional bank to be able to create a piece that mirrors the intricacies of life.

***

2011. I started blogging across different platforms (Blogspot, Tumblr, WordPress). I thought I'd be better off writing anecdotes than writing a novel, and blogging was the most convenient way to write without a lot of people noticing.

So yes, I was writing again: anecdotes, short stories, essays, and even poor attempts at poetry. It went well over a year. Until I was struck with depression.

So I stopped writing. Again.

I lost the will to think of what to write. Those were the times I constantly did not want to get out of bed. I wasn't even taking care of myself, much less my interests. I dropped out of university. I went AWOL to all of my friends. I just lost interest in life.

Never have I told anyone about the complete story of that stage in my life. And until now, I'd rather have that time buried deep in my memories than open it up to anybody.

***

2014. I went back to schooling. I also went back to written journaling.

I made attempts here and there to revive my interest in writing. Made some "I am back!" posts on my blog. Written short pieces of poetry on my journal, on top of the usual anecdotes. But it was futile. I found writing more of a task than of a hobby.

So I stopped trying to write again.

***

2020. I can say that I'm probably more mentally stable now than the past few years. And though I teach Maths now, that love for writing I had is starting to grow once again. Within the years I had stopped writing there were a lot of experiences I gained, emotions I felt, friends that came and went, and ideas that passed by so swiftly I was not able to get hold of them longer. 

I could probably attempt to write once in a while now. Maybe not a novel anymore. It's a good thing we have become so mobile in anything that I can write with my phone whenever and wherever. As Bob Ong has once written, "kapag binisita ka ng idea, gana o inspirasyon, kailangan mong itigil LAHAT ng ginagawa mo para lang di masayang ang pagkakataon. Walang 'sandali lang' o 'teka muna'. Dahil pag lumagpas ang maikling panahong yon, kahit mag-umpog ka ng ulo sa pader mahihirapan ka nang maghabol. The instantaneous fulfillment of being able to write what's on my mind could bring balance to my already tiring world. The stories, the feelings, as much as possible, these should not remain buried deep in anyone's soul. They spice up our world, they help us as humans grow.

I'll try not to stop writing now.

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