People close to me could attest how I’m not so big on birthdays. My birthdays, at least. Rather than hold huge parties and get insanely drunk that I piss on my own vomit (eeew), I’d rather take a hike somewhere, check in a modest room fronting the beach, or eat out with my family.
Yet every year since 2010, I mark my calendar and celebrate the date I started blogging with giveaways for readers like it’s my darn birthday.
|Three template makeovers, four self-crafted blog headers, four years of blogging. I can be fickle, no?|
I have friends who used to be writers. I am talking poets – brilliant ones – who I cannot even half measure up to in terms of dynamics and literary know-how. Many of them put the pen down for good to become accountants, doctors, advertising agents, and other full-time occupations that are not remotely similar to writing.
Writing is inconvenient. No time for that, they say. Any writer would certainly understand. A writer doesn’t and mustn’t stop at decent sentences. You read. You attend workshops. You exercise those brain muscles. Daily. You ALWAYS carry a pen and a journal (or a digital memo pad). You keep knocking for opportunities in publications and elsewhere and be rewarded with rejection again and again. You rise from bed groggy at friggin’ 2 am to write when the desire strikes.
And I tell you, that desire is a persistent bitch. When it comes, you NEED to stop whatever you’re doing for losing that train of thought is like losing your child in Walmart. The exact feeling and thought will not come at a more opportune time and replicate itself. Summon Sylvia Plath. She knows what I’m talking about.
I too, walked away from many dreams: from my parents’ dream of me becoming a doctor, from a 20-something dream of earning two million pesos yearly by servicing North American patients in a nursing home, from working in a corporate office where I can wear impressive smart casuals every day, earn pocket-bloating promotions and have more money to fund my travels and a seafront dwelling.
I chose to write, however small the remuneration is.
And I have never been happier.
I do suffer splitting headaches that coincide with the days the mortgage, NAWASA, and Meralco notifications arrive, but I am happy with what I do. Not too many people are as lucky to have the freedom to take that kind of direction in life. Some become Miley Cyrus. Or The Jonas Brothers. Honestly, I cannot say which is more tragic.
February 7 is a celebration of that one afternoon I decided to transfer all my musings from MySpace and Friendster’s generic blog pages to a custom Blogspot page (and now my own domain), which like a book, I can assign my own title to, see my byline on and share my stories in, no matter how trivial.
But more than that, it is a celebration of the writing dream, of artistic exercise, of freedom, oflife and comfort in words. Because whatever name they call it or for whatever reason modern bloggers do it, at the end of the day, blogging is writing. No two writers are the same, just as no two blogs are twins. It is the writer’s voice, her tales that keep a blog alive and separates her from a sea of mediocre ones. I am fortunate to be able to continue sharing that voice, those tales of traveling, good food, mothering, and of writing itself year after year after year, here in my digital abode despite my day job and wifely and motherly duties.
To not be compelled to walk away and put the pen down for good. Blogging is an extension of that dream. It breathes life into words and keeps the writing dream afloat.