In the middle of chit-chat last week, a client encouraged me to write a novel. I am flattered, but refuse. Before that, another potential client offered me $150 to ghost write a 20-page romance novel. Just the same, I refused. Anything more than 10 pages fries my neurons to the core.
“Don’t think you can’t,” he said. “Write for yourself, not for other people.” That may seem a commonplace advice, but the timing was impeccable.
And I am tired of that kind of thinking, of seeking validation in numbers, no matter how sporadically done.
I had to go back to that place nearly a decade ago and re-assess why I blog in the first place.
Way back in Friendster and Myspace era, I simply wrote. Sometimes incoherently, drunken on alcohol and teenage sorrow. It didn’t matter if anybody cared to look. I wrote and that’s all there is to it. I was happy.
Suddenly, we were bombarded with industry standards; with metric measurements that quadrupled faster than we can catch up. Of people making hundreds of thousands from ad boxes and bloggers gloating of 50,000 page views a day. And that’s when, rather ambitiously, I started caring about the figures, sometimes more than the reason why I actually set up the blog in the first place.
|A butterfly (technically, this moth) didn’t achieve its beauty without difficulties.
But when it did, it’s awesome!
(I do get invites for events and to sample dishes in restaurants, but even then, I select wisely. I don’t just jump on every offer, because that’s not my primary goal.)
I write because I need to. There’s that nagging need for me to write when I don’t, and I need a place for those thoughts so they don’t start taking over my day job. Before Filipina Explorer was born, I brought a journal and a pen with me wherever I went. That was a comfort blankie I kept since fifth grade. But now I have this.