Stories are what makes us human. They are the threads or pages of our cultures, traditions and legacies passed from generation to generation. And when combined, they create a a whole new book — or in my case, a whole new diary.
I was six, maybe seven, when I first started writing. I remember scribbling my classmates’ names in my pink Hello Kitty notebook, along with some doodles on the side, using the colorful glitter pens my father bought me. And with just that, my imagination sparked. These scenarios started playing inside my head, visions and thoughts that urged the little me to put those into words.
And those words then turned into stories.
My stories were short and my English was below average. I was a Filipino kid with very limited knowledge on spelling and tenses, but wanted to write in English. However at that age, those things didn’t matter to me. What mattered were the feelings that I had when I started scrawling my imaginations into paper, and when I began reading the first batch of my masterpieces.
I remember one story about a boy named Nikko, and a girl named Janelle. Both were my friends, and were also the very first characters of my literary piece. In the story, Janelle had a huge crush on a silent boy named Nikko, her seatmate. They never really got to talking until one day, Janelle forgot to bring her pencil. She was shy, and at that moment was terrified that the teacher would get mad at her for not bringing a pencil. She was on the verge of crying when Nikko tapped her shoulder lightly. Janelle turned to face him, tears welling up her eyes, and saw Nikko smiling shyly, a pencil on his hand, lending it to her. “You can have mine. I’ve got extra,” Nikko said. Janelle wiped the tear that fell on her right cheek and felt better. That was how their friendship started.
My stories were like that, just capturing brief moments of grade school. Those short stories I wrote filled me with eagerness and joy that I wanted to write more and more. But again, using my classmates as my characters.
Writing new stories and reading my works made me realize how much I wanted to become a person who can share her imaginations to lots of people. It was then that I realized how much I wanted to become a writer — a dream of a grade schooler was born.
Years passed, I heard about the difficulties of publishing your own work. I was clueless. Some said you’d have to be loaded to self-publish your work or hire a literary agent, you’d have to have connections and etc. Somehow, I got discouraged and tucked that dream of mine inside the tiny pocket of my heart. I moved on. Since then, I didn’t pay much attention to writing. I only wrote in bursts whenever I felt like it. Whenever I wrote stories, I never finished them. I would set them aside, hidden in folders and leave them unfinished.
Then one day, I just woke up to the feeling of wanting to write something. My fingers itched that the first thing I did was pick up my phone and typed a story on my Notes app. There, a whole chapter was made. I thought to myself, “It feels so good to write.”
Now here I am, at the starting point of my very own blogsite. I promised myself I would dedicate time to my writing, not only for other people but for myself. This blogsite will be my very own writing pad, my space — my diary.