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{about}
I was seven years old when I
began doodling with my pen and pouring my thoughts into words. My tools of
trade: a recycled notebook and a pen running out of ink. This was the start of
my life as a writer.
A day would never pass by without an entry in my so-called diary using my
recycled notebook. My entries start with a date for the day and an ironic phrase
of "Dear Diary." With my scrawny handwriting and an erroneous grammar, I
recklessly pour my thoughts about how my day starts with school and how it ends
in a melodramatic way. Wherever I go I always clutch my diary in my hand and
whenever I feel like venting my thoughts I doodle with the use of my pen. I
began expressing myself through words.
Years passed and my writing skills enhanced more. Although I could say that I
still commit mistakes in writing, I feel proud whenever my teacher recognizes me
with my short stories and all those writing activities that we submit in our
English class. She encouraged me to write more. Again, I write with my pen and
this time, a clean sheet of paper with tons of thoughts in my head. I write like
there's no tomorrow, I imagine things that could go beyond my mind. In my table
there are piles of paper with my written works and ideas. But I never get to
share it with the others. I was too shy to let the others read my stories.
During those times the only person who gets to read my written works was my mom.
She is my favorite critic. She enjoys my writing. She even asked me to write a
poem for her. I decided to write her a poem on her birthday and she was really
touched when she finally read the poem. At that moment I knew what my intention
with my writings is.
I want to touch people's lives with my words. I want to share my stories, my
unforgettable experiences and my emotions with the others. I want to pour my
thoughts as long as there will be a clean sheet of paper and a pen to write on.
No matter how frustrated I can be, I want to write as long as I live.
This is my intention, this is my purpose in life.
"A Confession From a Frustrated Writer," February 2004.
© April 2004 by Vanya Robiso
respect, do not steal