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.