I looked at my grandfather, dressed in his white polo and black slacks, a look I knew he carefully picked for this special event in the life of his apo, and I couldn’t help but wish my dad were there, in my grandfather’s place.
Excuse me for the vanity but I’m just proud that Sir Martin, a Palanca awardee, thought this line was “(ma)ganda.” I know I’ve been writing crappy pieces lately so I always find it very fulfilling when I am able to write down the words that sound nice and feel nice, expressing the things I’ve been keeping in my head for a while.
On another note, this issue on Writer-Audience always gets me. On one hand, I would love for people to actually read what I write for what use is my writing–printing it on paper–and not have anyone to read it? That’s just sad, right? But that’s the problem.
I kind of don’t want other people to read what I write.
I would always be afraid of what they’ll think of me after reading them. Do they think I’m pathetic for writing about these things that don’t really make sense? Would they think I’m a pretentious writer, that I should just scrap everything and just focus on programming?
But I can’t give up my pen and paper. Like what I wrote in my poetics, this is how I understand things. It’s how I make sense of everything that’s happening to me. If I didn’t write, I probably would’ve gone insane. Writing saved me when I needed to be saved.
Writing requires a sense of vulnerability and, I guess, I’m starting to allow myself to be vulnerable. After all, it is in being vulnerable, after being broken that we become whole, right?