The writer in me was born I don’t know when. In as far as I can remember of my pre-school days I am drawn to a lot of drawings, sketches and crayolas. I am wholly aware of the basic colors the moment I started my nursery days, my mother said.
She added that I have the potential because I can write and draw with full control and knowledge about anything. She theorized that maybe it has something to do with the seminars and training she has attended while I am inside her cocoon. The absorption of information could have an indirect effect to my intelligence.
I have the slightest idea of whether this is valid. But so far, watching a lot of Nat Geo Channel, I think I partially approve to that sort. I’ve always learned that intelligence runs in the genes and passed on from the parent to its offspring. I am not that sure though.
Maybe my writing ability might have something to do with that. In most instances throughout grade school I have always been into arts. I am a poster kind of kid always involved with crayolas, oil pastels. Never into essays and poetry to which my writing could be improved if not recognized.
I remembered joining an essay writing contest when I was on my 5th grade. The theme is about nutrition and kids, sort of like that. And the mechanics was simple. Adhere to the theme and just fill out the whole page of a short bond paper. Gladly, comes the awarding, I won. I’ve never expected that.
From then on, I realized that I can write, that I can say something worthwhile not just through my drawings.
With my interests on, drawing and writing, I have learned to read more. Though nothing in particular, I am thankful that my mom’s a teacher. She’s a great help. She provided a lot of materials for reading like local magazines, a heavy-set of encyclopedia, set of different kinds of dictionaries and other story books from her classroom.
When it comes to general knowledge I have to give credit to my father because thanks to his subscription to a Daily. It is where my brain improved on getting bits of information and developed my memory due to the kind of news I would read everyday, time and date stamped.
I have had this liking to the comics page. Well reading comics is still reading but that’s not what interests me most. I always read first the trivia box. It is more like of Guinness World kind. Everyday different things are written and talk about.
Fast forward. I believed to have never set aside writing but my arts have been. I am no longer into sketching these days. Remembering when was the last time I drew something is zero.
I never stopped writing.
I would write letters then. I wrote letters to my mom and close friends mostly. I have been keeping a journal but my past journals have been turned to ashes. There are things that you just have to let it go, let it go.(I bet you sang it.)
I stopped writing letters but never stopped writing.
I am still keeping a more recent journal. Dates count back as of 2nd quarter last year. It was never really an everyday thing for me just the need to. Keeping my journal is my private writing away. I write there whatever, anything that triggers reality. It is my reality check.
Writing is my reality check. I write real. Real stories, my stories. Not that I don’t like fiction but it creates an anchor for me that somehow grounds me to my life-decisions, family, career, friends and adventures.
I wrote some letters to Mom using crayons, Crayola. Mom remembers how I would asked her to buy a new set of crayons whenever I would complain that one of my crayons got broken or was already short due to heavy strokes when coloring during my elementary art class.
I still have a box of oil pastels in my shelf. It’s not yet used. Together with my journal maybe I should start reliving my artistic self parallel to my writing chops.