I started writing at age 13. My interest in horror stories prompted me to attempt to churn out my own scary stories. I wrote them in these old notebooks and I sometimes included illustrations. We informally created a club of horror story writers and we got to share and exchange our works.
I eventually became a campus journalist and wrote for the school paper in high school and in the university. I interviewed people. Wrote articles which received yays and nays. Lost and won writing competitions. Had fan mails. Got ignored as a writer. Received awards. It was fun. I learned a lot. And I think I found my niche.
I thought writing would be my career but I was not led there. Still, I continued to write – for the community newspaper, the company newsletter, and every possible outlet I could get my hands on.
This year, I decided to take blogging seriously. Learning is a never-ending process so I enrolled in WordPress classes so I could improve my writing. It is such a challenge. There would be moments when you’re inspired and you would effortlessly type away. But there are more instances of the blank page staring back at you, the cursor blinking, waiting. But there’s nothing.
Why do I continue writing?
I write because I feel like I express myself better through written words. I want to be heard. That longing to make a connection with a reader. To inform, to inspire, to make an impact.
I write because I want to make sense of the world, its peculiarities, its beauty, its mystery. I want to highlight social issues. Rant about injustice, my frustrations.
I write because it’s already a part of who I am. And as I continue writing, I discover a facet of myself which I may have not known before.