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Getting Back On Track

On last week’s blog post, I wanted to express my genuine concern on the problem of diversity in media and the limited inclusion of AAPI representation. I also wanted to tell you all how I plan to help with it beyond reposting Angry Asian Man’s articles on my social media accounts. But somewhere at the end, I got strapped for time. I was already late meeting up with a friend and ended up rushing the post. Consequently losing control of my thoughts, and instead, writing about what my addled brain wanted to do.

The problem with me is I have too many things in my mind. Nevermind the everyday living problems I have to face with like paying-job-related problems, and financial stability or the lack thereof. I have seven or eight … ten … 100 ideas in my mind fighting for the exit of a burning room. Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story.” Boy, does she know what she’s talking about or what?
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I started writing when I was twelve years old. Poetry at first and a few months later, before I turned 13, I’ve moved on to short stories and tween fiction. (I know I’ve told you all this before, but let’s follow the train tracks for the moment). I never thought about it before, but I realized that the primary reason I started writing was that I wanted to see myself in a disparate situation — that is — winning and being happy for a change. Let’s be honest — I’m creepy, annoying, exasperating, and sometimes, rather aggravating. Why do you think I relate to Harley Quinn so much? Nope, not because she’s so desperately in love with her Joker, and so am I. It’s because, like her, I can be quite vexing. Because I was vexing, I became a target for bullying. Although it happened to everyone, and I probably unintentionally emotionally bullied someone along the way, for a teenaged-me, it was discouraging. Then there was the never ending family drama I had to deal with as I grew up (Paranoid Schizophrenic parent, bi-polar alcoholic siblings, absent fathers). Add to that the painful loneliness of never being romantically involved (and this was a big deal for teenaged-me). All of this, I believe, drove me to write — with me as the heroine of my stories, fought over by rock stars and popular jocks.

Borrowed from

Four years in high school, I continued writing. And I wrote every day. I filled up piles of notebooks and pads of papers and reams of letter papers. Even in class, I would sit at the far back, writing a novel on a notebook by hand. I eventually stopped caring about my classmate’s opinions. I didn’t care if they hated or loved me. I eventually became deaf from all their negative insinuation. I didn’t even care when they didn’t believe I was hanging out with the Philippines’ number one rock band. Only when that rock band’s guitarist took me home and hit my schoolmate's car did they start believing me. I was smug and vindicated, sure, but it was nothing compared to the high I felt finishing a story. My confidence grew as I gave zero f@cks to my immediate environment and 100% concentration on my characters.

After high school, I majored in writing. I was forced to write almost every day for workshops and course requisites. I was happy and popular on campus. I was no longer bullied. Neither was I alone. People paid attention to what I said. Boys showered me with affection. Some girls did too, although it went over my head (I wasn’t aware of my bisexuality I was just pretty dense at that time). As I continued writing, I improved with my story telling. Sure, my grammar and my spelling were still atrocious, and since we didn’t have Grammarly back then, teachers were always yelling at me about my editing skills. Not to mention always submitting a paper an hour beyond the deadline. However, this was the era I got published, and that era when I won class awards for my stories. I was at my most beautiful. I had actually become the heroine of my stories, love triangles and all.

Now, I’m way past the calendar age. I haven’t completed anything but rough drafts and half-baked stories. I’m alone and wallowing in self-pity (because I’m an asshole*). And even my blogs have no direction or continuity. Because I haven’t poured out the words, so my brain’s brimming and the contents overflowing to each other’s compartments. I should always remind myself — write for the relief and the release, if not for making myself a better person.

766 in 1 hour while strictly following an outline.
Not bad when I commit. Now I should commit to
running my errands. Peace out!


* Reference NORWEGIAN WOOD by Haruki Murakami-sensei

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