“So much reading, working, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not enough.” -Sylvia Plath
Before I became a writer, I was a reader first.
And I did not stop there.
I started having a genuine interest in reading when I was just a young girl. My father used to read me bed-time stories while my mother made sure that I never run out of books and I think that are some of the reasons why I became a voracious reader myself. My parents’ vigorous effort to carry out their make-her-read-but-don’t-force-her plan helped me develop appreciation for simple to slightly complex literature as I grow older. As a child, my imagination was so vivid that I had quite a hard time distinguishing reality from fantasy but I didn’t view that as a bad thing because in reality, it made me curious in the physical and visible world around me. It made me see the world as a multifaceted realm, a world that’s not limited to the things we can only witness with our very eyes. And most importantly, it made me realize that things can exist without actually existing. Reading is such a beautiful thing and it brought me to places I have never been to and it continues to do so until this day and age.
Writing is as important to me as reading. In fact, it also ameliorated my life in so many ways I could imagine. The day I started dreaming, I knew I wanted to be a professional writer but life had other plans– I am now on the path of becoming a doctor. However, that fact did not change me. Articulating my thoughts in any manner possible is something I try to do everyday although not every thing I write makes sense or is very good. I write primarily because of three reasons: First, I write to immortalize the world I have seen and made for myself even though I won’t be there to see it when the time comes. My goal is to rescue some parts of the drowned and drowning… including myself. I have a penetrating need to save these things that have touched me and place them somewhere where I will have an easy access to when I need them. Next, I write because I want to know the inner workings of my mind and what I think of something; may it be about a place, event or just anything. This is also why I started blogging: to review the books I read and re-count my experiences or anything related to that matter. Lastly, I write to not be bored. I hate being bored and boring. Even though I am painfully boring at times, I didn’t mean to be that person. Writing is my means of killing time and making something out of it live. Death is blissful and comforting but I do not desire to cease to exist. I wish for my existence to mean something, and to last even when I am done being here.