Self-esteem

I’m Afraid She’s Rather Odd

There is a certain stigma that comes with being a bookworm. In fact, I’ve experienced being shunned because of it, up to the point that I was seriously contemplating on changing my whole personality. I wanted to let go of my favorite hobbies just to be accepted. Note that I was in my preteen years at the time, and with that age bracket comes the emerging desire to belong.

Unfortunately, for my preteen self at least, I cannot find it in me to give it up. It is probably my inert stubbornness that refuses to give up something that is not wrong in the first place. My interests do not harm other people. I contribute to society by not belonging to the constantly growing population of ignoramuses whose life motto is “YOLO”, a term I highly dislike because it is being used as a rationale for irresponsible life choices. Furthermore, reading broadens my horizons and has taught me to accept and respect different beliefs and opinions, something a lot of people astonishingly find difficult to do.

A decade later, I am still a bookworm. The flack I got for it stopped, eventually. Or maybe it didn’t, but I have since learned not to care. I am glad my preteen self decided not to give in to peer pressure. I decided to have other interests as well. Now, all my interests go hand in hand with each other.

My life may not be a montage of wild parties, outings and all the “fun” stuff, I may be considered plain and boring, I’ve been told countless of times that I read too much and that I don’t have a social life (some photos on my Instagram account beg to differ, au contraire), but I am happy.

I don’t have to sacrifice my happiness for superficial expectations.

 

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Writing

Relaunch

Today marks the end of my long(ish)-term hiatus from writing/blogging, after suffering from chronic writer’s block. As I am just trying to get back into shape, forgive me if my writing comes off as rusty and riddled with grammatical errors. I do try to proofread, but sometimes a nasty grammatical error still manages to sneak itself in, and when I realize it, it’s too late and I just inwardly gasp in horror. Then I try to reassure myself that these things happen even to the most prolific of writers.

Not that I am a writer. It is actually quite strange for me to acknowledge and say that. I have always identified myself as a writer ever since I wrote and illustrated a series of fairy tales when I was six (published by my own publishing house, Crown Tales, and printed in Manila, 1998. Yes, my ‘books’ had a proper copyright page and everything). Now, after coming back from a dry spell where I can’t seem to squeeze fresh ideas out of my cerebrum or, worse, find myself unable to perfectly weave the right words to what could have been a brilliant piece, I am not so sure I deserve the title anymore.

Perhaps I am just overthinking (as usual) things. I mean, it’s not like other writers haven’t experienced the same problem. I think it is actually a pretty common occurrence. It can also be because a part of me still wants to do this (writing) for a living but, knowing how hard it is to make it as a writer and how there are a shit ton of better writers out there, I try to distance myself from it so I don’t get too disappointed at my lack of belief in my abilities. Even if I know I am really just being honest. Despite my overactive imagination, I am pretty pragmatic when it comes to the future, especially my future.

So I guess I am just doing this for documentation purposes, venting, and as practice to steady the ebb and flow of my writing until it becomes something I will actually enjoy going back to without cringing.

I just hope I remember to update as much as possible, as my worst sin is I am rubbish at maintaining blogs. Trivia: I have around 70+. I’ve been blogging since 2001, if that helps. And don’t get me started on the scattered pieces of notebooks, diaries and scraps of paper lying around, containing at least a decade and a half’s worth of memories.

 

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