Prompt of the day: How is your writing voice like you? How does your writing voice differ from you?
To all aspiring writers: This is never intended to discourage you, but if you write on a regular basis – for various clients and for different audiences, you’ll soon realize that becoming a writer is probably the last thing you want to be.
This is a little late, as I just found out about this challenge. It’s a 30-day blogging challenge, which was supposed to jumpstart a new resolution for readers of A New Kind of Normal. I think this challenge is workable any time of the year – any time when you’re determined to change. As in my case, I have a terribly itchy hand that can’t help but write (and type) everyday. I think writing is the best form of expression without a sound coming out of your mouth. No matter how busy I am right now in school, I still prioritize my writing somehow. Writing is my second nature. All writers can relate to this.
Aside from my personal goal to visit the gym 15 times this month, I’ll start this blogging challenge as of tomorrow. Here are the topics for the following 30 days:
Honestly, I’m very intimidated by some of these questions. But I’ll challenge myself to tackle those thoughts anyway. I guess when you ask yourself questions that you’ve been avoiding for years, you’re nurturing your psyche into a more well-rounded person, a more polished character. And through writing, more often than not, you start to discover your soul inside, how it’s really like. It’s pretty much like all the writers said out there – writing is a journey of self-discovery. In my case though, I’m just a big believer of the idiom, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Hello. I’m exhausted. I’m meeting my boyfriend and his potential client today, which happens to be my boss. I just completed my last-minute editing of the copywriting I’m supposed to do over the past two weeks. It still and will always be difficult for me to write technical writing pieces, where you can’t just go with the flow in your own words. Well, at first, I just do it out of the first words that come to my head. And then I just keep editing it, and editing it, and editing it until I feel fine with it (and hopefully my boss thinks it’s fine too).
Summary of workout today: I did quite a simple workout today. I needed to save some energy for my brainpower this evening (and I workout in the afternoon).
So I did a couple of different arm movements at 6-kg free weights for some reps, but then finish off my arm workouts with just 2-kg weights, only double the reps.
Then on with 20-minute elliptical workout with a warmup of level 5 resistance for 5 minutes. Then go up to 9, then back to 5, then to 10, then to 6, then to 12, and back down to 8, and to 13, and back down to 8, and then finally to 15, and back down at 10, and cooled off with 7.
Then I did a 30-minute treadmill workout that’s actually pretty easy. Today my housemaids served lunch real late, so I’ve still got stuff in my stomach when I workout. Trust me, it feels awful. I felt like puking the whole time.
I managed to run at 1.0 incline the whole time. At first I went up to 5.5 speed, and then 6.6, and back down to 5.6, and up to 6.7, and then go back down to 5.8, and go up to 7.1. And then I fast-walked at incline 13, and then I start to come down at incline 1 again and run a 6.6 speed. Then I sprint for a minute at 7.5 speed, and cooled down again. Then I sprint again for a minute at 8.2, and cooled down again. I raised the incline up to the maximum of 15 while fast-walking, and slowly cool down while lowering the incline by half at each 2-minute interval. And that’s it.
Today, I’ve seriously, seriously made my decision to never accept any assignment that involves with art ever again. I love art by itself, but if it’s for others, it’s not something I want to do. I already perceived work itself as a pressure. For me, writing comes naturally. But making art is too much of a hassle for me, and it’s not enjoyable. You essentially sit down for hours at a time, whereas for writing, I can write for 30 minutes at a time and do some 2 to 10-minute workouts at each breaks. I actually don’t mind achieving a saggy butt for writing’s sake, but not for making art.
That’s how stubborn I am, I guess?
No matter how much someone would pay me, I think I will not enjoy the assignment at all.
Maybe that’s what they call that passion to do what you love.
…because knowing the end is the surefire way to move forward right.
I AM reading right now. As a matter of fact, I am also writing.
Writing is thinking. Writing is rewriting. I accredit that thought to its pioneers - Ernest Hemingway, Paul Abbott, and William Goldman. In the history of the world there is not a single published writer who leaves their work unedited. Yet I am here scribbling a train of thought, for just one post at a time, to conserve this quiet space in this Internet for some written words that are not meant for me (and neither for you) to be looked backwards but as a means to keep looking forward, just because.
As that to how and why and of what I write, just because.
I have a focus beyond the self. I feel unease, lest that to a dis-ease, to have a focus on myself, unless it’s about what I can do better for the welfare of everyone. Every selves. Every lives. My pen is a torch. Its fire fuels passion; my soul malleable as water.
And that this blank canvas, virtually, is what reality calls life.
The English language has ingrained me and my childhood with dozens of vocabulary. Colors of the rainbow splashes in and out of my heart with love. Droplets of the drizzle dips my heart in sorrows. I feel fictitious characters more real than the real world I live in, and still am living in.
So, I consult with nonfiction, and reality bites.
HERE I am not afraid of speaking my mind; although courage is not the absence of fear, we must try, keep trying we must, and keep on trying until we live up most to what we believe we can achieve.
My purpose is to write. This is my calling. I know, because I am willing to give up my life for the love of what it has given to me.
I’ve lived more than half my life absorbing the written word, as voracious as a glutton, as persistent to meet the end of stories as an ultramarathoner, and speaking intrapersonally in so many different languages beyond the English language.
It has only been 21 years, but it’s time to return my rewarding experience on this blank canvas, travelling across nations with my loved ones, my adventures with some of the strongest characters I’ve enlivened from the imaginations of my inner child, venturing from one book to another, an article by the next, from paper to pad, from one land to the next, and keep on learning from those little instances I take jumping across hundreds of pages, pages, pages forward, to trust myself and go on.
Some words unspoken must be spoken. I’ve escaped faraway from the previously rich, social life I’ve blankly, carelessly lived, and materialistic status I earned indeed, as defined by the symmetrical proportion of my visible atomic particles and molecules and how Mother Nature works accordingly to how my soul has nurtured itself through self-discipline – every step forward I take, as I run, I surrender to Free Will, and in return, I am rewarded for trying to respond beyond the self in spite of negative feedback for the things I be-have, I un-do and correct, that I be-live.
Self-ish I sound, I have found carrying a Hermes bag without a priceless soul quite meaningless, and self-less I think it is. I learned that a tofu is never the same from one instance to another, with and without adornments, adornments of luxury and adornments of necessity. On the one hand an invisible particle is not the absence of a personality, just as of courage there is not the absence of fear, as I feel fortunate my heritage is that of a great potential for human growth shown by the relatively peaceful state compared to some of the first-world nations despite fiery riots springing from interfaith discrimination. It still amazes me that different shades of colors can paint a rainbow of culture instead of destroying a canvas, and this I stress as one of the many things I can, with my pen, move to and move for.
I NOW read everyday. Through it my journal becomes an embodiment of individualism, despite withholding personal values I’ve inherited on collectivism (We enjoy good food). I eat alone, in solitude, and have found luxury in it, even when I grew up eating together with my friends, or family that which is broken in the mask of capitalistic visibility, to which I as its youngest member and only lady can still perceive an invisible optimism that I’ve collectively learned through a series of written words. Reading, reading, and keep on reading with hope in mind to fully understand thoughts, things. Naive, yet I’m happy to say that science can prove that fact.
Reduce the materials and now I’ve seen enough reality. The less matter we carry, the more invisible, intangible value we create, and can create. And words are valuable. Put them together right and the body of work becomes more valuable than the pen, than myself.
I hide myself in mountains and valleys of hardcovers, and yet, as I believe every well-informed, well-rounded woman can understand this – that the irony of being our best selves, taking advantage of our human capacity, driving it by right and by will, still merely emanate a beauty that does not transcend beyond the appearance – and in result of this nature history has founded a society in which we try to appear the ideal rather than do the appeal per se. A naive woman is surely subjected to harm. This is an education.
Speaking of feminine souls, we’re still seen more as objects than we are appreciated as an invisible light, quietly moving and touching the lives in the dark. Why, this culture of fear! Don’t we men and women, East and West, artists and scientists, more alike than we are different?
Why subjected to the visible, and why not try to be-long? I believe we are not here to produce self-justifying reasons to external images to that which we are overly scrutinized, superficially witnessed, and mistakenly prejudiced. I believe we are social, mortal animals, whose minds are not that of a blank slate but founded through generations of historical heroes, tried and true believers, who lived their names long, long enough even after death took their tolls, to be, to exist, to prove the right to life and the life according to the established moral rights history has conveniently provided for our modern lives.
And before my soul is buried under the deathbed I shall do whatever it takes to withstand the tests of time and thrust through the linear successions we are all innately capable of moving called LIFE.
This post, a train of thought, might have been, could be just, a worthless mistake. So the next time I write through this oath, I can make mistakes better, better in the hopes of moving words to touch a kindred reader like you.