Hello multiply. I hate you, you know that? I'm updating you because this is too long for twitter and because I'm a tumblr ignoramus.

Anyhoo, I was supposed to sleep early again tonight but my restlessness got the best of me. I've been sleeping really early these past weeks mainly because I'm frustrated with not being able to continue writing the stories and screenplays I've saved on my beloved Isobel. It's like starting on your favorite dessert then suddenly an obnoxious waiter just pulls it off the table. Not only is it rude but you weren't really able to savor and finish what you had started. It's horribly frustrating.

I suddenly remember sitting through "My Fake American Accent" in last year's Cinemalaya. The movie wasn't really bad. It actually had an okay story and excellent concept but the execution and some of the dialogues were lackluster. I bet that with a little more time and budget, it could have actually worked as a great satire.The reason why my train of thought suddenly drifted to this movie is because of Tracy Abad's character. She was once an awesome writer whose dreams of writing stardom were crushed by her call center job... It got me thinking, her problem in the movie isn't really a problem that's limited to call center agents. This problem is actually one that all writers eventually share: the dreaded writer's block.

I'm reminded by one particular question asked in my interview for the Malate Literary Folio when I was this naive optimistic freshman, "Do you believe in writer's block?" I answered no, mainly because I thought it was the answer they wanted to hear. If I were asked that question again I'd answer this:

Writer's block is really impossible to have if you're a creative writer. I can't imagine a day passing by without dozens of ideas buzzing inside my head. You just can't say you've run out of ideas. Writer's block is just an excuse for people who are too lazy to pick up that pen and actually write something. People make excuses like 'It's too noisy here' or 'I have too much work to do' but the reality is, you can always find a time and a place to write if you really want to write. The main killer of a great story is when a writer decides to be lazy and let those ideas rot in his brain. Whether that idea's bad or good, whether that scene makes sense or not, whether that character is realistic or outright surreal, save it on paper, write it down because if there ever comes a time that you actually run out of ideas, you have a whole bunch of them on paper waiting to be looked up and improved.

It's a new year. No more excuses. It really sucks that I don't have Isobel at my fingertips but I'm making a stand to write even without the aid of my laptop. Technology failed me and a huge chunk of my ideas are in that piece of metal but I just can't wait another month before I start spewing out those thoughts in my brain... I'd go nuts. Fellow writers let's get on with our life... you know, that kind of life we make up on our own with a pen and anything lying around we can use as paper.

Write on!

Dear 2008,

I'm going to start this letter to you by writing down what most people might find cliche, but I'm still going to write it down because that's what I really feel... thanks.

I know I've grown as a person over these past twelve months. I graduated college with no great scholarly achievements to boast of, but it's okay. No friggin' award can make me feel more than what I am anyway. I've met some of the most awesome people who I will remember for the rest of my life. Some of them are real pieces of shit who will always remind me that life will always be exciting when they're around; others are the most beautiful people I've met, some of which I consider really great friends.

I dove into the real world not knowing what to expect. Thank you for slapping in the face and showing me that dreamers should wake up once in a while. Thank you for putting me in a job, which I hate, to humble me. Thank you for making a big fool out of me every time I swear I will quit because I never really did. Having this job in advertising taught me firsthand that my ideal version of life is something that I should work on. It will never ever be handed to me if I just keep dreaming of it. It's different when you're inside those university halls, debating in fiery discourse with your peers, from actually being a lacky, making money for another person who has the exact opposite ideals than yours. I'm happy that I still have that hope and passion for my dream. I'm glad that my one year in the real world hasn't killed it yet.

I'm happy about my family. I know I bitch a lot about them but just like the other overused cliche goes, I wouldn't replace them for anything. Thanks for letting me see that I'm lucky to actually have a mom and dad that really give a shit about what I think and what I want. Thank you for parents who are willing to give me what I need just as long as they know it can help me. I don't care if my parents are strict, I love them even more for that. I've seen how other parents treat their children... I'm glad I didn't grow up like those kids. Thanks for my brother who, even though he ran away four times this year, still knew his way home. Thank you for making us imperfect because perfect families are insanely boring for me.

As I look at myself going into 2009, I can say I've changed a lot. I'm fatter and a lot happier. People have criticized me for doing what I do over the past months. I got into a lot of arguments about things I firmly believe in. I've made people mad at me, making them question my integrity. I'm going to be honest and say that I do care, to some extent, about what people still think of me mainly because I value other people's ideas about me, just like I would like them to value my ideas about them. I'm so grateful to actually be able to stand up to my principles. I know I still have a lot of room to grow so I'm embracing life full-on.

I realized a lot of things this year - things about people. I've kept learning and relearning this all my twenty-one years in this world: I can't please everybody so why care about doing so? I'm not going to change who I am to fit other people who aren't willing to change themselves as well. I'm tired of people who think that I need to change this and that about me when they, themselves, are no better. I'm not here to stroke anybody's egos and make them cum. What's there in satisfying people who think too highly of themselves if it means I lose my soul? I want to be true to myself and I will never stop being true to myself. People might not get me and the things I do but then again, who cares? I won't stoop down to their level and try to explain myself... it'll just be like throwing pearls to swine (Velasco 2004).

I might be fat and unhealthy but that doesn't really concern anybody, does it? It's not their body. I've struggled with self-image throughout high school and early college and I think I've had enough of being too uncomfortable in my own skin. I've learned to embrace what I am and if other people can't, it's their problem. I don't buy their warnings for concern. Life is too short for me to worry about my fat and my heart. I eat well and exercise. I'm healthy, probably healthier than most people; not once did I get something more serious than a cold this year. Thank you for the good health.

Thank you for death. My lolo died in February and it hurt. I love him. Thank you for giving me such a rich life full of people who have influenced me so much. My lolo was a good man with a very colorful life. Even though he made a lot of mistakes in his lifetime, he left us with so many valuable insights.

Thank you for the array of people I've met. Most of them were strangers to me a year ago. Thanks for showing me that I shouldn't put labels on people. I learned that it doesn't matter if I've met a person three or twenty times before and if I think he or she is the most boring person on earth, because I know that maybe, on that twenty-first time, I might actually like that person. He or she may show me something that will surprise me and completely make me change my perception about him or her. I'm glad I made those steps in order to get to know people. I discover so many things about each and every one of them as I spend time with them more and more. I can say that I've become a more social person. I'm still quite timid at times but I'm glad that I'm already taking those leaps and started getting out of my shell.

Thank you for the freedom to speak up and write whatever it is I feel like writing.

2008, I leave you with no regrets because I know that every decision I made was a conscious one and whatever may have transpired, good or bad, it was definitely something that made me grow as a person.

P.B.

I'm not drunk or high. I don't like drinking alcohol and I don't do drugs. I just randomly typed this down for myself so that when the next year rolls by, I have a marker to actually measure my growth. If ever this turns out cohesive or not... Happy New Year!

Why We Write
By Jansen Musico, a no-name writer and copywriter/operations assistant at an ad agency

     I can’t write for anybody else but for myself. Yes, that’s why I write. It’s selfish but it’s true. Of course the irony of it is that my day job is to write scripts for some commercial or copies for some promo or brochure. Yes, I’m a writer for the big guys, the ones who pay good money for some chum to spew words from his brain. I write for them because I need cash to pay my bills but still, I don’t classify that as writing. I classify it as work… sorry Mr. Kheel. Although I’m a fan of your work on Charmed, getting paid to write things I do not care about does not satisfy me at all.

     Call me some kind of purist or writing romantic, but writing should not entail one losing his soul to conformity. Writing, for me, is a freedom, to be able to convey what you want to convey, not what others want to convey to their target demographic. Writing should be truthful to the writer. Writing for pay, especially in the world of advertising, is merely a process of using the writer to come up with something inventive in order to meet the wants of the clients and not the wants of the writer himself.

     A lot of times, it’s frustrating. Yes, I’m one of those “gotta write” writers who want to get something published out there. I’m so full of ideas that I just need to let them out. The difference between me and the other “gotta write” writers out there is that I’m a lunatic. I really do not care if others voraciously read my work. I stated before I’m a selfish writer. I write for myself.

     That idea is not to be misconstrued though, I do care about a lot of things. I believe in causes such as gender and race equality, mutual respect, free speech and anti-greed. Therefore, I write for those causes fervently when I want to. I don’t do it for some selfless messianic need. I am no revolutionary who puts it on himself to change the world. I know, for a fact, that I cannot do that alone. It takes more than just one writer to change the world. Yet, I still have hope for change because, like Heraclitus wrote, “Nothing endures but change.”

     I used to be one of those writers, trained to please other people. Over the years, my eyes were opened and my right hand started to know how it felt to write freely, unbound from the parameters set by the school. I no longer write to please other people, for that kills the truth in my writing. It restricts that freedom of the pen to merely a means to living, a routine we are forced to do. I’m not saying that writing for pay is not honorable, by all means it is. I just do not want to reduce my writing to that.

     I don’t care how corny it sounds but my writing is an expression of my soul, an outlet of my mind. My characters all represent a side of me at one point of my life. They give accurate pictures of how I thought or how I still think, of how I perceived the world or how I still do. My writing reflects who I am as a person. If one were to collect all my pieces and put them together in one book, you would be reading my life through the lives and actions of my characters or through the ideas implied in my essays and theses.

     My mind is vessel of a constant flux of ideas that are both noble and foolish. It is a collection of several paradoxes that make my writing richer. If these paradoxes were kept trapped, they would have forced me to be split in several pieces, a fragmented person living in one body. Yes, I would go mad if I never learned to write. I’m not talented in music. I cannot make those notes reverberate what my mind is screaming. No, I am not a brilliant artist who can paint the picture in my head on a blank canvas. I am a writer with a surplus of ideas splashing words on a sheet of paper (or word document). This is why have to write.


Post inspired by: http://whywewriteseries.wordpress.com/

Why We Write
By Jansen Musico, a no-name writer and copywriter/operations assistant at an ad agency

     I can’t write for anybody else but for myself. Yes, that’s why I write. It’s selfish but it’s true. Of course the irony of it is that my day job is to write scripts for some commercial or copies for some promo or brochure. Yes, I’m a writer for the big guys, the ones who pay good money for some chum to spew words from his brain. I write for them because I need cash to pay my bills but still, I don’t classify that as writing. I classify it as work… sorry Mr. Kheel. Although I’m a fan of your work on Charmed, getting paid to write things I do not care about does not satisfy me at all.

     Call me some kind of purist or writing romantic, but writing should not entail one losing his soul to conformity. Writing, for me, is a freedom, to be able to convey what you want to convey, not what others want to convey to their target demographic. Writing should be truthful to the writer. Writing for pay, especially in the world of advertising, is merely a process of using the writer to come up with something inventive in order to meet the wants of the clients and not the wants of the writer himself.

     A lot of times, it’s frustrating. Yes, I’m one of those “gotta write” writers who want to get something published out there. I’m so full of ideas that I just need to let them out. The difference between me and the other “gotta write” writers out there is that I’m a lunatic. I really do not care if others voraciously read my work. I stated before I’m a selfish writer. I write for myself.

     That idea is not to be misconstrued though, I do care about a lot of things. I believe in causes such as gender and race equality, mutual respect, free speech and anti-greed. Therefore, I write for those causes fervently when I want to. I don’t do it for some selfless messianic need. I am no revolutionary who puts it on himself to change the world. I know, for a fact, that I cannot do that alone. It takes more than just one writer to change the world. Yet, I still have hope for change because, like Heraclitus wrote, “Nothing endures but change.”

     I used to be one of those writers, trained to please other people. Over the years, my eyes were opened and my right hand started to know how it felt to write freely, unbound from the parameters set by the school. I no longer write to please other people, for that kills the truth in my writing. It restricts that freedom of the pen to merely a means to living, a routine we are forced to do. I’m not saying that writing for pay is not honorable, by all means it is. I just do not want to reduce my writing to that.

     I don’t care how corny it sounds but my writing is an expression of my soul, an outlet of my mind. My characters all represent a side of me at one point of my life. They give accurate pictures of how I thought or how I still think, of how I perceived the world or how I still do. My writing reflects who I am as a person. If one were to collect all my pieces and put them together in one book, you would be reading my life through the lives and actions of my characters or through the ideas implied in my essays and theses.

     My mind is vessel of a constant flux of ideas that are both noble and foolish. It is a collection of several paradoxes that make my writing richer. If these paradoxes were kept trapped, they would have forced me to be split in several pieces, a fragmented person living in one body. Yes, I would go mad if I never learned to write. I’m not talented in music. I cannot make those notes reverberate what my mind is screaming. No, I am not a brilliant artist who can paint the picture in my head on a blank canvas. I am a writer with a surplus of ideas splashing words on a sheet of paper (or word document). That is why have to write.

________________________________________________

Why We Write
By Jansen Musico, a no-name writer and copywriter/operations assistant at an ad agency

     I can’t write for anybody else but for myself. Yes, that’s why I write. It’s selfish but it’s true. Of course the irony of it is that my day job is to write scripts for some commercial or copies for some promo or brochure. Yes, I’m a writer for the big guys, the ones who pay good money for some chum to spew words from his brain. I write for them because I need cash to pay my bills but still, I don’t classify that as writing. I classify it as work… sorry Mr. Kheel. Although I’m a fan of your work on Charmed, getting paid to write things I do not care about does not satisfy me at all.

     Call me some kind of purist or writing romantic, but writing should not entail one losing his soul to conformity. Writing, for me, is a freedom, to be able to convey what you want to convey, not what others want to convey to their target demographic. Writing should be truthful to the writer. Writing for pay, especially in the world of advertising, is merely a process of using the writer to come up with something inventive in order to meet the wants of the clients and not the wants of the writer himself.

     A lot of times, it’s frustrating. Yes, I’m one of those “gotta write” writers who want to get something published out there. I’m so full of ideas that I just need to let them out. The difference between me and the other “gotta write” writers out there is that I’m a lunatic. I really do not care if others voraciously read my work. I stated before I’m a selfish writer. I write for myself.

     That idea is not to be misconstrued though, I do care about a lot of things. I believe in causes such as gender and race equality, mutual respect, free speech and anti-greed. Therefore, I write for those causes fervently when I want to. I don’t do it for some selfless messianic need. I am no revolutionary who puts it on himself to change the world. I know, for a fact, that I cannot do that alone. It takes more than just one writer to change the world. Yet, I still have hope for change because, like Heraclitus wrote, “Nothing endures but change.”

     I used to be one of those writers, trained to please other people. Over the years, my eyes were opened and my right hand started to know how it felt to write freely, unbound from the parameters set by the school. I no longer write to please other people, for that kills the truth in my writing. It restricts that freedom of the pen to merely a means to living, a routine we are forced to do. I’m not saying that writing for pay is not honorable, by all means it is. I just do not want to reduce my writing to that.

     I don’t care how corny it sounds but my writing is an expression of my soul, an outlet of my mind. My characters all represent a side of me at one point of my life. They give accurate pictures of how I thought or how I still think, of how I perceived the world or how I still do. My writing reflects who I am as a person. If one were to collect all my pieces and put them together in one book, you would be reading my life through the lives and actions of my characters or through the ideas implied in my essays and theses.

     My mind is vessel of a constant flux of ideas that are both noble and foolish. It is a collection of several paradoxes that make my writing richer. If these paradoxes were kept trapped, they would have forced me to be split in several pieces, a fragmented person living in one body. Yes, I would go mad if I never learned to write. I’m not talented in music. I cannot make those notes reverberate what my mind is screaming. No, I am not a brilliant artist who can paint the picture in my head on a blank canvas. I am a writer with a surplus of ideas splashing words on a sheet of paper (or word document). That is why have to write.

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