writing, memory and such...
"Where are your roots?" It was my aunt's question that led me to take a long postponed pilgrimage to the places of my childhood. I didn't realize how important that pilgrimage would be until I moved to the Netherlands with my husband. Being abroad seems to strengthen my sense of being filipino and in the stories that I write, the culture in which I grew up continues to find its reflection.
As I grow older, my memories take on the patina of age and I find myself delving like an archeologist through the bits and pieces of recollection that my mind tosses up onto the surface of my consciousness. There seems to be no real connection between the images that I see, nor is there any chronology to their appearance. Instead, they appear in random order, awakened to life by chance discussions that remind me of sounds, scents, people, tableaus that life has frozen onto the backs of my eyeballs so that the slightest prickle is enough to awaken them from slumber and I find myself caught up in the cycle of remembering.
I really don't have any answer to the why and how of writing. My theory is that each one of us was born with something inside them. Some are born with pictures (art and stuff) flowing through their veins, others are born with music and quite a good number of us are born with words resonating inside our brain. What drives a writer to write? I can't answer that for other writers, only for myself. There are days when the words just keep on hammering inside my head, I feel compelled to write and when I can't I get really antsy.
On some days, I write better, on other days, I write worst. Writing is hard work. It's more than simply putting words on the page. It's a truth that I've come to recognize with age. And yet, even at my worst, when I feel really bad and can't seem to write anything but gibberish, I still continue to write. As I said, it's something I can't live without.
As I grow older, my memories take on the patina of age and I find myself delving like an archeologist through the bits and pieces of recollection that my mind tosses up onto the surface of my consciousness. There seems to be no real connection between the images that I see, nor is there any chronology to their appearance. Instead, they appear in random order, awakened to life by chance discussions that remind me of sounds, scents, people, tableaus that life has frozen onto the backs of my eyeballs so that the slightest prickle is enough to awaken them from slumber and I find myself caught up in the cycle of remembering.
I really don't have any answer to the why and how of writing. My theory is that each one of us was born with something inside them. Some are born with pictures (art and stuff) flowing through their veins, others are born with music and quite a good number of us are born with words resonating inside our brain. What drives a writer to write? I can't answer that for other writers, only for myself. There are days when the words just keep on hammering inside my head, I feel compelled to write and when I can't I get really antsy.
On some days, I write better, on other days, I write worst. Writing is hard work. It's more than simply putting words on the page. It's a truth that I've come to recognize with age. And yet, even at my worst, when I feel really bad and can't seem to write anything but gibberish, I still continue to write. As I said, it's something I can't live without.
posted by rcloenen-ruiz at 4:19 AM
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