Letter from Abikini

Dear Writing Club,

I'm in Katipunan right now, in a condo unit 18 floors up in the sky. It's raining out, and I hope Marj and Bes remember the scene that greeted us every time it rained. We look through the windows of our beloved 16b and all we see is white. Katipunan is wet and the cars are rushing past, puddles parting before their wheels. Almost poetically, I'm writing by the window, haha. :)

I should be getting back to Las Pinas but it's raining and I'd rather commute with the my feet dry. I could tell you about my roommate who fantastically outdoes herself (again) and manages to make my life problematic (again) even if she's thousands of miles away, or I could tell you about the wonderful few days I had with Oli where so many I-love-you's (said, heard and felt) have been densely compacted to a few days. The sensation is curiously unnerving and comforting at the same time. Or I could tell you about me and writing.

I started a writing blog a couple of months ago, apart from the comings-and-goings-of-my-life blog. There are only a smattering of entries there-- things get in the way of writing. The most common excuse applies to me-- school. But a deeper excuse lies unsaid until now: writing had always scared me a little.

Maybe failure is a little too intolerable if it about something you like so much. What if it sucks?
I have this unexplainable fear of not being able to say anything. And when I do manage to say something, I'm afraid it would learn something about myself I wouldn't want to find out? I'm scared to think I'm darker than I really am.

Roughly a month ago, I decided to commit to writing. It was one of the conclusions of my silent retreat in a scenic Jesuit villa in Baguio. I'm too much of a cerebral person, you see. And when I'm threatened or confronted with something unfamiliar, I retreat to my thick brain. Not all things can get through those discriminating gates- I find that a lot of things are left out in the cold and rendered unintelligible. Love, for instance, can't be taken apart and analyzed. I suppose only the heart sees that, and my heart had been so mum because for so long she's been trailing after a very chatty brain.

Somewhere, my heart needs to learn how to sing.

Maybe in poems and stories? ü

I'm looking forward to reading your stories! I've read some of Marj's and Bes's works- and I'm always amazed (Wow, how'd they write THAT?) I haven't read any of Ge's work so I'm especially excited about that too. (Ge, I have an idea though, haha. Marj sang to me a song you wrote and I had no idea how you were able to think about those lyrics. I remember it was really good. ü)

I say we write differently-- different styles. I guess what's important is how much we are able to make each other feel, think and see with our stories. ü


ü,
Abby