writing fiction

After a very complicated ICTUS Miting de Avance last night, I took the long route home with Banana and Melbert. We ended up talking about light stuff - I think because we all wanted to relax after a very tension-filled event. Somehow, we began talking about Melbert's little notes in Facebook, stuff he had written, stuff I had read, stuff Bana will no doubt be able to read one day. Melbert, knowing I had read his work, asked what my thoughts on his writing were. And I told him, honestly, that I believe he's more suited to commentary than fiction. In fact, I think he'd make an excellent opinion columnist, should he wish to pursue that career path.

Earlier this morning, after reading more stressing stuff out of the ICTUS Execom YG, I wandered into Edzel's page hoping to ask him some stuff about the org newsletter, which we're handling as a two-man team. On his profile, sorta, I found a link to our mutual friend Simoun's notes page, where the latter had written his "very first attempt at short-story writing". I read it, and, boy, was I impressed. Jealous, even. Such talent! Such intelligence! Great story, especially if it's only his first attempt. And having read his work, and the praises heaped upon it, I remembered Aiko's Gakuen Alice fanfic My Heart's Back, with its 170+ reviews, and I thought... of everyone else.

How many kids in this planet hope to become writers when they grow up? When I was in Grade 4, even more gullible than I am now, I believed what my father said about making a wish upon entering a church for the first time. And I remember that, aside from praying for all the stuff my righteous, strict Catholic school had taught me I should wish for, I sincerely requested God to make me a writer someday. Like JK Rowling and RL Stine. So I could spend my whole life writing the things I love coming up with, and earn enough money to survive, and have people read my work and appreciate it, having thought of the same ideas themselves.

How many people out there are like me? I can write, but I can't write. I can come up with thoughts well enough, but they're the same old thoughts that have been swimming the pages of lit-dom for centuries. I don't think I'm meant to be a writer, and I've known that for quite some time now, but I still write simply because I love writing. I love the feeling of committing my thoughts to paper (or electronic media, in most cases) and knowing that I can always return to them any time I wish. I'm not sure I consider my lack of talent a curse or a blessing. On one hand, I wish I could write better, so I could write more, and perhaps get more satisfaction out of the act of writing. On the other hand, if I did have the talent... I'd probably just be writing day in, day out. I wouldn't be able to "spread out" and try all sorts of things the way I am now. Most probably, I wouldn't be talking Econ and PolSci and MATH; consequently, I'd never be embarrassed by board work and recitations, and I'd probably never grow.

My heart feels bad now that I'm sure I'm not meant to create life-changing literature, but my mind's telling me it's all right because I'm meant for other things. Thing is... I wish I knew what I'm really meant for, what my true purpose is. Now that the greatest thing I've aspired and worked for for most of my life has been "taken" away from me, I find there's nothing else left. Just a girl with a bit of grit, floating around with nothing but her naive optimism in tow.