I can recall only three instances when I wrote fiction.
The first was in grade school, maybe fourth grade. I had just put down a book one Saturday morning, most probably a Bobbsey Twins mystery, and decided I would try my hand at story writing. I don’t remember the story now except that it began at the back of some house and one of the child characters was named “Mary.” I read the first few sentences to my elder sister, who was then an English major. Her comments escape me now, but I do remember her chiding me that “says” is pronounced as “sez” and not “seys.” (So does that mean “say” is pronounced “se”? Hehe.)
The second time was in sophomore year in high school. It was the Speechfest and, as class president, I was coordinating our contestants for the various events: dramatic dialogue, declamation, oration, speech choir, etc. I couldn’t find a suitable piece for our declamation contestant so I decided to write one—in Filipino. Written in first person, it was about a girl who saw her best friend being raped, and her struggle to do the right thing by becoming a witness in court, or just turn a blind eye as if she wasn’t there. My classmate’s performance didn’t win the top prize—partly because she didn’t have enough time to prepare since I crammed the piece a few nights before the contest. But I think the piece was okay. The unfortunate thing is I didn’t save a copy of it.
The third time was in college, for my Philosophy class. We were required to watch a play and then write something fictitious along the lines of the play that would apply some of the principles discussed in class. My dorm roommate let me use his computer for my paper, and in no time, I found myself lost in my little story. I just tapped away, sentence after sentence of make-believe. Honestly, I felt a little odd—almost scared that the story seemed to have taken on a life of its own. That was the last time I wrote fiction. There just wasn’t any opportunity after that to dabble with fiction.
Then came this blog. Now, I’m semi-seriously thinking of dipping a finger into the murky and mysterious waters of fiction yet again. I don’t know what will become of it. I know for sure that writing fiction demands a lot more than writing personal essays. But I don’t want to get paralyzed and miss the opportunity to even try. I’ve decided long ago that this blog won’t be about wonderfully written pieces. It will be about expression and connection. But, hopefully, I would churn out good-enough entries to keep you dropping by. I’d be lying if I said I don’t get excited when my blog visitors commend a post I’ve made (
So there. Maybe next time you peek at the tap dancer, you’ll see him tap-dancin’ in mid-air—in a trance. From now on, don’t believe anything you read on here. I don’t promise to always tell when I’m writing fiction or not 😉 Hehe.