Writing

You know how some early cultures were fearful of photography, because they were afraid their soul would become trapped in the photograph or even the camera itself? I've also read about a tribe who only identifies themselves by nicknames because they believe whoever knows their real name has a power over them.

Writing to me is kinda like that. Its almost a window to the soul. Granted, you can 'misread' something and get a vibe the writer never intended but mostly it does give you an insight into the real person. I've been surprised over and over again, when the writer isn't at all the person I imagine her/him to be and yet I believe its just a reflection of the very many different facets to a person.

When I was about nine or ten I wrote a story about a witch and her cat. Not very original I'm afraid but I was a big fan of Enid Blyton (still am!). I remember writing it and rewriting it before I took it show my mum. It wasn't something extraordinary to me at that time, I had written plenty of essays for school before, but the way mum gushed and made me type it out and save it on the computer made me think, hey there's something to this! I wrote another one shortly after, about a dragon and a boy (oooh the plagiarist in me ;-p) but naturally, floppy disks don't last and the stories were lost in the passage of time. This was also about the time when penulis (writer) trumped peguam (lawyer) and hakim (judge) under the cita-cita (ambitions) section of my report card! :-)

In my teens I flirted with keeping a diary, but I quickly disposed of the damned thing, when the horrors of someone actually finding and reading my innermost thoughts dawned upon me. Couldn't keep it at home (my bratty sister shared a room with me) and I couldn't take it to school either and I kept worrying till I ripped up the pages and threw it out in the trash.

by Diana Golledge

Then much later, in my 20's, I started writing poetry. And one day posted one of it up on a website where it was easily accessible. I was an adult already, I can handle the comments, or so I thought. Then it started. Not so much commentary about the poem but on the state of mind I must have been in writing it. And conclusions on my personality. And although it wasn't derogatory or in some cases remotely correct in anyway, I felt so naked, so exposed. It was as if I was back in literature class, dissecting Keats' misery except this time I was on the chopping board. Now I'm no Keats lah, but if the man were alive would he appreciate our intrusion into his psyche? Just because we want to, need to, understand his Odes? My experience was almost paparazzi-ish except this time they were taking pictures of your brain and soul, ten times scarier I should think! Hehehe, ok the drama ends here.

Anyway, it was a long time before I ever shared anything I wrote with anyone again. Its not privacy issues so much as the fear of 'what will people think of me?!' (oklah it is 10% privacy issues... after all I blog anonymously but there are people out there who know who lived-legna really is!) But then of course someone dared me. And I decided to keep at it, an avenue for my verbal diarrhea and all the odd thoughts in my head. And lucky me, I found out I'm not the only oddball in town :-p but I will admit I do not speak my mind entirely here. Because there are still people out there who will judge and assume, (although they will still judge no matter what) I prefer to give them less information on which to make their judgments and assumptions upon. But more importantly, I don't want to be sent away in a straight jacket.

There, I got it all out of my system.

Those childhood stories still swim in my head sometimes. I don't know if I will ever let them out though.

Have a blessed Holy Week!