I know I sound like a 2 year old throwing a tantrum, but let me explain.  I’ve been a writer all my life.  I write because I have to.  I don’t have a choice in the matter.  I guess, all my life, this was the best way for me to express myself.  Maybe it’s childhood issues, but that’s not the point.  Some people doodled. I wrote.  I used to write poems and stories and at one point even started on a novel.  The blogging world started several years ago, and while I was aware of it, I blogged at random social sites.  And then came the advent of Facebook and Facebook notes and I tried that out and let’s just not talk about Facebook and the number of times they changed their format and what I’m trying to say is that I stopped “blogging” a few years back.

As luck would have it, there is a radio station here in town doing reviews of plays and they were looking for reviewers.  The process would involve going to watch a play, writing a review, uploading it onto the radio website and recording a radio version of the review.  For the purpose of this blog, let’s just focus on the written portion of the review.  It wasn’t really uploaded into the website immediately.  It would sit in the inbox of the main person in charge until s/he approved it.

So, I started writing again.  It was different.  Yes, there was a “format”.  One had to write a short synopsis of the play.  Obviously we had to mention the acting, the directing, the technical aspects such as lights and sounds and review it so others can decide if it was a play worth watching or not.  Despite the format, I loved to write and I loved the liberty to express my thoughts.  I would request to do play reviews every opportunity I got and so started trouble in paradise.

Remember how the review would sit in the inbox of the person in charge?  Well, one day I got an email stating that my reviews have needed a lot of edits and the person requested that I would be more conscientious about my reviews.  I was a bit taken aback as I did read and re-read before I posted, but fair enough.  I should be more careful, I suppose.  On the next review, I got an email saying that I was not upholding the standard of the radio station and I was requested to have someone else edit my work.  I talked to my husband and I would have him edit my work after I was done editing it several times.  And the email came back saying it was better but I still needed to work on my reviews.  My husband has been involved in theatre for a very very very long time and he did not feel my review needed so much derision.

Being a woman, I brought up the issue to my friends.  I’ll be honest.  I was getting frustrated.  I wanted to quit.  Why must I write for fun when it wasn’t fun anymore?  I mumbled about how I was probably a bad writer and I had just talked myself into believing I was something more worthwhile.  It was hitting me hard.  Very hard.  And my friends who understood my need to write offered me another edit.  They said that they would edit it after I was done with the edits and after my husband was done.  They were willing to take time out of their busy schedules to read my review.  And so for one last time, I did another review and this time I emailed the final product to my friends.  They came back with NOTHING.  Yes, nothing.  And I submitted the review.  I asked the person in charge if the review was any better.  The email reply stated that there were a few more changes that s/he made and that was the last time I requested to do a play review.  And that was 2 years ago.

I’ve been writing plays and dabbling but deep down I felt broken.  I guess I still feel broken.  I’m not good enough.  I’ve read works of my friends and there’s a smoothness and elegance to their work, like beads of mercury bouncing and rolling on a table.  And here’s my work.  Sounds like a 2 year old.  There was a cat.  There was a dog.  I felt the simplicity of my sentence structures.  I loved the written world and as much as I loved it, I couldn’t insult it with mine.  And I was losing again.  Just as I’d lost “They Throw Rocks”, I was losing this one too.  I was losing myself.  I would learn to go on without writing.  I had to.  I had no choice.  Ah the irony!  The wrote because I had no choice.  And now I had to stop writing because I had no choice again.

Like with all great stories, there came a good friend to my rescue.  “You need to write a blog,” he said. I guess, he remembered the old me.  The me that couldn’t exist without writing.  And so here I am.  Writing again.  And this time I’ll do it on my terms.  This blog is mine.  Mine!  Mine!  Mine!  I do not care what people say anymore.  I’ve lost too much to lose again.  I may not write as well as you.  I may not write well at all.  But hey, it’s me.  Take it or leave it.  So, I fell down.  We all do.  But I’m back on my feet again.

Until next time,


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