Skip to main content

I've been doing my Morning Pages

There's a book called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. It was written to help people recover their artistic side. I haven't read it, and I didn't think I'd ever want to, but here we are.

In my 20s, I was a writer in grad school, working towards an MFA in creative writing, living and breathing, or so I thought, my art. I felt bad for older people who'd lost their way, especially those who dug into their old treasure chests to recover past glories and said, "I used to do this."

I never imagined I'd be one of them -- one of those who ended up sacrificing a passion for a job. What I didn't know then was that sacrifice can come easily, and that it's not always about trading art for a paycheck. Sometimes, you just fall for something else and neglect something you promised never to leave behind.

I love the work I've been doing and I've always felt that it afforded me enough creativity. As someone who creates learning materials, I am still writing. People are still reading what I write; in fact, to be honest, often with more attention. It is a new passion, and there have been many moments that I feel lucky that I am being paid to do something I enjoy so much.

However, I'm leaving my 30s soon and I've realized that even if I have a new affair, my old love refuses to be forgotten. In fact, I find myself thinking about creative writing more and more often.

If I were to dig into my old treasure chest, my "glory days" would probably be the time I was writing for newspapers and magazines and made very little money. I don't think I've ever explored how far I would go as a fiction writer. I didn't do workshops because I focused on earning soon after I graduated from college. I think I submitted a story once to Junior Inquirer and it was published, but that was it.

I had a dream recently, and if you've been reading all my entries, you might have seen it posted here before I deleted it. I've processed that dream since, and I suspect it's about my first love coming back to me.

Before I write about the dream, let me just say that I'm a big fan of BBC's Sherlock, especially the earlier episodes. In fact, it was because of Sherlock that I discovered Doctor Who and now I'm even a bigger fan of Doctor Who.

Anyway, in that dream, I was leaving Martin Freeman/Watson for his best friend, whom I liked before I got together with Martin. It wasn't Benedict Cumberbatch/Sherlock, and maybe it wasn't him because that dream was about going back to something I loved first without completely leaving behind someone/something I had also come to love. (With Benedict, I suspect, there would be no looking back.) A lot happened in the dream, but the prevailing feeling was that of me questioning my decisions and digesting the truth of the statement "It has always been you."

We were in high school in that dream. I was in high school when I discovered I loved words.

So, about Morning Pages. It's a tool that The Artist's Way espouses to help nurture creativity. It's basically a free writing exercise where you don't censor yourself and just write whatever comes to mind for three pages.

Like I said, I haven't read The Artist's Way yet, but I have read articles by people who've found doing Morning Pages helpful. I needed a writing habit outside of this blog, and since I don't really keep a diary, I decided to go for structure one and try doing Morning Pages.

I'm on Day 12 of daily writing and while I still have some entries where I write "I don't know what else to write," I'm finding that my mind is clearer about the things I want to do: like, I do want to work full-time a build a career in learning and development, but I also want to be a creative writer at my own pace.

If I write a single story that touches a few lives, I'd be grateful. I mean, a lot of the artists I love, I love only for one singularly stellar work.

I think I'd be fine with being that for a few people.

I've found myself remembering details -- like my previous entry -- and meaningful memories that somehow shaped my life. Maybe they'll find their way into my short stories one day.

No, scratch that -- I'm pretty sure they will find their way into my short stories one day, soon.

Popular posts from this blog

The work for which all other work is but preparation

I've been thinking, off and on, of something I once read: The purpose of marriage is not happiness but holiness. Never having been a "good" Christian despite my many attempts, I couldn't understand this line of thinking. Having been raised Catholic, I understood "holiness" to have as one of its main ingredients suffering — and why even want to get married if to be successful at it means to suffer? But these words never left me, bobbing up every now and then from the flotsam and jetsam of my brain. Until, one day, it dawned on me what the statement meant for me. On that same day, I also realized that I do want the gift of marriage. In fact, that is my Christmas wish this year.  My view is not a biblical view, but I don't think it strays too far from it. To be holy is to be set apart from others, as God is, in his perfect goodness and righteousness, in his perfect love (yes, this is biblical; yes, I know I said I wasn't looking at it biblically).  The

Visita Iglesia

My mom and I went with my sister, her family, and the in-laws to their Visita Iglesia for the Holy Week. I'd never done this before, but I had such an interesting time, and I think I'd like to do this again next year. We didn't do the Stations of the Cross, though. We just prayed and lit candles. A lot of candles. Here's a list of the churches we visited. Recto The University Belt churches, all of which are within walking distance to each other. The path to all those churches were lined with vendors hawking all sorts of things, from food, like calamares (I'd never seen calamares being sold as street food before! Lucky U-Belt kids!), all-sorts-of-balls-and-the-like (chicken, squid, fish, kikiam , and kwek-kwek ), to bottled water and flavored beverages, to candles and religious paraphernalia. 1. The San Beda Church , which I loved for the gilt of gold on the statues and the ceiling, and because once a Bedan, always a Bedan, though I didn't go to San Beda

Dream: Disaster

Last night's dream. This is a long one. I was in a management class that suddenly became a cooking class. The teacher whipped up this Italian dish with pasta, meat and some mushrooms and vegetables. "Would anyone like to have this?" she asked us. Nobody replied. A bit miffed, she handed it to the student in front of her: me. The dish looked delicious, actually, so I stood up and went around the classroom to get everyone to try it. Some of my classmates feigned interest, and some didn't bother to hide their annoyance, but most got some of the food. The plate was soon empty, even for me, so I went back to my seat. The teacher, who'd been watching me serve her dish, asked, "Why do you have blood on the seat of your pants? Do you have your period?" Surprised, and suddenly anxious, I whispered, "I just finished my, um, girly thing, ma'am, but I'll go check. I might have just sat on something that looks like blood." I saw what looked like blo