In a rare space of quiet here in the office, I'm finally allowed to come back to this space and just write. Which is something I haven't done for quite some time now - write with a purpose. Unless, of course, one wants to count the myriad blog (and LJ) entries that I come up with on a semi-regular basis, and generating tons of corporate copy and tech-savvy short articles that has nothing to do, really, with what I think about.
The main thing right now is that I'm frightened that I do not have anything new to say anymore, that I have finally run out of gas and am now resigned to the world of burned-out has-been college writers who could have been someone, but is now ekeing away a quiet and relatively noiseless existence. I am such a disappointment to my teachers and mentors. O_o But seriously though, I have these moments when I just stare at the screen and tell myself,"You. Have. To. Write. Something," and then end up simply downloading more songs to fill up my Powerbook. It's crap, yes, but it's also a struggle to create art in the midst of other pressing matters - deadlines, duties and responsibilities, a social life that is continually a source of joy and headaches. But I miss the rush of writing - the onslaught of words rising from your bloodstream, the invisible pen scratching away as it attempts to follow the runaway imagination. I miss hearing voices in my head (No, I'm not that crazy. Yet.) and dutifully transcribing everything they say. I miss the drive of writing, that whirlwind force that pushes you towards the last page because you haev to know how the story ends.
But right now, I don't know.
Last Saturday, I attended Dean's book launch. His first novel, Salamanca was finally published by the Ateneo de Manila University Press, and it was on a hot Sunday afternoon after a good round of badminton with Norman and Jilly and a hearty lunch that I managed to lie down and read the book properly. I had previously read snippets of the book during its NaNoWriMo stint, and somehow I enjoyed this round more. It was also shorter this time around, but still retained its potency. And then of course, the pressure is on: Dean's dedication on my copy of the book is both terse and sweet - "I fully expect a novel from you -- soon."
Still, the pressure is good - it motivates me when there's nothing else. After all, I think the challenge for a young writer is to write even when things are going well in one's life, when the story comes from the balance of logic and passion, where the heart learns to take a backseat to the head.
God, I need to write.