Every new year, I tell myself that it is going to be a year dedicated to writing; that I will maximize this blog for practice, then write more meaningful ones offline, on the pages of a tattered journal, while on top of some temple in Burma, or in a far-flung village in Southern Philippines. But 2016 has passed by, I’ve already been to some far-flung villages both in the Philippines and in Burma, climbed several ancient temples, but I’ve never really gotten around updating this blog page, and the journal I earlier bought remains as good as new, and in a plastic.
The year 2016 made sure that it filled my life with materials that can help any writer produce pages after pages of books, not just blog posts, not just journals.
Regrets, regrets. I should be filled with regrets for not writing about them.
Well, yes, there are regrets. But mostly regrets for deceiving myself in the past few years that I am a writer, that I have the heart or the mental capacity for it, when I don’t even have the stamina. This 2017, I will just stop deceiving myself: I am not a writer. I won’t be able to someday come up with something worth reading. I am just an occasional blogger with an invisible audience (perhaps even none at all). I am freeing myself from the self-doubt caused by this delusion. I am freeing myself from the pressure to produce anything worthwhile (outside of work), from the worries that what I am typing down is a clumsily put-together piece. This year, I will not write. I will just randomly type things down. No edits. And, as sloppy as they may be, I will put them up on this blog.