I was a storyteller. Probably because I was a dreamer.
I remember a friend told me when we were in Barcelona, Spain, why most of the artists came from Europe like the great Gaudi. The whole of Barcelona speaks of his works. Masterpieces. Probably, a simple caricature which led him to create the whole mural. Take also into consideration those musicians who happened to be so talented they shared their gifts to the whole world. I believe if they tried bottling those innate ability, they will be strangled or choked. They were called to perform. To be positive vibes to the world. They are geniuses. They had restless mind despite boredom and confinement.
I came from a small town. Books were luxury. Reading was a hobby not everybody chose to enjoy.
I was inquisitive by nature. When I was 5, I was curious to discern how any conversation started? I would usually tail my mother everytime she would go to her duty at the Health Center or went with her when she met someone or randomly approached somebody. I did ask the question to some, aunt, uncle, sister but got a crazy look like telling me: Duh!
I didn't know how research works. Wasn't even aware that inquisition was already part of it. And then I found the answer.
It all started with a question.
Yes!
It was and it is still.
I was happy to note and got that stored in my subconscious.
Humbly, we had improvised play house. Pulling out blankets and towels from the closet, hiding from our parents' scrutiny and at the narrow passage between our house and uncle's, we run a show. Storytelling with my one and only audience, a 4 year old cousin.
And the love for books came in. I didn't have money to buy books. I borrowed and read aloud. I was 7. I thought I was good. I could read books but got a weird look. Like, it was already expected. I was sent to school and I should learn. I was not special.
I traced the line of knowledge. I wanted to explore some more but I didn't have references. Until such time I have no way but to excel and I also thought that was natural. That was me. That was all.
From Kindergarten I was delivering what was expected of me but awards didn't show any recognition. Then came the grade school parade. There were a lot of us who reasoned out. Who displayed wit and candor. I rode the competition. I tried to excel but a lot of them were knowledgeable beyond the capacity of my stored intelligence. They had books perhaps. They had support from home. They were pushed to do their best.
Despite stiff competition and favoritism, I excelled. From almost 500 students, I belong to the top 20 in my batch. That was something but yeah, that was something.
Esteem blossomed from home. Confidence is home made. Should be. But I guess, the mere fact that my parents believed in education was one thing that fuelled me to pay them back. In any way I could.
I started writing when I was 12. After all those stories I had rolled down in compelling fictitious accounts then I played with words.
I continued reading. Wrote down those words I couldn't decipher. Merriam Webster was my best buddy. And no ambiguous words could hide their true colors then.
Then I wrote again and again. I had taglish dictionary. I orchestrated words. Put them into phrases then sentences until words created paragraphs. So on and on.
I had several stories written every summer. The grammars were in circus and yet I was able to pull and finish the whole of it. Few of my classmates knew of it. But most often than not 'twas hidden.
I was afraid of ridicule. Of pointing out those mistakes. Of rejection.
I had classmates who really were wordsmith. Or so I believed they were. They played with words expertly, and yes I looked down at myself and that was so apparent when I entered a big university for college.
Most of them wanted to excel. Flaunted their expertise. Laughed at some grammar error. It was a rat race. Everybody wanted to be distinguished superior from everybody.
And then, I shrunk. I didn't see the point of showcasing that talent I thought was already honed.
It wasn't.
The skill was raw. I knew from my heart it had to be enhanced. I was in school for learning not for competition but what it seemed and what I had put myself into, I struggled and I failed to prove to myself I was a winner. Confidence faltered. My self-esteem wobbled and I channeled my mind through other things, idle and immature.
I played with words. I had my own idioms. I earned laughs from the display of it. I thought I was irregular. Not cut to perform the tapestry of words. I was afraid to scribbled notes to people's gawking. I thought people would mind. I never realized those criticisms were mere insults, discouragements and rejections. I stopped. I made that talent a history.
I saw some people's notes. Words. High-fallutin words. I was so impressed, I buried my ambition some more. Deep down.
I focused to reading.
I was so choosy and ambitious.
I tried reading literary works. Pulitzer winners.
I read papers, big publications to tabloid.
I wanted to enhance my vocabulary.
I collected thesaurus dictionary.
I wrote again.
Again.
Again.
Until somebody took notice.
Yet, My works did not escape aggressive retorts and destructive criticisms. There was even someone who thought those were not my works. That they were just my ideas but somebody edited or worse did the work for me.
Did it discourage me again? No!
I learned that people would never accept the fact that I was advancing. That I was sharpening my saw. That I was better from the good start I had.
I wote some more. The cliché practice makes perfect will never be put into words if there was no basis. And yes! Practice leads to perfection. I'm heading to that effect.
Those idioms I once had. Those words I thought were full of absurdity were in their full usefulness now.
I weaved everything to create a vivid effect.
From those bitter sweet experiences, I honed my skills notch higher everyday.
Presently, I see the ambition in my 12-year old offspring. She writes and writes and showcases that prowess to excel in her craft.
For her there is no competition, only her and her raw skills.
Everybody can write but only a few can be wordsmiths.
I want to be one.
If not, I want to give all resources to create one in the persona of my daughter.
My protégé.
Ambitious?
Yes!
No one can ever cast death to that desire.
I will be the buttress of her ambition.
A bullet proof for assassination.
I guess with all the necessary support and constructive criticisms, she will go places and beyond boundaries.
She's 12, the age where this all started.
An epoch to an ordinary existence.
