Confession # 1: All day today I was thinking to myself: I’m twenty . . . I’m twenty? . . .Damn, I’m friggin’ twenty years old! It seems that the shock of turning twenty has hit me 25 days after my birthday. Finally, I’ve reached that age which all my heroines are in. I don’t recall writing of a character below the age of twenty. At last! My age has finally escaped from having a “teen” attached to it.

Confession # 2: I don’t even know if anyone is reading my blog…. But I’ve learnt that sometimes…a writer needs to write for the mere joy of writing, not for that euphoria that comes from being read and recognized by others.

Confession # 3: The only problem about writing a blog is that I’m writing more often here than in my journal, which is a definite no-no. I want to grow old, and one day pick up my journal, open up to a page, all yellow with age, and be able to read back on the days when I was a Young Scatterbrain. Journals are great fun to read and reread. But sometimes I get embarrassed with myself. I remember having a big crush on this guy wayyyy back when. When we went on a picnic together with some other friends, I needed tissue to wipe my hands after eating an apple, he offered me one. And (I blush to confess) I tore a piece off of this tissue and shoved it into my pocket. When I returned home I glued this piece onto my journal and wrote about how there MUST have been some meaning behind his offering a tissue to me. If he didn’t like me, he WOULD NOT have give me a tissue–this was my mentality back then. Each time I read back on this entry, I either snort, roll my eyes, or fall back laughing. Infatuated girls can be ridiculous, I think to myself; they decipher a message in EVERYTHING the guy they admire does. He glances over at her?—the girl thinks, he likes me! He says hello to her first before greeting anyone else?—the girl thinks, he prefers me to the rest! He brushes by her when he walks away?—the girl thinks, it was intentional!…..He gives her a tissue?–the girls think, he LOVES me!

Confession # 4: Back to writing. It is my greatest struggle as a writer to overcome my desire for fame/recognition. Granted, it’s not a bad thing to want to be popular, but when it becomes a priority, a writer (like myself) will end up writing for the readers, for the selfish desire to be praised, and it becomes a pain in the arse when you don’t get noticed. I end up wanting to write a story, not based on what I want to write, but on what i think will be popular among the readers. And I know one must consider this in order for their book to be marketable…. But, I don’t know, I feel a gush of thoughts on this matter and yet can’t seem to transcribe it well into words. It can only be summed into the few sentences my wise little sixteen-year-old sister (wait, is she still 16?) wrote to me on my birthday card:

…I hope that in the future, the reason why you want to write is not for the fame, money, or anything like that, but because, maybe through your writing, someone might be changed. Even if it’s just one person’s life…Don’t you think that’s enough? You always talked about how precious the life of a single person is. So the power to change even one life is an accomplishment! I hope this becomes your goal when you write.

And I hope so too. I hope this becomes my goal. My mind always says that it is, but is this what I believe in at the very core of my heart? I do believe that every human being is precious, though. Every individual is a walking masterpiece, and should they die, or never have existed, that’s our loss. It would be like…as if Jane Eyre had never been written! Or Pride and Prejudice! Or North and South! Or Wuthering Heights! Or…you get the gist. It’s bye bye to Mr. Rochester, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Thornton, Heathcliffe…!!! Farewell to all those hunks? Noooooo! I digress. I think I’m ruining the whole point of what I meant.