“Do You Always Enjoy Writing?"

Nini’s question from Conversations on Writing

This was my reply:

I have been thinking about your question. I thought about it yesterday when I admired tall buildings through a moving car. I thought of it when I waited for my turn in a government building. I remembered it in church today, when the preacher quoted Psalm 35:1: My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.

And just before now, when my eyes welcomed consciousness from a much needed rest, it was the first thought that attacked me. In fact, I am only relieved that you—indirectly—did not torment my dreams, Nini.

First of all, I was only a literature student for one term. And that was introductory literature. I enjoyed the class, but not as much as I enjoyed Physics. So I barely know anything about literature.

What I know is how to share my thoughts in their crude form. I know no rules to writing, and if I did, I would break them. I am skeptical of any regulation guiding human expression.

I remember a part of your mail where you referred to Plato's theory about art being enjoyed for its sake. I agree. Art should be enjoyed.

However, my writing has become more than an art to me. It has become an extension of myself. Well, one may argue that all art is an extension of the creator (I fear to use the word artist), except for those who only create people's expectations. In my case, it can be said that what I write is not only art, but a breathing embodiment of what I am.

My writing is like me without my form. I see when I am sharp. I see when I am lapsing. It is a direct indicator of my growth.

So you see, writing to me is not a practice, it is a way of life. It is one of the most important means, I have discovered, to achieve my purpose. And purpose is not always enjoyable.

Secondly, writing changed me the way training transformed Po from a heavy Panda to The Dragon Warrior. That is not the kind of process one readily enjoys. You hardly smile through any period of training.

When I say writing changed me, I do not say it like most people say something has changed them. I do not say it to exaggerate my message. That is why I can hardly select a day from the hundreds I have written to expand into some lessons. They are all boring days, merged into one blurry line.

Writing made me more disciplined, more patient, more time conscious, more creative and more serious. I was going to write only 100 essays in a year but ended up writing 334. That change in perspective does something to you. It expanded my realm of possibilities. It was like a mirror was held to me so I could see my true reflection. It is true that what you work on, works on you.

Now, because of the kind of life I am living, I have to be twice as disciplined as a disciplined man, twice as reliable— by saying I would do something and doing it—as a reliable man, and thrice as ambitious as an ambitious man. And because writing has proven a trusted contributor to this process, enjoying it does not come near the available options—which are none, sadly. None of the qualities mentioned above are, themselves, enjoyable.

Writing is more than an art to me. I do not always enjoy it but I enjoy it. It is just not the kind of enjoyment one would naturally associate with the word.

I love the thrill of creating. I love to share my work with the world. I love knowing anytime I pick a pen I get better at sharing my message with the world. I love knowing I am forging myself. I love knowing that someday, all of these will fit into something bigger than me. Something bigger than my intention when I started.