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|Member Since:||May 26, 2012|
“I want to write.”
After admitting this to myself, I stumbled upon my worst obstacle: “What could I possibly write about?” I wasn’t overwhelmed by grammatical rules, styles or even talent. My main concern was having something to say and having someone to listen. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, hiding every story, each character, deep in a corner of my bookshelves, hidden from every single book I’ve ever collected. Did I have something to say? Anything? It seemed to me that you have had to live through a story to tell a story. The only traumatic event in my life was my birth and it turns out it didn’t affect me half as much as everyone around me during that time, my parents especially, thought it would. Also, why write? How many aspiring, hobby or even professional authors have stumbled upon that question? Sometimes by someone whom we esteemed, most times by pessimists and a few private times by our own reflection. To me, I was told, you wrote for history or money. I aspired to neither. I wrote for me.
I write to free myself from every day convictions and other oppressing opinions that are not my own. I write to change my world or maybe to understand it. On my first trip to Nashville (and I might be the only Puerto Rican who feels country) two things happened. First off, I met a lovely lady whom books had were her passion and pursuing them further opened doors she never dreamed of, both in the literary world and outside of it. She advised me to write. Just write. She didn’t ask me to mimic Shakespeare or Cervantes, in my native tongue. I didn’t even think she expects me to be any good at it (she hasn’t read me yet, but most likely will). She simply motivated me to keep doing it. A stranger I met in an airplane during an impromptu trip, was the first live person (not an online review, I mean) to tell me to just write. Just write. Write for myself and people like me. But the blank paper scared me still. I’d built it up a monster in my mind, who secretly judged every word and I offended it by tying them together. The army of written pages I’d created to rebel against me.
Words are my comfort. Isn’t it magical to see how the empty spaces fill up with a life you never even knew was inside you? Nothing short of a miracle when you discover yourself word after word. And that’s what happened next. After two busy days exploring Music City on my own, I decided to explore the public library. It was the third best thing I’d seen so far after the Ryman Auditorium and the Miranda Lambert Exhibit at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. I explored it for nearly an hour when I discovered the children’s section—wing, I must say—and stumbled upon a book, waiting for me at the entrance. “Word After Word After Word” by Patricia MacLachlan finished what my new friend started. “I want to write,” I said above a whisper whilst children indulged in a musical petting zoo.
But who was I? Who am I? Though I will never fully answer that question, I guess I would describe myself as a world traveler. And though I haven’t been to that many places, the worlds I travel are beyond what we can see, but rather feel. People. Emotions. Stories. I am a collector of characters, as I have found all story lines to always be the same. (Maybe “always” is kind of harsh. Try: “likely”: “…I have found story lines likely to be the same.”). Beginnings and endings, however unique they might be, revolve around the same thing and that is love and our pursuit of it.
Love, or lack thereof, is what makes up the soul and drives the human spirit. It comes as natural and mysterious as drawing breath (bear with me…). Like a shooting star or a firefly, it seems that we are always looking to catch it, but it’s easier to catch a cold. Be warned, I am not a very skilled storyteller. But as I walk the world, discover places, meet people and learn their stories, I am compelled to retell them. Most of the stories I know may seem quite ordinary. They are about pleading eyes, a lingering touch, a warm breeze perfumed with sweat and seawater, the falling of the leaves and the old age of the sun. Some stories are not meant to be history, I understand, but some of them deserve to be told and made extraordinary. I might not be too good at it, but I will give it a try, because these characters have somehow chosen me.
I’ve traveled the world for nothing more than to be the honoree spectator into someone’s life, even if that someone is me (which is not completely unheard of). And there are many souls I’ve felt that need to be heard. I’ll be their voice. At the best of my capabilities I will tell you stories under my custody with no other intention than to share what I’ve seen, felt and lived through the lives of others. Because these characters beg for life outside of incognito with the opportunity to be extraordinary. I can only try.
It’s a nerve-wracking task, I want to do them justice and give them all they desire, but can I? May I? And then I remember something Miss Mirabel (character from Word After Word After Word, not my fairy godmother’s name) said when asked the question: “why do you write?” She said: “I, myself, write to change my life, to make it come out the way I want it to. But other people write for other reasons: to see more closely what it is they are thinking about, what they might be afraid of. Sometimes writers to solve a problem or answer their own question. All these are good reaons.” Said Ms. Mirabel and I concur.
“And that is the most important thing I’ll ever tell you,” continued Ms. Mirabel, “Maybe it is the most important thing you’ll ever hear. Ever.” She was right. I write for all those reasons. (Being read is a real treat, too!) So, I guess, to summarize, I write because I can, because I need to. I don’t aspire to greatness or fame—that’s added bonus. I write because in this world, among the ordinary beings, such as myself, there are extraordinary stories that should be shared. I am keeper to some, creator to others and author to as many as I am allowed. I can’t sing country. I can’t sing at all! I’ve not the voice for it, but I am anything but voiceless. Write, I shall.
I promise to write about me, about you and about every other character with a story to tell—even if I can’t promise to be very good at it! But I want to make more of my given talents. “For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has hot, even what he has will be taken away” (Matthew 25:29). These characters have trusted me with a story to tell. I rather learn and multiply, than be taken away; to be an undiscovered story teller than suffer the pain of bearing an untold story inside of me. And according to Maya Angelou, there’s no greater agony.
I want to write.
I can't recall when I first fell in love with letters and the beautiful melody they made when put together on paper, but it's a love that's meant to last. A secret writer, my works have barely seen the light of day. A couple of years ago I decided to get over my fear and showcase my talent. I didn't dare to show my own works and so I decided to write my first fan fiction. I discovered as I wrote, that it was more complex to work with an already established and loved character than one that is your own. I also discovered, I was quite good at it, or so my fans said. Thinking I would swear off fanfic, I proved myself wrong as I am the proud author of 5 works on FanFiction.net and you can also find me on FictionPress.com. Now I am sharing my thoughts, opinions and undiscovered worlds displayed in my original works. Don't forget to comment and help me improve. Hope you enjoy!
I am extremely excited to have returned after a very long pause caused by changed and life happening! I can't wait to share my characters and story with anyone interested enough to read them.
Feel free to send me reading requests. I will read as many as possible and as fast as I am able.
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