Wannabe

I want to be a writer. It just hit me one night. I could literally hear the "ting" of the light bulb turning on in my head, like one of those Looney Tune cartoons.

Its about time, too. I was beginning to think I was a lazy, no-good, directionless swine. I've been wondering about my lack of enthusiasm for work, any work. I don't hate my job, but I don't like it either. I'm grateful for my job, I really am. Its a pretty good job, especially since I will never have to take calls again for the rest of my life, and can go petiks for hours. It pays well, too. I get to pay bills, go on trips, go on binges, buy silly overpriced bikinis and coffee, and get myself pampered from head to toe in spas, so I can't complain.

But its not a vocation. I can't honestly say that its my calling to work in Quality Assurance in a call center. (Come to think of it, I don't know if working for a call center is a calling for anybody, but that's beside the point.) I literally have to drag my ass off to work everyday (or night), and I totally refuse to spend one minute more in the office than I absolutely have to (except when I'm on chika mode, but again, that's beside the point). If it weren't for my friends, and for my fat paycheck, I would've quit a long time ago (I actually tried. Twice.). But, the biggest reason why I'm still here is the fact that I don't really know or want anything else. I'm not particularly good at anything. I graduated with a degree in IT and promptly forgot everything I learned within a week. In fact, the only things I know I'm good at are speaking fluent English without an accent, and seducing inappropriate men. Somebody told me I should do something that I was passionate about, but I didn't have a passion for anything, except for travel (too short to be a flight attendant), the beach (I can't fish!), men, and ugh, sex. So, short of becoming a commercial sex worker, I didn't really have much of a choice, hence, the high-powered (gag!) call center career. And I am so unhappy!

I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I wrote poetry as a child. As a teenager, I kept diaries so controversial that my mother read bits and pieces of my writing while flogging me with a broom handle. In college, I wrote in my journals, and for the past couple of years, I've been blogging. I've written passionate pieces about love, pain, tears, and heartbreak. I've written about broken dreams and broken promises. I've written about faith, hope, and my search for happy endings. I bare my soul shamelessly each time. I have been subjected to people's judgment, some of them downright hateful, but I'm not deterred. I have people telling me that I write beautifully, and that, really, is enough to spur me on. I write because I feel, because I cry, because I love. Writing has become second nature to me, and because of that, I have forgotten how passionate I was about it.

I want to be a writer. If I can be a writer, a real writer, I know I'll be perfectly happy for the rest of my life. How I can achieve that, I don't know. I've had no formal training in creative writing or journalism. I don't think it counts that I spent one semester as a Mass Communications major because I only took minor subjects (I was young and confused!). Most of the time I write about relationships and sex (yes, I do feel very Carrie Bradshaw-ish!) so, writing about current events and anything even remotely serious is out of the question. I want to be a writer, a professional, but I don't know how to be one. At least, not yet.

So for now, I write my blogs here in my little corner of cyberspace. This is actually just one of the many blogs that I'm keeping but I'm considering this my brainchild. I will be posting some old pieces that I've written, pieces that are close to my heart. Once again, I am baring my soul, and giving people a glimpse of my dysfunctional, if not screwed up, existence. Maybe here you'll be kinder.  After all, I'm just another girl blogging my way through the world.