For me.

Blog, truncation of “weblog.” Blog. Blogblogblog. Blog. It sounds like Adam West ramming himself into a throng of scheming baddies, or the mating call of an amphibious science-fiction monstrosity. It sounds like falling down stairs, or explosive old-people farts. Blog. It’s a funny word, one that I don’t have much of an attachment to, which is decidedly strange, considering the skillset I’ve chosen to hone these past twenty or so years. I’m a writer, for lack of a better term. And what’s a writer without the admission or at least the belief that I can handle words more proficiently than others? (Although the admission on its own should never be an indication of expertise, not in the slightest.)

I used to hate labels. “I’m not a writer, I’m a human who just happens to write.” Well, it’s not wrong, but it sure is cute, and it’s not something I agree with that much anymore. Statements like this verge on idealism, masturbatory reveling in one’s own uniqueness. What made my works so different from the others, that I decided to extract myself from such a community? Who said you couldn’t be many other things apart from being a writer and a human being? All skillsets considered (web-surfing, music-listening, and bed-sleeping), writing is what I believe I do best, and I will continue calling myself a writer for as long as I have the means to transcribe. I hope I don’t lose faculty over my fingers any time soon or I will have to resort to oral—that is, typing with my mouth.

I am a writer. Words are my currency. And like money, words don’t come easy to me. I feel like an even greater responsibility is placed upon me, and I find myself carefully mulling over words in my head on and my tongue, trying on entire wardrobes in the fitting room before finally being happy with my choice, only to find out later that there were a million other configurations, more mellifluous, more meaningful than the one I’d settled on.

Settling—that’s part of being a writer, I’m led to think. But this kind of settling doesn’t mean staying in one place. To settle also means having to decide on, to be happy with, to stick to one thing and bring it with you wherever you go. Precision is an illusion. Typing up the ideal sequence of words seems more Sisyphean the more it’s endeavored. The writer should be constantly on the move, aiming to better themself, which is why more time should be spent moving forward, and less time rolling the same rock.

I began this entry with a purpose. Now, the purpose has sprouted legs of its own and has allowed my mind to wander. I am a writer and this is my long overdue blog. Never mind that it doesn’t have an audience. Never mind that I have so few things worth saying. This is for no one but me.

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