No matter what my place of discontent, this is how I envision myself in a few years’ time: An okay-looking gal carrying ample experiences and some writing dexterity that will enable her to write competently about life, love, her self-willed sentiments, and diverse meditations on Jane Doe’s quotidian existence.
There’s no hunger within me to turn in a best-selling novel someday or become a prolifically accomplished writer in the future; my imagination isn’t that fecund, my creativity too run-of-the-mill. An Arcadian repository of my narratives, thoughts, and sensations is everything I intend to leave behind.
Lumbering through WordPress for a little more than three years now, I’ve had interesting encounters with a small number of bloggers here because, you know, I just don’t follow blogs, I really read them. I sometimes happily convert myself into a devoted fan of the blogwriters that got me hooked, yet things don’t go heavenly smooth all the time. Let me cite an example:
The past year I’ve got a sudden hankering for perusing The Classics. Why? Now there’s a story I’m obliged to tell my readers – in which one or two lessons can be gleaned from – before it gets lost in the mists of time.
Several months ago in my blog universe, there was this blogger who quixotically alluded to unicorns that could save mountains, and to the beautiful flowers that secretly bloom in darkness. Moreover, he could easily whip up admiration with his amorous verses and incisive discourse about life’s crossroads in the abstract. He’s, for the most part, a dreamer. He made certain, however, his real identity would remain a well-guarded secret, unless you seek him out privately. Which meant that other than this Mister Romantic Poet’s splendid writings, there was nothing else you could find attractive about him: One more kind of co-blogger best kept at arms’ length.
Enter this Canadian lady who introduced herself to me during my most difficult times early last year: A new divorcee who had been feeling out of sorts by reason of her new status. She seemed to be extending her blogger hand to me in goodwill – which engendered my fondness for her because she was being nice and understanding. She always looked pretty good in her gravatar photos. And oh, she has a distinctive narrative style to boot and writes like a true pro. Amazing woman, I believe.
Most of my blogger pals have been male. During that time each of them seemed to have checked her out by clicking her comment link on my blog, as substantiated by My Stats page. Did I mind? A bit – to be perfectly honest with you. Call it a woman thing on my part.
Mister Romantic Poet started Liking her entries. Much to my astonishment, he even went back to her maiden post where an interlocution manifesting of lucid flirtation took place. Ah ok, it’s a free world in here – no ground for me to feel slighted; although to reiterate once more, it’s a (Filipino) woman thing. Bear in mind the fact Mister Romantic Poet wasn’t even my crush then. Did my favourite (another) blogger pal – the one I liked the most – check her out and officially visit her site, too? Yes, he did…to my heartbreak (Silly silly me from time to time 🙂 ); which brought about the abrupt end of my association with her. Something that, in retrospect, I kind of regret…because men are never a good reason enough for the extinction of any female connection.
Back to Mister Romantic Poet who had profusely praised my lady commenter in the course of their inceptive conversation: Honestly, my consternation upon reading the exchange between them couldn’t bring me to regard him in the same manner afterwards. As if an infection had penetrated deep into whatever sterling estimation I had consigned to his persona before. Despite that, it paved the way for his revealing question to her which would subsequently refuse to fall from my memory: “Did you happen to read a lot of classics in your past that made you write this good?”
I’ve already forgotten my lady pal’s answer. But that particular query has stayed prominent on my mind for ages. Yeah yeah, it’s too late for me to catch up on the classics for the refinement of my writing skill. It won’t change the fact my literature in my younger years had been limited to Mills&Boons, idiotic women’s magazines and sundry articles on Hollywood gossip. Still, whenever I go to a bookstore these days, I can’t prevent myself from dropping by the Classics Section to browse. The books occasionally go on sale. My growing collection has aggregated to ten now and I have finished reading most of them. It’s worth engrossing oneself in a world where the likes of Thomas Hardy, Victor Hugo, George Eliot, Hermann Hesse and the Bronte sisters are in preponderance. How I wish I had started much earlier.
Perhaps I ought to thank Mr. Romantic Poet for all this. Unfortunately, he has long closed down his lovely blog.