I started writing when I was in elementary. I had a little green notebook where I kept my first poetry compositions.
“Mommy, read this!” I always exclaimed after finishing one. She would say, let you Papa read it, too. I wasn’t sure if she really read what I have written; but my father would gladly critic my work — sometimes correct my grammar.
Both of them have been very supportive. They brought home so many poetry books from their library. I can’t forget Papa handing me a green pocket book of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. I did not know who the author was, but I know he should have been great. His words were very complicated. At some point, my mom would accompany me to the neighborhood where an English teacher colleague is. “Can I borrow a book from you, those with poems. I will just copy them then bring them back when I am done,” I used to say. I was afraid I’d be embarrassed. Then mommy would explain. I’d be waiting in the receiving room while the two of them look for the books.
I would spend many nights or a whole day copying the poems that sounded good to me. I would sit in front my study table, switch on the reading lamp or open the windows and start to write. I would wait until my middle finger is already callous or my back aching before I’d stop. The obsessive compulsive that I was, I did not want any mistake in spelling or indention. I would not use a correction fluid rather tear the page and write it again.
I kept all those poems in a big notebook. I just kept them; I can’t remember memorizing not one poem. Though, I read and re-read them, carefully learning how they were written. I tried to imitate their styles but I gave up when it didn’t sound good. They were really far better and I was hopeless I can be like them — William Wordsworth, Edgar Allan Poe, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Sir Walter Raleigh, Christopher Marlow and the others.
I dreamt that one day, I can be as prolific as they are, as good as they are. But now, that dream faded; rather it came to me that I can not be like them but I can be me — dreaming of publishing my own books and reading my poems in print. I am just hoping that I can continue my writing, writing in my own style, writing in my own voice, writing in my own eyes; not from anyone from my compilation.
I have already stopped copying and compiling others’ works but have started compiling my own. Though, I still read most of others’ works, buy their books and be amazed with their styles and great minds, I am the writer of my own story and poems now. I am not regretting those times that I copied others’ works; rather I am thankful for their inspiration.
