Sprinkles for Tuesday, March 12, 2013
IT'S BEEN a while. For quite some time, I haven't found myself sitting in a coffeeshop with nothing to worry and nothing to lose. The last time seems like ages past I could not even remember the last time I was here. Not until now—all basked in soft yellow lights, enjoying the smell of latte. Having been battered with such erratic schedule in the past month, moments like this is a privilege I rarely enjoy these days. There’s something in coffeeshops that relax my mind, inasmuch as other people think of a swimming pool to get rid of stress. Maybe the best thing about coffeeshops is that it encourages you to think deep, filter thoughts, think of something new, connect to the world or even make up some lost time with a friend and engage on a hearty conversation.
IT'S BEEN a while. For quite some time, I haven't found myself sitting in a coffeeshop with nothing to worry and nothing to lose. The last time seems like ages past I could not even remember the last time I was here. Not until now—all basked in soft yellow lights, enjoying the smell of latte. Having been battered with such erratic schedule in the past month, moments like this is a privilege I rarely enjoy these days. There’s something in coffeeshops that relax my mind, inasmuch as other people think of a swimming pool to get rid of stress. Maybe the best thing about coffeeshops is that it encourages you to think deep, filter thoughts, think of something new, connect to the world or even make up some lost time with a friend and engage on a hearty conversation.
Now this new paragraph is no more written in a coffeeshop but on
table just inches away from my bed. I write this paragraph fifteen minutes to
twelve with the noise of an electric fan on number three as a companion. And
some Michael Buble’s songs, too. One would think this is crazy when I could
just go to bed and go to Dreamland at this time of the night. I all have the
freedom to do that. But not tonight.
Maybe part of that stems from my penchant to over-react, or in
this case, to be “over-inspired” over a revolutionary idea. Just a couple of
hours ago, I went to Blugre with fellow blogger and CIO Chief Photographer LeoTimogan (a new coffeeshop in Tagum which is a franchise of a proudly
Davao-based brand, replacing the short-lived Café Wissie which has become a
favorite among friends and officemates) with the aim of researching and
deciding whether to join the climb to the roof of the Philippines this coming
Holy Week—Mount Apo. I wasn’t able to accomplish this goal as it was
overshadowed with our views on how the Catholic Church would transform
itself after a new Supreme Pontiff will be chosen in a historic conclave.
There was a slight silence in the minutes that was consumed, and then Leo
dropped the question that inspired me to write this piece: What kind of writer
are you?
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| Blugre, March 12, 2013. |
It was the kind of question that made my world stop for a bit.
Scores of question marks seem to storm my mind asking “Am I one?” “A News
Writer,” I jokingly quipped, “or maybe a ghost writer.” Perhaps this could very
well explain my hesitation to say that I am a writer, judging by the outputs I
produced in the past years. It seems to
me I’ve been a formulaic writer—imprisoned by the old rules of writing and,
well, just for the sake of finishing a news report or a speech which most of
the time are not eventually read in the rostrum. The line of questioning Leo popped out
somewhat opened the doors for me to seek for improvement and to engage in a
journey which he calls as a “prelude to discovering yourself as a writer.” It’s
a sort of making a mark. My hesitation could be explained perhaps in part by my
working environment that thinks (and advocates) that less is more. This could
be the reason why I think I did not allot a room for improvement—a thing which
I did not ponder until now.
