Ex-advertising executive, part-time traveler, would-be writer, full-time figuring-it-out
I woke up one day and after reading a hauntingly intimidating and intelligent novel, I declared I wanted to be a writer. I have not really written anything in 5 years.
For like a dream, and I swear by this, the idea came to me—
I had spent roughly two weeks in a small surf town, south of Luzon, Philippines. One day, I was staring blankly into the water in the middle of an hour-long boat ride from a reef break; the sun was set at its highest and I was exhausted. I had gone through the exercise of over-thinking my life – poorly constructed story: girl in her mid-twenties quits her advertising job out of anxiety and a great distaste for acne, dreams incessantly about doing everything but is crippled by laziness (and the mindless need to refresh her social media pages for some mild satisfaction), surfs her troubles away despite the lack of natural talent, burns all her money on traveling like any typical millennial. Nothing you haven’t read from EliteDaily, I’m sure (This is an example of sardonic sentences I sometimes like to write).
Anyway, I was staring at the stark blue and green hues as they made the lap lap sound on the boat’s edge and I realized that, all things considered, I was OKAY (This is not sardonic, but matter-of-fact). I was hot; I was tired; my back muscles were burning; and I had been reliving the wipe outs (falling off a surfboard and being eaten by the waves) as I would the story of my life. And I decided that I would do it over again tomorrow. I am happy. Or well, not to over promise, I am all sorts of unsure, and that’s fine (—I mean it).
And I am going to be a writer. Why not? I will put in the work. I will start by writing letters.
I keep them in boxes.
In 20 years, I’ve accumulated letters (also ticket stubs and identification cards and ribbons; go figure) from every stage of my life, carefully tucked away from the prying glances of my mom (She insists she isn’t being nosy if I leave them lying around in the open). In truth, I got it from her – she kept them all, too: our letters to Santa, the birthday cards, the I’m-sorry-for-being-a-terror letters, the father’s and mother’s day cards.
I’ve been wanting to start a “real” blog for years (as opposed to the angst-y, senseless blogging I attempted to do as a teenager), and it was timely to have finally landed an idea that I didn’t completely hate—
Write the blog of your adventures in letters (They called it ‘mail‘ back in the day) – personal but deliberate, real but with every intent to pass on the magic. And for the heck of it, actually send the letter. To whom? To anyone, really. To what end? I don’t know. But old habits die hard; I suppose it’s just time to fill another box with letters from a new chapter of my life.
So, let me write to you. I’m already looking forward to exchanging stories.
With love from,