Writers' Stigma

Most of those in the know call it writer’s stigma. It is when the writer hibernates on his penchant towards writing. It is the sudden stagnation of a writer about scrutinizing the creative side of every situation and the sloth-like ceasing from collecting concrete ideas from both the simplest of things to the myriad of many other thingamajigs yet unexplained by the naked brain.
I cannot call myself a writer per se so that when I stagnated from scribbling ambitious words in this blog spot since I impulsively created this a year ago, I cannot be accused of a writer’s stigma. Instead, I would prefer to call myself a rebel who chose to shy myself away from the maddened crowd so that I may be able to search my thoughts well and good. But let me just put it on the record that when I hibernated for quite sometime, I was out in the killing field. It was a tumultuous battle fighting my own demons. I fought a good fight.


But what makes a prolific writer and effective writing come into unison? Is it purely about narrating into beautiful words all the fancies of this life, both the good and the ugly? Is it taking into account all the misadventures of man and making the record indelible enough so that all information is understood and learned by the readers? Is it about looming ideas carefully so that it ends up into an intricate piece of cloth of lofty-minded essay? I remember a senior communication arts student from UP Tacloban Campus during the event of their short film festival having been awarded as best director aptly said that once the article, essay, poem or a short film is out in the open ready to be devoured by the public, the author loses control over his piece of art. No matter how wonderful it was written, it is inevitable that it will be perceived differently by the audience. Thus lies the responsibility of understanding the essence of the artwork in the hands of the beholder, or the readers for that matter. In the shortcomings of the audience, any piece of art suffers.

It also speaks the same about this page. While I am caught in the limbo of issues about being guilty of a writer’s dilemma and the indecisiveness whether I keep this page limited to my personal journal of misadventures, demons may care, or must I keep this simply as a photo blog where literary bouts are supported with relevant, if not journalistic photos at that, I remain steadfast with my Zafra-ish obligation of being accountable with my storytelling.



I’m not a prolific writer. Or at least, I cannot qualify to be hailed like one just yet. Neither am I your typical yuppy photo blogger. I am not even close to being an online poet con lensman. But in the trials of times when one must rise up from his sloth and defy the odds against those who have slapped the cheek of the weak or in the event that tact is more powerful than truth but prudence argues with sobriety, then I can let loose of my own leash so that I become, nonetheless, the rebel that I am.