The Revenge of Letter B (or a Boring History of Learning How to Write)

(Note: I started writing this around November 2006 when I just "resigned" (or took a leave?) from my previous "job" as trainee Production Assistant in a production house to finally be part of a mainstream film production with my favorite director Joyce Bernal. The film did not start filming until late December. I finished writing this essay in January 2007, when the filming stopped because of major script revisions. (At hindi pa ito tapos hanggang ngayon. Ano'ng petsa na?) Na-bore nako sa pagtengga sa bahay. Ayan, napa-English tuloy ako.)

The letter “b” on my sister’s laptop has finally agreed to serve its purpose as a member of the keyboard again. Actually, I perfectly understand its month-long apathy after I accidentally spilled ice-cold water on it. (Then again, letters h, g and v had a taste of the water too, but they weren’t as indifferent. Baka uhaw.) For a month, I had been doing the copy-and-paste routine whenever I wanted a letter “b” on my sentences.

Buti na lang hindi Ctrl+B ang copy-and-paste.

On other moments, like while in a typing rush in Yahoo Messenger, I was too in a hurry to actually put the “b” where it needed to be. I just trusted the quick syntax judgment of my chatmates that they’d understand what I was talking about even without that prima donna letter. Ahala na si atman.

I was in the middle of another typing rush when I spilled that glass of water on this laptop. It was my dream essay for that moment, so I was more focused on running after the sudden surge of words in my head than wiping the water off the keyboard. Too late, letter “b” has already gone on an unplanned sabbatical. After more than a month of serious writer’s block, my supposed non-concern for the keyboard’s welfare (in favor of finally finishing the essay) was perfectly understandable.

Letter b, I’m beginning to write again. Please cooperate.

* * *

I did not grow up wanting to be a writer. It was just not one of the popular default ambitions of most prep students--teacher, doctor (or veterinarian, if you can pronounce it right) or artista (via That’s, Saturday Edition). On my non-conformist days, I remember wanting to be a sportscaster, a synchronized swimmer and an architect. Today, I am not any of those: I am scared of syringes and blood, I did not grow tall enough to interview a basketball player (if only to be inside the camera frame at all), and my most perfected swimming stroke is the ever-reliable langoy-aso. (Ironically, I am not a veterinarian too.) Along with being a film director, it was the non-ambition “to be a writer” that I pursued--unconsciously.

Still, Kuya Germs, it was your and Saturday Edition’s loss.

There was self-inflicted “stress” in college (which translates to simple pag-iinarte relative to Real World stress), and that became my initial motivation to write. At that time, the popular and easy realization of “to write” did not include pen and paper but a keyboard and the world-wide web. Yes, I began to blog. When under stress, being tolerated for my shallowness and spontaneity is manna from Blogdrive heaven. Using my prep-level expertise on HTML (which produced a tacky layout reminiscent of a picnic cloth), I talked about free Masculados ringtones, Cassandra Ponti, my grudge towards Pong Pagong, the T-Rex at the I-Max, MRT rush hours, and overheard tsismis from FX passengers, among others. By normal journalist standards, that is not legitimate writing of course, but still, it was where I began to want to write--consciously.

Later on, when my blog visitors were no longer limited to my non-layout judgmental friends and already extended to the “accidental visitors” (or the disoriented victims of Google search), I knew there was something more to writing than just being a virtual Stresstabs. It meant a lot when a virtual stranger (who may’ve actually Googled for “Cassandra Ponti”. Very likely) actually tags how I made him laugh and even comes back, or when a friend comments on how I write. In the tradition of my being shallow, those simple tags and comments made my day. I discovered that rewarding feeling of being read. Sorry Stresstabs, you just lost one customer to a tagboard.

Blog and blog readers, thank you for keeping me sane. I owe you my mental hospital bill.

* * *

Well, that was the case prior to Real World stress. (Ironically, in my timeline, that was pre-Boom Tarat Tarat too.) At the end of a tiring and frustrating day, writing was simply not on the priority to-do list anymore. There was, of course, watching (the last minutes of) Deal or No Deal, cursing and being dramatic, staring at the ceiling and listening to the brilliant music of the butiki, and before there was even time to write, sleep is already as welcoming as ever. Besides, writing and whining about “life” is already unoriginal and redundant, so why repeat myself? That’s what the blog archives are for. Thank you, dear stress, you made me forget how to write and everything nice that goes with it. You’d owe me my mental hospital bill. And two Stresstabs.

Then again, there is something about writing that makes you not forget about it completely. Buti na lang.

Now, I begin to miss writing. I miss writing then being read. In true character, writing is now saving me again from stress (and its fellow citizens, frustration and boredom) before bedtime. Suddenly, the musical ability of our resident butiki is not as delightful as before.

So letter b, don’t disappear on me now. And please pass the message to your co-keyboard keys. I’m beginning to want to write again. Bahala na si Batman. #