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Another writing prompt for my CW workshop with Randy B.:

I was born in Batangas to a family of business-minded people in the revolutionary year of 1986. Contrary to the high passions and boundless spirits surrounding that year, I popped, as if by mistake, into a quiet upper middle-class family who preferred clannish reunions over marching to a major highway in Metro Manila. Little did they know that in seventeen years, that little red-faced babe will be caught in a few skirmishes and heated political debates, entertain running to the mountains, and turn to writing and arts instead of numerics. What my family built, I would destroy—figuratively, at least.

But as they say, maturity comes with age. By the time I danced that dreadful coming-of-age cotillion, and after my uniformed grandfather was gunned down by communists, my view shifted (to my mother’s relief). No longer was it for radical social change but for intimate relationships. Weekdays were for school and friends while weekends became exclusive for family: chess games with three raucous brothers and an equally competitive dad, gossips with a girly sister and haggling with the television remote against a controlling mom who I’ve learn to tolerate through the years.

But maturity didn’t quell the waves, though; I still write. In the past, my repertoire was primarily being a consistent part of the campus paper, which led to a few years of journalistic life after college. My family was oh-kay with the profession but lamented my decision to drop being a lawyer altogether and that I left my lucrative travel magazine job for hardcore news writing. (And being a journalist in a developing country is a sure-road to starvation.)

Now, I write scripts for soap operas; an irony since my cerebral family has grown a habit of watching telenovelas and lambasting the most miniscule details in the process. With my job, we have a peaceful time in front of the television, thank god. And when I’m not writing melodramatic characters, I am on the road to everywhere, dealing with geckos and money-eyed tricycle drivers.

And tomorrow… I’m not really sure. I might be globe-trotting a la Kerouac or I might be in la Belgique, summoning my inner Gondry. But whether I become a reclusive novelist like Salinger or advocating a feminine cause like Steinem, one thing is for sure: I will still be writing. (And I will still probably go against my family and my mom—they love me anyway.)

I'm posting my writing prompts so I'll know if I'm improving. Randy said this piece is a better version of my previous "Why I Write" piece. I agree. - 4/2/2014