Friends and voyeurs,

my new blog address is

http://shadowartist.blogdrive.com

see you there, horse hair!

Shadow Artist Memoirs still does not give me what i truly want out of a blog. Add that to the fact that, almost always, there's a problem with how blogger works. So, yes, I've been blog whoring the past few days, in desperate search for real home for my words, important and otherwise.

The journey has led me to blogdrive. You must be tired of having me blog hop almost every two months. It's tedious, I know. I'm having a hellish time figuring out what I want, too. Anyway, expect a blogdrive link to come up here soon; it could take a few days more for it to be up and running and, well, become eye candy. Meanwhile, if you're really interested in reading about me, i'll be at Shadow Artist Memoirs.

Forgive me for how this blog looks right now. We all have Angelfire to blame for that. And since I have no patience to sit down and figure out how to fix this thing, I have decided to wave a white flag at Blogger and adopt one of its newer templates.

My new blog address is (which, by the way, is still under construction):

http://shadowartistmemoirs.blogspot.com

I hope to see all of you there! Drop me line so I'll know you're still alive okay? I have yet to learn how to add a Links list to the sidebar so your blogs won't show up yet.

Later, Alligator!

LORD, TAKE ME NOW!!!!

Okay, so I was absentmindedly browsing through my three emails, scanning invites and calls for submission, replying "yes", "no", "how much" all too repeatedly already, when LO AND BEHOLD, a message arrives with the subject "travel writing". Bored me opens the e-mail, about to go ho-hum once again, expecting an author wannabe to ask me to write her book for her (I swear! This happens!), when I saw where it came from: M&C Saatchi. Yipes!

For one, I don't remember EVER sending an application to any of the hotshot advertising agencies. Why, I never really had the courage to send ANY expressions of intent to work for even the smaller ad agencies! I mean, my gahd, I'm not ready to take them on just yet! Kulang pa ako sa marinade to be a worthy grill specialty! Noooooooo! But there it was right before me. It said "Hi Vanessa!", from Singapore.

Ewan ko na kung ano gagawin ko. But I found myself dragging the cursor to the reply button and replying with a big YES. It's a freelance gig; but, nevertheless, the opportunity was opened to ME. I really must be doing something fantastic with my life to deserve all the good things that are happening to me. Now I wonder how they got hold of my email. Nah! I don't care if they saw it etched on the wall of some public toilet. The important thing is.... the window has opened.

And the scarier part of the whole scenario is.... I am hesitant. F*king kuneho! Am I even ready for this kind of stint? Shiiiiiiiiiiit.... pressure, pressure. Now I wait for their reply.

*Faints*

From my old blog, May 28, 2003. I have, indeed, changed.

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"Just as blood is fact of your physical body and nothing you invented, creativity is a fact of your spiritual body and nothing that you must invent."

For one to unblock, she must first bring her pride down and adhere to the marching orders barked by her soul. How else would she be able to kick herslef to on and write something, anything on a sheet of paper?

When I was younger, I felt that the only time I was creative was when a tragedy befell on me, or when I was in grief. Only then was I able to go beyond my conscious effort to make my writing look good, because, then, I was angry and didn't care what people thought. As a result, I could not write in idle moments, not even in happy times. After a number of pieces, I realized how angst-driven my content has become, and for that, I felt more sad, more insecure. Constantly, I sought reasons to feel anger just so I could write. I scribbled furiously, struggling to finish my piece before my sorrow fades, calm sets in, and I would start caring about the words that flowed onto the page. When I finally had nowhere else to turn but that state of equilibrium, I stopped writing. My prose, unfinished. My confidence, diminished. The piece of work I tried so hard to create in a matter of minutes hidden somewhere in my shoebox of random sheets, or in the trash bin, burning.

For a time, I lived in creative spasms. Much like pus spurting out from a freshly popped pimple. (Gross, I know) I made myself believe that creativity, or the "Muses", only come at certain periods in life, or at specific times of the day. The latter still holds true, though. I write better in the wee hours of the morning.

"If creativity was spiritual in any sense, it was only in its resemblance to crucifixion." It fell upon the thorns of prose. The painful burden is lifted toward calvary, with editors lashing at your back to speed up before night fell. I bled. The moment following the struggle, I had thesis reports in hand, a couple of personal essays, some finished commissioned work, and a depression problem I could no longer handle. If writing was supposed to be my passion, why was I so tired and empty after the experience? Why was I so lonely? Apparently, people saw the lack of heart in my work, that I was faced with rejection after rejection. I gave up. For more than a year, I stopped writing.

When I came upon a choice once again, I had to let go of my usual habits lest I shoot myself in the head for believing to be a failure as an artist. A writing project was offered to me. Redemption. Though I didn't feel like writing anymore, something in me screamed I should at least give it a shot.
Necessity, not virtue, pushed me back. Clean slate. Square one. But writing, nevertheless. This time, I wasn't pressured into creating a masterpiece anymore. They want me to do a feature based on an interview. All I needed to do was write down what I heard and that's it. Unconsciously, I gave up my security blanket and wrote without a care. I met face to face with my fear without knowing it was there. And by looking through it, beyond it, I found myself.

Artists have a lot of excuses as to why they can't perform. But the deal is, I can always choose not to be run down by excuses and start working.Fear is the greatest nemesis of writers. Fear of the public. Fear of the block. Fear of self. Up until today, I suffer from the self-inflicted scenarios. Whenever they come to haunt me, I try to find refuge somewhere else: at work, in people, in sleep. I know that one day I will have to come to terms with them. Deadlines compel me. Responsibility forces me. If I'm not going to write now, might as well give it up entirely and drown myself in a corporate sounding job. It's now or never.

"Our creative artist is an inner youngster and prone to childish thinking."

Perhaps why we fear it so much. In a world run by rules of the so-called adults, creativity seems to have no niche. That's why most writers feel unwanted. That's why many good writers do not write at all. An artist can rightfully be called a creator, for it is through the intervention, the opening up of her natural creativity that she is able to produce works of art.

"Leap and the net will appear"

The returns of writing are relatively unknown, but the passionate writer does not bother with this. What I am most concerned with is extracting ideas out of my brimming head, freeing them, and putting them all on paper. Readership should come as a bonus, not an end in itself.

The writer's greatest tool is faith. With it, anything is possible. She can go on in tirade about her life as a child to the present, or a long and winding description of an eggshell sitting up a wall eventually falling to its demise. First, I must believe. Second, I must not fear. Third, I must let the words flow (no matter how seemingly incoherent they are at initial reading).

I write all these seeking to recover from years of stagnation. I have played hide-and-seek long enough and, frankly, I am tired of running away. I am also tired of seeking loneliness just to be able to produce something. The creator is in me. I now try my hardest to step out of my box and live free. I used to mourn for the self I abandoned. The mourning ceases today.

It was from staring at the blank, white wall for four hours straight that she realized she had gotten accustomed to seeing nothing but emptiness to complain about sore, dry eyes. That no matter how much she tried seeking a small dot of a different color, there would be none, unless she threw an open-headed pen, or a pencil, at it. Then her eyes would frantically search some more, hoping that, besides the pen mark, there would be something else different with the canvas. And then it would happen again. The revelation would unfold itself once more. She would see it in a fresh perspective; rebellious and so unlike the previous, countless times she had wished for a miracle to appear. As her head spins and whirls, and the colors of her life beyond that room dance before her in a merry, festive jig, she is reminded. Relieved. And she sighs. There is nothing there but a blank, white wall.