How To Write

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I don’t think I have any business telling anybody HOW to write. I’m an amateur blogger who writes mostly about life and love. I’m no Shakespeare or John Green or J.K. Rowling. But some people have been asking me how to write (and I have no idea how to respond properly, as I’m just a geek with a lot of opinions, a laptop and internet access), so I’ll do my best to help. No promises though that these will work for you, just that these have helped me express myself personally. Here are my top five tips for writing:

1.     Check out The Elements Of Style by William Strunk, Jr.and E. B. White

This one is a technical tip. When I first got out of high school, I thought that opening a journal or a Word Document is all I needed to know about writing. Going into college and taking up Journalism though, I realized that there was more to it, like styles and grammar to think about, depending on the type of piece you’re trying to write. This is one of the books a professor assigned to us then that stuck to me even all these years later. It’s worth a peek!

2.     Be honest.

Writing is the only place I know how to be completely honest. When I write, my thoughts and feelings just automatically flow into the page, and that’s really helped me tell the world exactly how I feel or what I think. You don’t need page views or reader comments to validate your writing. Write for yourself, to express whatever you really want to say. Writing as honestly as you can helps make your piece more personal and heartfelt, something that (based on my experience), helps readers to better connect with you.

3.     Write about things that interest you. Things you care about. Things you know. Things you feel.

I chose to become a corporate drone after taking Journalism for years because I didn’t want to write about sports or politics or business, and I didn’t want people telling me that I was a worthless writer because of it. I have friends who write (and well) about sports or news, and this works for them because this is what is important to them. I, on the other hand, wanted to write about life and love, however boring and useless that might seem to others, so I just stopped writing altogether. Eventually though, I missed it, and I tried writing again. And once I started, I couldn’t stop. It doesn’t matter to me anymore that I can’t write deep universal articles on current events. I write about the things I love because these are the things I know best. Negative comments shouldn’t undermine your own thoughts (unless you’re writing a news piece based on non-credible “facts”). Write for you, about the things that are relevant to you.

4.     Find your voice and USE IT.

Every writer is different. Some feel the need to use flowery language or repetitive words to get the point across. Others are straightforward and concise. But every single writer has a voice: Find your own voice and use it. Talk about things that matter to you, and I guarantee you, somewhere out there is even just one other person who can relate to the way you talk. You don’t have to write to please every single reader that comes across your piece, or to copy the way other writers tell their own stories. You don’t even have to stick to one style forever. Every story can have a different way of being told, all you have to do is write it the way you’re most comfortable with.

5.     Don’t EVER let anybody tell you that you can’t write.

Like I said, you write for YOU, and you can’t please all the readers in the world. Don’t let negative comments or judgmental messages get to you. Don’t stop writing because some other person said you can’t. Keep writing, because you know in your heart that you should.

You want to write? Just grab a pen and a paper, your laptop, your tablet, your phone—whichever works best for you. Then go sit somewhere quiet or play your favorite music, and write away.

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Any other tips that work for you personally? Share them!

10 Things I Hate About You - The Unrequited Love Version, 2014

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If you haven't heard of the legendary poem from 10 Things I Hate About You (Julia Stiles, Heath Ledger, Can't Take My Eyes Off You... Ring a bell?), then you need to watch it. Pronto. It's one of those must-watch cutsey movies of the 90's (with a kick-ass soundtrack) that will have you salivating over Heath Ledger, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and maybe even Andrew Keegan.

The original poem went like this:

I hate the way you talk to me, 
and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car, 
I hate it when you stare. 
I hate your big dumb combat boots 
and the way you read my mind. 
I hate you so much it makes me sick,
it even makes me rhyme. 
I hate the way you’re always right, 
I hate it when you lie. 
I hate it when you make me laugh,
even worse when you make me cry. 
I hate it when you’re not around, 
and the fact that you didn’t call. 
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, 
not even close…
not even a little bit… 
not even at all.

I wrote my own version, trying to stay as true to the text as possible (the number of syllables and the last word rhyme off the original). It's about a typical girl-next-door today who falls in love with a douchebag who doesn't treat her right and she still wants to save him. And she can't help but love him anyway. Word of warning though, I'm a frustrated poet. I mean, really frustrated. I just wanted to try my hand at writing something different. So here goes:

I hate the way you look at me,

And the way you wax your hair

I hate when you smoke in your car

I hate that you don’t care

I hate the way you call me “Toots,”

And the respect I can’t find

I hate you so much, you make me sick

You never have the time.

I hate that you drink every night

I hate every time you lie

I hate that you’re my better half

But you never really try

I hate that you’re never around

And that you don’t return my calls

But mostly I hate the way I can’t hate you…

Even though we’ve sunk so low

Even though you act like shit

But you still make me fall.

Confessions Of The Most Awkward Dork On This Side Of The World

Photo by Josh Camahort

I have never been one of the popular kids in school. I was always one of the weirdos in the back of the room, laughing like a hyena at some lame joke, poring over books, squealing over hunky 90s boy bands, creating little mindless works of art or writing about the woes of an emotional teenager.

I never quite looked like one of the popular kids either. I danced ballet for years, but I never quite lived with that kind of grace. I took tennis lessons and went wall-climbing, but I was never built to be a jock. I was always the strangely tall, klutzy freak with a truckload of acne issues who struggled with her weight. Like everyone else, I went through this awkward phase. But unlike the rest of the world, I never grew out of it.

I dealt with the pressures of society like any struggling teenager would: I pretended not to give a damn, but I cared a lot about what people thought. Maybe I cared too much about what they thought. To a point, I tried to re-invent myself several times.

I lost a lot of weight due to some health concerns, and I embraced this change. I began to put on make-up and traded my old lady wardrobe for short shorts and flirty dresses. I started hanging out with cool crowds more than my nerdy friends, where drinking and partying became a nightly ritual. Me, with my insane allergy to all alcoholic beverages (that’s one shot red, two shots tipsy, three shots dead). I started smoking and loitering around campus became more important than doing well in my classes. When more guys started paying attention to me, I felt good because not many did when I was that awkward freak. There were also times, at the peak of my newfound persona, that I made up stories to make me more interesting. Stories that I later on paid a price for, but that experience brought me to this.

I am Kat, a 20-something weird girl with acne problems and weight issues who stands taller than most Filipinas… and Filipinos. After a year of letting myself slide, I’m only now trying to get back into shape. But I will never have the body of a Victoria’s Secret model. I like putting on make-up and I like wearing whatever makes me comfortable (including extremely high heels), but I will never be that beautiful head-turner who can make guys chase after her with a wink or a hair flip. I can converse well with you, but I will never be able to memorize the more intellectual details of literature or understand the nitty gritty of politics or quote scores and team standings on various sports. You can try pick-up lines on me, but I’m the freak who panics and doesn’t know how to respond. I like meeting new people in whatever way I can, at bars or on Tinder, but I don’t do hookups. I can rough it as well as the next adventurer, though climbing mountains or going through caves takes me more time than most people need. I struggle with self-esteem issues, and I don’t think that’s going away any time soon. I like to party but I can’t drink. I still believe in fairy tales but I no longer believe in happily ever afters (hello, jaded ex girlfriend!). I make a lot of mistakes. But I learn from them.

I am an ordinary woman with average intellect and above average dorkiness, but I am now comfortable with being just that. Because I have a good life and I’m surrounded by a lot of love. I am accepted in all my geeky glory by my lovely family and my awesome friends, from the nerdy crowd to the cool party-goers, from the boys who treat me like one of the boys, to professional colleagues who became friends, to everyone in between.

I am a dork. And that isn’t a bad thing. Because being a dork is what makes me, me. And if being a dork means I'll spend the rest of my life alone (I know, too early to be this cynical, right?) then at least I'm now happy about spending the rest of my life with just me.

"The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries or the way she combs her hair." – Audrey Hepburn

Coffee Shop

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Ever since I started freelance writing, I’d tried using different environments to inspire me. I’d tried writing in my pajamas and lounging around all day, waiting for my sleepiness to wear off. I usually ended up watching marathons of different TV series and wonder late at night where the time went. I’d tried hanging at office lobbies and making use of their WiFi for my personal needs. It was a little weird to be typing away at my laptop wearing jeans and a shirt while corporate robots walked around in spiffy business suits.

My favorite place to write ended up being coffee shops—any coffee shop. Aside from the fact that I am in a long-term relationship (that’s still going strong) with caffeine, I liked sitting outside and ignoring the world, hacking at my keyboard while they passed. Sometimes when I have nothing left to type, I just sit there, alone, and people-watch.

I used to hate sitting alone at public establishments—it made me feel like such a loser. But eventually I realized it was something I really enjoyed. It had a relaxing influence on me, to sit alone and just watch people go by as I thought up of my next lines. I sound like such a stalker, now don’t I? But I swear, I love the calming effect that coffee shops have on me when I write. It’s almost therapeutic. Don’t get me wrong, I like writing when I’m irate or emotional—my fingers type out my feelings even before my mind begins to process them. But since I think my slew of passionate articles from November 2013 to date has pretty much dried up my emotional toothpaste (Shawn Hunter, BMW), I am more than willing to take my coffee shop therapy. 

Earlier as I was writing an article on RF Treatment, I was sitting at a table across from this girl who was watching some movie on her phone. She sat there for 2 hours, sniffling loudly the whole time. Every time I glanced over, I saw her wiping tears off her face—huge, copious, unbelievable amounts of tears. And a fictional story that I would (probably not) write someday began to unfold in my mind, of a girl who had her heart broken, sat in a coffee shop and cried over The Notebook. She sat there so she wouldn’t feel alone, even though every moment felt so lonely. Ooohhkay, that’s hitting a little close to home, circa 2012.

I continued writing and glanced to my left. There was a group of freshmen college coeds there, studying for their finals. Don’t ask me how I know they were freshmen—they just had that fresh meat smell to them. Also, they were small. I wasn’t that tiny when I was a frosh, was I? Their time was spent alternating between reading their textbooks and making googly eyes at each other. One was apparently the 11th wheel or something. Wonder how many of those cutesy relationships will last.

I went to sit outside once my battery finished charging. Beside me, two businessmen were arguing about figures and manpower. No way would I pretend to make sense of that. Three feet way, a group of girls were gossiping about their boss. Now I know this because I could hear them. Poor suckers. Wonder if they realized someone was watching them and listening from a table away. Well, they were pretty loud. And they were at a coffee shop right outside their office building (as I assumed from their attires). Did they want to be overheard?

A lot of people passed by in the eight hours that I sat there (I know, I need to get a life). A girl rushing off to school, a gigantic foreign businessman who had a weird strut, a balding janitor with a kind smile, a hipster (complete with glasses) in a tight checked polo on his phone, scowling (argument with the girlfriend, maybe?) and taking huge puffs from his cigarette every other sentence. There were also ordinary people just walking by, people I didn’t really try to notice, but maybe should have.

My point is this: I get a lot of inspiration just sitting a coffee shop and watching the people go by when I have nothing left to say.

Everyone has a story to tell, a story that they might not want to speak about in the first place. I looked at their faces, from the smiling eyes to those dripping in tears, from the gossipy smirks to the worried set of their lips, from their suitcases to their stilettos , there’s always a story you can try to tell. Or someone’s expression that sets off the next line of your piece, telling you with their faces what you should have been saying.

It’s weird, I know. But give it a shot. You want to learn about people? Find a coffee shop, order their largest drink, and sit there for a few hours. You’d be overwhelmed at how many stories your mind begins to tell you.

And for a writer, that’s a damned good problem to have.

Also: if you try sitting at some coffee shop and find yourself glancing at an oddball with messy hair and a beat-up laptop in front of her, do yourself a favor and look away. I think she’s told more than enough stories to the world.