My works are not for a contest. They are not for competition. My proses are bad, and every news article I made looks like a piece of trash. I am not really a writer. I am just a storyteller, but never a journalist.
Truth hurts, but I learned to deal these pain through constant repetition of sorrow, constant viewing of truth. The times I write prose are the times I stab myself. However, those stab wounds I tried to heal never did healed. They continue to bleed, and these wounds bleed much when I see good prose and good articles, which, was never like mine.
When I was in my elementary years, I never felt that I was the worst among us in writing. Everything I did was perfect. As I started to join contests on campus journalism and win them, I said to myself that I am for this genre. Writing is my career. I said to myself then that when I grow up, I would be a writer, creating news and articles for news companies that need my service. I am good at this job, and no one should stop me from doing it.
I believe in those lies for a long time, and I was confident enough that everyone would appreciate my work. I believed my teachers then. They said that I do not need any training. It was inborn. I have my sister then who excelled at this career, and I would be like her when I grow up. I did not blame my teachers. They are far good to me; they never deprived me of praises and recognition. However, all they said are lies, lies and much lies.
High school came, bringing my confidence with me, chin up; I walked by the campus with the lies I knew then as truth. I brought with me honors I received through writing and showed it to people to convince them that I am good at this game. Though these medals are gold, they did not saw it as gold. I was just treated as a writer wannabe, with a trying-hard grammar and a very lousy vocabulary. The writer in me became a stranger in his own body.
It annoyed me much. To get in an elite organization of writers still took me two painful years. Again, after being accepted, I endured another two painful years of humiliation and red marks on my obra maestra. They vandalized my beautiful piece, edited words, deleted sentences that seems not to be necessary. I knew that it was for improvement, though I do not know that it needs to be this agonizing. My mentor gave me a flaming torch but quickly blew it off after I savored its radiance. She said that I am becoming of a good writer, though I tend to be wordy at times.
I tried not to take these criticisms seriously, though as I hear them day-by-day, it shaped a hollow mark on my heart and it released the confidence I then contained. There is no confidence, no air, and no self-assurance inside me. All I felt is that I am a piece of wood, to be chopped, stomped, and fired. I am very empty. Stupid.
In my life as a young writer at my school, I was never appreciated. Though I tried to apply the constructive criticisms they regularly give, I still cannot see the satisfying looks on their face when they read my works. It is hard to please anybody, but the sad thing is that I have not pleased someone yet. Through these experiences, mortification, and frustrations, I started to conclude: The people behind those compliment lied to me, after all.
I cannot blame anyone. The fault is in me. As I try to impress other people through my works, the more my writing becomes hideous. It may look like I am a loser and I am person who cannot seek for self-improvement. I am filled. The effect of unvarying disapproval and mock on my work is not, after all, good to me.
After all these things, I still salute my alma mater for teaching me painful, though good lessons, which formed me to become a stronger person I am today. I have to admit. I learned how to write better through them.
Behind the agony, I still have the hope in me. Maybe there would come a time that these persons who have disgraced me and had put me down even though I am already below, would reach out for my hands to congratulate me for a job well done. I dream of becoming a better writer someday. Perhaps I would excel much in writing on other institutions of learning. Not at my dear alma mater, who had caused much happiness and pain. I wish that they could read this, those persons who made me blubber for failure. I still dream good dreams.
I think that this would be my last prose for my high school life. It is my last prose that I filled with distress, resentment, anger and disappointment for those persons who I thought would take my hand and accompany me to success, but in the end left me to ruins. I wish them the best.