Of Scrutiny & Scrawls
by:
Ria Claudine Gasgonia
Over the past couple of years both reading and writing have been some sort of hobby of mine in which, unsurprisingly, some may find rather tinted in monotonous colors of black and white and sometimes even as something classified within the line of tedious works. But for me, and I am sure that for a lot of people as well, the art of reading and writing is so much more than what meets the eye.
Since I was about in second grade, I have always loved reading the moment I stumbled upon the wondrous world of fiction or even non-fiction as well. But, before jumping into conclusions, I’m not exactly what you can call a bookworm, it’s pretty different in my case. I didn’t read the whole The Mortal Instruments or maybe even the Harry Potter book collection in order, nope. To put it simply, I just truly love reading in general, most of the time depending on what I am interested in. Though, I have just come to the conclusion of this recently as I have grown older, the more I reminisce about the past, the more things have become pellucid to me. I used to not really care about such things I choose to see within the disposition as trivial but now, I have come up with a couple of actualizations as I grow older.
I did not remain within a particular type of setting or modus vivendi when it came to the certain “leisurely” activity as some may even call it. I could be immersed upon tenths to thousandths of words forged into a single idea; For instance, it could be a creepy pasta, where it all began and became apparent. It could even be only made up of, let’s say three words only, also known as those Three Word Horror Stories or maybe two sentences at most. You bet I’ll read every single component of it. Then my love for the spine-tingling compilations of vast stories progressed into the world of both fiction and non-fiction, be it articles, reddit posts, or random poems written by people under the guise of incognito.
My fascination over reading grew into something more profound that I myself specifically oh so loved to drown in as crude as it sounds. Hypocritically, like begging to inhale oxygen under a fathomless sea of molded words, one almost in a sapphire type of cast with how chasmic it is, but at the same time not really succumbing into the freedom of resurfacing beyond the oceanic pelagic because beneath the rippling waves of the sea is like my own vanity of which I eerily find peace within; I still do as a matter of fact, very greatly so. The thought of going beneath and within the watery grave of reading being a way of letting myself fall into a state of vulnerability and surrendering my thoughts as my eyes scan word after word, the idea of the piece of literature becoming clearer as I dive into the wordily pelagic. Though some may think that it is a rather frightening thing, or realistically speaking, that maybe without the flowery construction of words, reading is something rather dull and maybe even boring. Though I know it’s different for every person, that alone I can accept. But reading is truly something I myself can never associate with the words of monotonous and uninteresting or even the phrase dry as dust, no, never. Reading has put me into the thresholds of fascination and excitement, as well as in the high spirit of curiosity, all that without leaving the place where I am reading. It is truly amazing the more you think about it, it Is as if a clandestine safe haven where I can let my thoughts run free along with the blowing wind and the rustling trees.
So, from there on, along with the course of reading, there comes along the pursuit of writing. It was when I was in third grade, that being the epoch of when I both tried and started writing, I have to give credits to my best friend though for she had been the one to haul me into the said activity, and so, I did rather willingly so.
At first, I thought it was going to be something difficult for me since I had no knowledge in writing and I basically just remained within the lines of strictly reading for most of the time unless necessary of course, but the moment the lead tip of my pencil had grazed the blank paper of my notebook, it is as if the said object had a mind of its own with how I wrote continuously without ending or any pause, not truly giving a care for the grammatical mistakes or typos, I was only 9 years old that time, I only ever cared about the whole alternative universe I was constructing with the use of writing as if it were Lego.
It was fun, writing fiction that is. Like a tedious yet remarkably enjoyable building and manipulating of a world of our own. Since I was still practically clueless in writing, I only followed my best friend’s steps during the first few times, but as time progressed, I had become more independent in my writing, only asking her for her opinions and such. After finishing a story, here comes along one of my favorite parts back then, we exchanged notebooks and read and gushed over each other’s works. To be frank, I could not exactly remember what I wrote, only the genre of it, but I do remember what my best friend’s story was about, it was about a zombie apocalypse in which her favorite characters needed to survive in. Sadly, after those few fleeting moments of writing, just a year later I stopped, back then I thought of it as something within the lines of ‘just for fun’ but looking back at it now, I am left in a space of regret. Thinking about how if I continued that hobby of mine that maybe, just maybe, I am probably in a great stance in where I am today. Though I have continued reading ever since all that and never did I stop, when junior high school came, slowly yet steadily I started writing once again, but not really as a hobby but only for academic purposes like excerpts, poems, and scripts most of the time. I once again did not really pay any mind to what I can do, I just went on with the flow, only writing when completely necessary. It is safe to say that I might have taken my knowledge in writing for granted. Anyways, then the pandemic struck, online jobs were prolific during that span of time because of quarantine, yet despite the predicament we’re all in, this was the time I got to use my skill for something rather practical if I may say so myself since I got to entitle myself as a freelance content writer in which consequently got me into a job as an article writer. Though the job only lasted for half a year at most because I soon had to enter senior high school, it was still an experience I would never regret despite the hardships the job had along with its benefits.
After that, I still did not exactly see writing as a hobby of mine. It isn’t that I was purposely ignorant but rather, I just did not look too much into it. Then in the midst of eleventh grade, I began writing again for fun. Though I had written a couple thousands of words, I was put in a complicated place since I wasn’t satisfied with anything I did but at the same time it was quite understandable since I was basically a novice, an aspiring writer holding a single match of light inside an unlit room of worldliness. And so, I once again remained solely within the barriers of reading, that is until twelfth grade up to this very day. I finally made writing a hobby of mine, typing out thousands of words for self-indulgent works of fiction, even going to the extent of joining fic festivals. Though I am technically a newbie with all this, unsurprisingly having lots of trials and errors along the way, I get to exercise my skill, experimenting in different genres as I write. All while knowing that I am not that good at writing just yet, with still lots of smudged colors painted outside of the lines.
Writing and reading is something people may see as a dull landscape painted in myriads of muted black and whites, but venturing further into that locus of reading and writing is like stepping into a whole new world suffused with vibrant colors away from the cruel reality; And the more you venture into, the more there is for you to know and ponder.
Doesn’t that type of thought ring a bell of familiarity? The way I further immerse myself into scrutinizing and scrawling is the deeper I go and submerge under the seemingly bottomless reservoir. Philosophically, yes.
In my own perspective, I think there certainly is a fine line in between all of it. It is as if I am dancing within the lanes of philosophy, and reading and writing in such nimble steps, feet tiptoeing in shy tramps into both worlds, all along with a muted melody. For the deeper I venture within those cavernous pursuits, the more there is to a blank canvas I can paint on; As the white expanse advances into such leeway in its own wake; Same time as my own curiosity and knowledge grows into unfathomable extents as well.
