writing with the self

I wrote Red and Purple Darkness for my flash fiction in CW101. It’s a story about Dondi, 16, who along with his Ate Nadia, escapes a life of abuse from their father. The piece is talks about Dondi’s inability to escape from being his own father as he himself beats him up when he went back to molest his sister. The story is quite violent and gory in a way.

Yes, it’s been bothering me for quite some time now. I’ve been writing bloody stories for a long time now. The story Chained Girl is I think the first story that I’ve been able to showcase to the “elite” in the Iligan National Writers Workshop. Sure enough, it received piercing criticisms.

The panelists and the fellows encouraged me and suggested that I read more of Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, etc. writer’s works. Gothic, Dark Romance, Romantic, those kinds of genre seem to fascinate me in my major classes.

Usually it is the parents who fall victimized in the end of my stories. There is also a masochistic and sadistic feeling in my works. Hatred is a common theme and Violence a usual concept.

No, I never have been subject to any domestic violence in my home. There are however heated conversations, swearing and even minor fights. Nothing serious, in general standards. Not enough for the involvement of the local law enforcement.

I guess it is in the stories where I throw out my emotions over the struggles I encounter in my life. I’ve been told in one of my majors that the writer is actually writing about himself in all his works. No matter how indirectly, it is still about the writer. Of course.

That creeps me out. Am I really that demented and twisted? I’m not a psychopath, no. I guess it only one of the undesirable pangs of being a teenager. I still have my rationality and sanity intact.

Violence is one thing that is deprived from us since we were really young. No cartoons with violence, no manga and anime! Except for Voltes Five. I guess I feel amazed of the concept of pain, hatred and fear (the emotions I usually feel) being expressed through violence.

In another name, I made a flash fiction about an unusual rain; instead of water falling, yellow flower petals fell. It was titled Alm Rain, it was a story about a child refusing to take part in enjoying the wonderful event because of pride.

I feel pleased in writing Fantasy fiction. It has a flavor that I could not describe. Maybe, I appreciate the stories of the unreal. I love Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. I enjoy reading adventures that I know does not exist (or so I think). I guess what I really wanted is escape from the bitter realities in life.

I enjoy the concept of Imagery. I want pictures that shows the dark, strange, odd, grotesque and horrifying. I simply am amazed. I loved comics but I can’t afford them. I enjoy admiring disturbing paintings. There was a time when I stared at Juan Luna’s Spolarium.

I could be a Romantic. You think?