Purpose of Writing and Murdering Ignacio Padilla

It has been a long time since I write something for myself. I don’t want to sound melodramatic here, but the thing that I’m pointing at is the time that I write not for money but towards the idealistic vision of perfecting the language which at the same time will be a sort of training ground for me to write finally a story.

This time is different. As I discover multitude of writing opportunities which will make me several hundred dollars richer, what I’m doing right now is bastardizing what I cherish most: that is to write without any financial consideration thus writing for the sake of writing itself.

I used to say that the goal of this blog is to let me find a virtual place on the Internet where I can hone my writing skills, where I can express the most difficult ideas that would pop out from my head, where the foundation of my writing skills will be laid down and perfected. But as another year has come and almost reaching halfway its journey around the sun to complete a full cycle, I noticed that I have been neglecting writing for this special place of mine on the internet.

Right now, I can already feel the burden of writing for bucks. The true and beautiful vision and goal that I have set for myself (and also the purpose why I started writing in the first place) is slowly being eroded by practical obligations to earn and put something in my stomach (and also to set myself abreast with writers who are into monetary considerations.)

Honestly speaking, I don’t harbor any feeling of animosity with these young and old writers who put their precious time and effort just to get by from the practical demands of everyday living. No, no there is nothing of that sort lingering in my mind. The truth is that I even admire them since what they are trying to achieve, through the use of their writing skills, is admirable. They are the practical believers that there is money in writing and from it they will try to squeeze ever cent to get a portion of this financial benefit.

My own rants are solely on my own which sit on my belief that I am here to write something that is more important according to my own standard of what is writing is all about.

Since I have mentioned already (did I?) that as years progresses, my posts in this blog are getting fewer and fewer, the goal that I have set for myself in terms of true writing is beginning to be a failure and a factor in the inevitable realization that I am getting lost in my true purpose. The practice of writing for money, without the compensating or balancing act of writing for the growth of my creative soul, is beginning to be felt already. I recall that when I used to write then, when the only purpose why I am into the process was to prepare myself for the big fight with my worthy opponent, everything was fine and good. The feeling that it brought me after sparring with my own capacity to write was nothing but pure and honest joy; a triumphant flexing of one’s imagination.

What can I say now? I barely read. I barely write an essay. I barely attempt to finish all the collected unfinished short stories that have piled up in my room (and several of them have already been lost in oblivion because I can hardly remember where did I put them for keeping.)

A lonely, arduous battle to win. The challenges are almost insurmountable. If Hemingway was not able to kill me during the first years of my venture into writing, right now, what is killing me is the obligation to keep a good look at the healthiness of my pocket.

Nevertheless, the fight is not yet over. It still has to come. The only problem is that I am running out of time. I also still haven’t bought that ticket to go to Mexico (or Spain) to kill Ignacio Padilla since he is the man I’m planning to murder.

Now, back to reality.