The other day, I was telling a friend how I had always wanted to be a writer (fiction, journalism, creative non-fiction, columnist), but due to practical culture of my parents, I took a more feasible route from computer science to human computer interaction.<\/p>\n
He requested to see some of my writings and I showed him the 40,000+ words I wrote for nanowrimo a few years ago. For that, I wrote my autobiography (obviously breaking the rules, but hey). Apparently, I didn\\’t remember what I had written, just knowing that I had wrote about everything that had affected my life in those 20 years.<\/p>\n
He liked how I used to say \\”I see you never\\” to people I didn\\’t want to see again. He laughed about my story of Mike Fernando. He told me that it felt like the Matrix where someone pushed a button and he suddenly \\”knew Jenn\\”. He repeated some of the stories I wrote about…but to my surprise, I barely had remembered that I had done some of those things. I didn\\’t remember why I now dislike calla lilies or how I used to always ask \\”do you watch porn?\\” Yet like most people, I couldn\\’t bear to re-read the parts that were embarrassing and painful. I always thought I would be over it, but to remember the naivete, the what i would do now with what i know now<\/i> feeling…that\\’s always the biggest challenge of confronting the past.<\/p>\n
Or worse yet, did I mature?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The other day, I was telling a friend how I had always wanted to be a writer (fiction, journalism, creative non-fiction, columnist), but due to practical culture of my parents, I took a more feasible route from computer science to … Continue reading