How I Started Writing Stories

Chapter 1: 
The First Poetry

The air hung heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the nervous hum of a hundred teenagers.  It was the school's Intramurals and students were encouraged to join at least two participation in all the activities during the Intramurals week. One of the school's activity was a poetry contest, a new activity included during the Intramurals of the school, and I, Miss Penguin, was about to be thrown into the lion’s den.

My third year of high school, and I was still a nobody, a shadow in the hallways, a silent observer of the vibrant tapestry of teenage life.  I wasn’t exactly shy, just… invisible.  My days were filled with the quiet routine of books, homework, and the occasional stolen glance at the boy who sat two rows ahead of me in our class.  He was the epitome of everything I wasn’t:  popular, athletic, and effortlessly charming.  He was the sun, and I, a small, insignificant moon, forever orbiting in his wake.

The poetry contest was a chance to break free from my self-imposed silence, a chance to finally be heard.  But the thought of standing on that stage, my voice trembling, my heart hammering, filled me with a paralyzing fear.

The only way to participate was to audition, to present a poem in front of the event coordinator, Ms. Reyes, a gentle woman with a kind attitude.  The thought of even trying to join the audition, of having my work judged, made my palms sweat.

But then, a poem came to me, a sudden burst of inspiration, a melody of words that flowed effortlessly from my pen.  It was a Filipino poem, a tulang pambata, filled with the longing of a young girl for her beloved who was far away.  I called it “Malayo Sa Mahal Ko” - Far From My Beloved. The poem was posted in one of my published books titled — Midnight Memories.

The words poured onto the page, a torrent of emotions I hadn’t realized I was carrying.  The pain of unrequited love, the yearning for connection, the bittersweet beauty of distance.  It was a poem that spoke of the silent ache in my heart, the unspoken longing for a love that seemed forever out of reach.

As I stood before Ms. Reyes who is of the same age as me, my voice, usually a quiet whisper, resonated with a newfound strength.  The words, once trapped within me, now flowed freely, carrying with them a raw vulnerability that resonated with the audience.  I saw surprise, then understanding, then a flicker of admiration in the eyes of the event coordinator as well as with the other auditioners.

For the first time, I felt seen.  Heard.

A few days later,  the contest day arrived, and I was filled with a nervous excitement.  I had prepared, practiced, and poured my heart into my poem. We were gathered in the school library, four of us contestants, tasked with composing a poem based on the school’s Intramurals theme:  “ICS: Set Forth In Faith.”  The pressure was on, the air thick with anticipation.

I sat at a table, surrounded by the other contestants, each of them brimming with confidence.  I felt a familiar wave of self-doubt wash over me.  But then, I remembered the power of my words, the way they had resonated with Ms. Reyes, and the courage I had found in sharing my story.

I started writing, the words flowing from me like a river, each stanza beginning with the words of the theme: ICS: Set Forth In Faith. I wasn't able to find the actual poetry I constructed but at least I remember the title.

The poem poured out of me, a testament to the power of faith, the strength of community, and the spirit of competition.  It was a poem that captured the essence of the Intramurals, a celebration of the school’s spirit.

A day went by after the competition for poem making was finished, I was assigned to join the Math Competition and Photojournalism at the capital.

It so happened that the announcement of winners for the poetry contest was also the day of the Math Competition and Photojournalism. I wanted to be there, to hear my name called, to feel the thrill of victory.  But I was miles away, in the bustling capital of the province, lost in a world of numbers and equations.

The Math Quiz Bee was a whirlwind of mental agility and lightning-fast calculations. One of my teachers and I had poured our hearts into the preparation, sacrificing countless hours of sleep and leisure for the chance to represent our school on a regional stage.  The pressure was immense, the competition fierce, but we held onto the hope of victory.

But I wasn't just there for the Math Quiz Bee.  I was also participating in the Photojournalism competition, a passion that had blossomed alongside my love for words.  I found myself drawn to the power of images, the way they could capture a moment, a feeling, a story.

The city was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, a canvas of human stories waiting to be told.  I wandered through the crowded streets, my camera lens capturing the fleeting moments of everyday life, the laughter of children playing, the weary faces of street vendors, the vibrant colors of a bustling market.

As the announcement of the poetry contest winners echoed through the school halls, I was lost in the world of photography, my mind focused on capturing the perfect shot, the image that would tell a story, evoke an emotion, and leave a lasting impression.

I didn't know if I had won, if my poem had touched the hearts of the judges.  The news of my victory, or my defeat, would have to wait.  For now, I was lost in the world of numbers and images, a world where my passions collided, where my dreams took flight.

The afternoon sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple as we drove back from the capital.  The Math Quiz Bee and the Photojournalism competition had been a whirlwind of activity, a blur of numbers, equations, and fleeting moments captured through my lens.  The pressure, the fatigue, the sheer exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with me.  I slumped in the front seat, my head lolling against the window, the rhythmic hum of the engine lulling me into a light doze.

When we arrived back at the school, it was already night.  One of my teachers who sat beside me at the front seat, woke me up signalling we've already arrived. The familiar glow of the streetlights illuminated the quiet streets, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the city we had just left behind.  The school was quiet, the hallways deserted, the classrooms empty.  The Intramurals, a week-long celebration of school spirit and athletic prowess, had come to an end.

The next day, the air hung heavy with a sense of accomplishment and exhaustion.  The Intramurals were over, the weekend had arrived, and the students and participants were free to rest, to recover, to be able to catch up on their studies on the next coming week.  It was a time for reflection, for reminiscing, for letting go of the pressure and the excitement of the past week.

For me, it meant a return to the familiar routine, a return to the quiet solace of the library.  The books, the words, the stories, they were my refuge, my escape, my source of inspiration.  I spent my break times lost in the pages of novels, my pen scribbling furiously in my notebook, capturing the words that resonated with me, the words that sparked my imagination, the words that gave me courage to face challenges with pride and resilience.

The world of numbers and equations, the thrill of competition, the excitement of capturing a moment in time through my lens – all of these passions had been ignited within me during the Intramurals and the Math Competition and Photojournalism.  But it was the power of words, the magic of storytelling, that truly resonated with my soul.

I never thought that I had found my calling, my purpose, my voice.  And I was ready to explore it, to embrace it, to let it guide me on my journey.

It may be impossible at the moment but in the future, it might be possible.