Ruth is a full-time writer. Foodie. Happy camper. Wanders a lot. Used to have the worst taste in men. A reformed swipe-a-holic. Reviving her blog after its death.
Tuesday, July 23, 2002
When I was in grade four, I had a Walt Disney stationary. At the cardboard back was one sweaty Goofy in a running pose. I also remember that I had a clay play set then. So I gave Goofy some background. Placed some trees, a house, and gave him a friend.
Our maid came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I told her things about how Goofy became sweaty, what he was running away from, what his intentions were, and what he wanted to do. That maid told me that I had an overactive imagination.
I didn’t believe her. Afterall, I’ve been making up stories about inanimate objects and drawings as far as I could remember. Surely, everyone is doing the same thing. Only, she has been meeting the wrong people.
I always had a protagonist. And of course, my protagonist will always be superhuman. Sometimes my protagonist will be a Siamese triplet who will be very poor but very beautiful. I’ll give them a Cinderella-like background and it will all end in happy endings.
Sometimes my protagonist would be the mouse from the American Tale. In my version, he would have his own love interest, he’ll eat lot of cheese, all cats will be slaughtered (except the good cats), and his family will be rich.
But my favorite is whenever I’m the star of my dreams, and I get to have a library of Sweet Valley Twins. Plus, I have superpowers, I could fly, I could make objects move, I stop time, and I’m my own genie. I’m the original charmed one without the “witch” title attached to my name. I help the poor, I make foundations for them, I build schools. Nobody is allowed to fight. Else, they get kicked out of my utopian world.
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My first poem was about the shape of an egg. How it often confuses me whether it’s round or oblong. And how I hate the yellow yolk.
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Grade Six, we prayed for the championship. Please God, be a Dominican. Help our tigers in shooting the ball.
The Tigers won that championship. I read all about it from The Varsitarian. Of course, I had to steal my copy from the main building cause elementary students don’t pay miscellaneous fees (despite our expensive tuition). And for the first time in my life, I read a woman writer. The name of her column was Stiletto, she was Karina Torralba, the EIC. Gawd, she sure kicked some hinny.
Promised myself I will be like her. I’ll be a writer, a journalist. I’ll right the wrong, and chase the bad guys to jail.
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