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The Writing Me

Updated on January 24, 2013
Food for thought
Food for thought

Writing and its just desert

Writing in a non-native language, specially one that may not have been particularly difficult to learn, does not seem to be such a big hurdle to some folks, but it was for me. I easily learned English, as a second language (in all its glorious grammatical permutations) early on in elementary school; however, the process of thinking in my local dialect, then translating those thoughts into English and writing them in some lucid way was when I got into trouble.

In fourth year high school, I was surprised that the short story I wrote in my English Litterature class got my teacher's, (an American Jesuit scholastic) attention. The story was about my dog, ( that I named Tarzan), and his love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with the pet monkey of our neighbor. I remember him saying that although the piece was free of major grammatical errors, the sentence pacing was a bit skewed, and the paragraph sequencing was disjointed. He suggested that the general thrust of the story was appealing, and thought provoking at some level. He gave me a B+ for effort.

In college (Pre-med), on an essay that I wrote about the "human zoo" that was the aparment building that I was dorming in, my English Composition professor was impressed that I approached the topic in a very light-hearted way, seeing the humor in my characterization of the other tenants whose appearance and behaviour were not too far removed from the appearance and behaviour of the residents in the real zoo. She thought that what could have been a "dark" character study of human behaviour I turned into a riotous, chaotic, rumbunctious compilations of various human types acting and looking, and communicating not too differently from their animal counterparts. However, the problem with sentence pacing and paragraph sequencing remained. She gave me a B- for presentation.

During medical school the writing, which to me was never much of a gravitational pull to begin with, stopped except for a poem here and there that I wrote as a favor to love struck friends which they then embossed inside a valentine's card addressed to their respective beloved. After medical school, and while doing my internship at a city hospital where I met my future wife, I wrote ( in a fit of "amore") her a poem written on a napkin. I gave her the poem on our next date, which she then promptly lost. Talk about impressive writing.

It's been said so many times before by so many people that once you've heard the siren song of the American dollar, resisting it would be futile. And so it was with my wife and I. We gave in to its vision of unfettered material opportunity, and untramelled financial security. In 1975, we immigrated to the United States, found ourselves living in the golden state that is California, and promptly started  pursuing our version of the American dream.

After all these years, we could say with all honesty that for us, pursuing the American dream ( with its attendant immersion in the liguistic peculiarities of American English) was well worth the time and effort. Now that we are happily ensconsed in it, we do not anticipate leaving it anytime soon. Now that the family is well provided for I can now pursue writing, an  interest that just recently blossomed,  just because I am not hampered anymore by the problem  of  thinking in my native dialect.

Three months ago, while browsing through several blogging sites on the net, I came accross HubPages. Since it was free, I decided  to join  and signed on immediately. I have been happily  hubbing since then. The rest, as I always say, is not entirely history. I am of course quite satisfied that,  as with any other  HubPages writer, the chance of putting my thoughts on an electronic media has become a reality.  The three months  writing  journey  have not been totally free of travails, not the least of which are the occasional darts and arrows thrown in my  direction by the other hubbers because I somehow (unintentionally of course on my part) stepped and trampled on  their sacred ideas, ideals, and ideologies.  Writing and its  just desert, I  suppose.


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