The Making of A Reader, The Becoming of A Writer

I have always lived with one foot in reality and the other in the worlds stories could conjure. Growing up, I was surrounded by books stacked like miniature towers of possibility, television shows that flickered like distant lanterns, songs that rewound themselves in my mind until they became part of my rhythm, and movies that left echoes in the corners of my thoughts long after the screen went dark. Very early on, I learned that words—whether spoken, written, sung, or filmed—when used right, had the power to rearrange a person’s heart, bend perception, and carve spaces where emotions and imagination could meet. They have the capacity to make us feel fully and unpredictably, sometimes in ways we did not yet have the language for. At first, I only knew how to receive that kind of magic. Later on, I learned I wanted to create it.

One thing about me is that I hyperfixate. When something grips me, I immerse myself in it completely: I memorize lines without even meaning to, replay scenes until I know their emotional beats by heart, analyze lyrics, pacing, structure, and intent, and continue to think about a story long after it has ended. My interests stretch across genres and mediums: dystopian worlds, heart-wrenching dramas, unsettling thrillers, crime narratives, fantasy, romance, and comedy; pop, R&B, country, rap, and musical theater. I do not simply consume stories—I live inside them for a while. That intensity, that almost obsessive engagement, eventually became the backbone of how I approached writing.

Movies were my first refuge. My parents loved them, and because of that, they became part of my everyday life. I grew up in a time when films were still bought on CDs—stacked, organized, replayed—long before streaming services made everything instantly accessible. Some of my earliest memories are tied to the glow of a screen in a dark room, the quiet ritual of pressing play, the collective silence as a story unfolded. Sometimes I wonder if I would have loved media as deeply as I do now had my parents not been such avid movie watchers themselves. Perhaps that version of me exists in another universe. But in this one, stories found me early—and stayed.

One of my aunts, who also shared this love for films, introduced me to horror and thrillers when I was as young as five. During vacations at her house, I remember watching movies far too terrifying for children—without my parents’ knowledge, of course. These early exposures desensitized me to gore and horror, but more importantly, they taught me to notice how stories were crafted—the pacing, the tension, the dialogue, the strategic silences, and emotional buildup. I did not have a vocabulary for it yet, but I was already learning structure and narrative control, long before I ever put theory to practice.

Music shaped me just as profoundly. My mother is a singer—once part of a choir that traveled abroad to perform—and music was woven into the fabric of our household. She has always been the type to sing out of nowhere, filling rooms with sound the way others fill them with conversation. People often described her as having “the voice of an angel that could make you cry,” and growing up around that kind of emotional honesty through music taught me how powerful sound and language could be. Today, I curate playlists on Spotify based on mood: motivation, calm, heartbreak, nostalgia, and catharsis. One playlist is dedicated entirely to songs so beautiful or sad that they make me cry. I listen to it unapologetically, as there’s just something deeply therapeutic about letting lyrics articulate feelings better than I can. Music taught me rhythm, timing, and emotional resonance—the same skills I now try to channel into sentences and scenes. 

Reading, however, was where my love for stories truly solidified. The first proper book I ever immersed myself in was Dork Diaries. My aunt had bought me the entire hardbound collection, and I devoured it, absorbing every word and detail. I imagined myself as Nikki Maxwell, and felt genuine resentment for MacKenzie. That was the first moment I realized how completely words could pull me out of myself and into another world. From then on, I read everything I could, slowly beginning to observe people, moments, and emotions with a writer’s eye—long before I even knew what that meant.

This hyperfixation I developed with media—reading, listening, watching, rewatching, obsessing—eventually translated into writing, where I could control and build worlds, instead of just consuming them. Writing became the space where all of that fixation could go somewhere. I remember the mornings I stole from my household, when everyone else was still asleep and the world felt quiet and expectant. I would sit on the edge of a bed, on the steps, or by a window, letting the air, the sound of birds, and the faint hum of distant traffic anchor me. In that stillness, I read, scribbled, imagined, and listened. I filled notebooks I would never show anyone with half-formed stories and awkward scripts that barely made sense to my younger self. Those pages were my first experiments with storytelling—fragile, private, and luminous in their own way.

It was during this time I discovered Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games series. I loved the former for its intimacy—the way time progressed quietly through Charlie’s thoughts, how observation became its own form of action, how silence carried weight. I remember reading it one summer while on a treadmill, so absorbed that nearly two hours passed without me noticing. With The Hunger Games, I admired its precision: the pacing, tension, how entertainment could coexist with critique. Books like these taught me that writing could create entire universes—worlds readers could inhabit, feel, and remember. Writing could do more than tell a story—it could carry meaning, ask questions, and leave a lasting imprint. I wanted my own writing to do the same.

I began experimenting with writing more seriously in school. I was always the one tasked with scriptwriting for plays, short films, and various projects. While I wouldn’t claim excellence, I had persistence and experience. My first real exposure to structured writing came when I joined the campus journalism organization in seventh grade. I hadn’t planned on joining; I was recommended by a previous English teacher and approached by the moderator, so I decided to give it a try. At first, I was intimidated. The other members were either ninth or tenth graders, some even senior high school students who were older and more experienced, while I was just a seventh grader trying to navigate deadlines and unfamiliar expectations. That said, the challenge fueled me: it was a world where words mattered, where crafting narratives and reporting on events could inform, persuade, and carry responsibility, and I quickly realized I wanted to be part of it. It was here that I realized that writing wasn’t just a hobby and no longer just something I enjoyed—it was a tool I could use to say something that mattered. It came with accountability: that words carry weight beyond intention.

The pandemic marked another turning point. With a laptop of my own and the house quiet for long stretches of time, I consumed media intensely—rewatching films, bingeing series like Game of Thrones and Pretty Little Liars, and noticing subtleties I had missed before. Stories could serve as both refuge and inspiration. But I noticed that writing could function similarly: as a way to process emotion, to reflect on reality, and to communicate truths too complex for casual conversation. I realized that beyond entertainment, writing could be an outlet, a vehicle for reflection, and a platform, all at the same time, for sharing ideas and narratives that carry meaning and that can make a difference.

Media has always been both my teacher and my mirror, and my works are a reflection of that journey:

Giniling and the Taste of Fairness began simply. I wrote about my mother’s giniling because it is, without contest, the best I have ever tasted. But beyond taste, I noticed the lessons hidden in it: generosity, fairness, abundance, and care without expectation. Serendipitously, it was the perfect lens to write about justice and fairness at a time filled with news of corruption and stolen money in the Philippines. My revision process was meticulous: I worked to let the story breathe, to let the metaphor rise naturally, to balance memory and reflection without turning the essay into a lecture. I focused on subtlety, on showing rather than telling, on making the sensory details—the sweetness of raisins, the tang of tomato—carry the emotional weight. I ensured the connection between giniling and fairness felt natural, not forced; letting description and memory do the work of argument, rather than explicit commentary.

Around the Glass began as a story entitled Her Idea of Love. The original version spanned past and present, juxtaposing childhood perceptions with adult reflections on love, and questioning whether love is a feeling or a choice. The writing process involved capturing memory, fear, and curiosity through the child’s lens, as well as the more mature thoughts of her adult self who has now seen the world and experienced much more in life. The revision required condensing time into a single, continuous experience, stripping away reflection and editorializing, and allowing observation, details, and action to carry the emotional weight embedded in the scene. I realized that the story had more power if it is told from the perspective of the child as well. I added sensory details: the patter of rain and the clearing of the sky, the dolls, the clatter of plates. I focused on the physicality of the main character’s experience, letting readers feel it, as if they were holding their breath beside her. I trusted the child’s perspective to speak for itself, with the environment and interactions conveying tension, fear, and eventual calm—and more importantly, I trusted the readers to understand the message. This process taught me the power of immediacy and sensory grounding in narrative fiction.

The Appointed Son of God started as a poem about Ferdinand Marcos Sr. but, upon reflection, became more fitting to be a critique of Quiboloy. Writing this poem required precise word choice, rhythm, and sharper imagery. We made sure that all references used would make it so the poem would be recognizable to readers that it is about this particular politician. Each line was considered for its weight, moral resonance, and impact. This work reinforced the importance of intentionality in poetry: every word must earn its place on the page.

Another collaborative work that challenged me creatively was the airplane skit my group produced. Writing this required balancing humor, pacing, and character distinction—especially among our three personalities. Because it was meant to be performed, we had to consider timing, delivery, and audience reaction. Revision involved trimming excess dialogue, sharpening punchlines, and ensuring each character’s voice remained distinct. This experience taught me how writing changes when it moves from the page to performance.

Finally, the letter from Mark, written as an epilogue to Penmanship by Jose “Butch” Dalisay Jr., required restraint and empathy. Writing within an existing narrative meant honoring tone, voice, and emotional trajectory. I focused on subtle continuity—allowing Mark’s letter to feel like a natural extension rather than an intrusion. The revision centered on voice consistency and authenticity, ensuring the epilogue added depth without overstating its purpose.

Throughout these works, I learned that writing is both craft and discipline. Revision is not merely correction—it is discovery. Each draft refines not only the text, but also the writer’s understanding of what the story needs to communicate and the best way to articulate it. The process of writing and revision has taught me that stories often thrive not when they are forced to prove a point, but when they are allowed to unfold, organically. Each assignment taught me something new: how to trust the story, how to trust the reader, and how to trust the unsaid.

I write because I have always needed stories—not as an escape from the world, but as a way to understand it, to feel it, to hold it in my hands like a fragile, beautiful object. Writing is my sunlit morning, my quiet corner, my rhythm of music, my conversation with the world. My works are proof of a journey: a journey into words, into the observation of life, and into the emotional landscapes we carry. They are messy, thoughtful,  tentative, deliberate, and alive—much like life itself.

After years of hyperfixating on books, shows, films, and songs, I continue writing with the hope that I, too, might create works that resonate with others as deeply as the authors, screenwriters, and composers who inspired me. I began as someone obsessed with media, and over time, that obsession became purpose. I write not just to entertain, but to process, question, and ensure that ideas I believe are important can be shared creatively and meaningfully. I keep writing because words hold truth in a way no other medium can. They are a challenge, a refuge, a responsibility, and a joy all at once.  And as long as I write, I continue learning, experimenting, and striving to make stories worthy of the worlds that shaped me.