I write in prose. It’s the best I could do. Coming from a household that isn’t necessarily unacquainted with books but surely does not take time to read, I was not a devout reader myself. Thanks to school for the requirement of textbooks and my grandfather’s sister, from whom I received educational materials as Christmas presents, I was introduced to the world of learning and reading.

To an extent, the textbooks were fun, but they were more of a tool than a thing of enjoyment. I needed them not only to pass the exams but also to help me do well in class to please my father, or so I thought. All throughout childhood, I thought having all the academic awards would make him and my mother live a harmonious life together. “If I just consistently stay within the top 10 of my class, they’d be less likely to argue, and it’ll be a happily ever after,” I told myself. Only when I grew up and started living on my own did I realize that their chaotic relationship needed more than the medals I could give and that my younger self was not responsible for mending it.

Nevertheless, I still learned from those books. In recent years, I have indulged in more written works than I used to, so much so that I regret not having been exposed to a vast literature early on. I could blame how I was nurtured, but I also understand that the last thing my parents would think about doing was buying books or sending me to writing workshops if their main goal back then was putting food on the table the next day and the days following that. So, I only learned simple English, which is used in school to teach most subjects. Now that I have discovered more works of literature and encountered wonderfully eloquent individuals, I realize that I am only cruising through the surface of the deep sea of the literary world. I sometimes put on my practical hat and say that I don’t need to learn all those extravagant words to live, but a part of me wants to feel how to be on the other side of the book — the one who writes it. So here I am, taking baby steps. Thus, the birth of this blog.

One author said, “Write for the readers, not for other authors.” I believe that’s one reason why I pushed forth with this venture. While I do fear judgment from seasoned and more articulate writers than me, I cannot shrug off the desire (the burden, even) to share life with those who, like me, have to navigate through life by themselves.

So this one is for the readers, who I hope will bring home a thing or two from these candid pieces of work. I look forward to learning from you, too.

With gratitude,

Pilgrim Ivy