She will not approve of this picture. She would want more drama. But I’m placing it here anyway. She is, for me, the most beautiful woman who ever walked on the face of the Earth,
I am often complimented because of my writings and the way I write; criticisms on the contents of my articles, despite being negative with some even calling me stupid, are taken as compliments because these readers/critics reconsidered taking a longer look at what I wrote. They are a given of some sorts. They’re always there. And besides I do not look forward to being appreciated by other people so long as I am able to express myself clearly and I am satisfied with the result.
I am a selfish writer. But being selfish forces me to be disciplined, to write with utmost care making sure that whatever trace of my pen left on the paper is the exactitude of what is inside my mind, trying to perfect my art, although I know how futile the attempt is.
My mom, however, seldom reads the products of my thinking. I take her compliments as the only truthful appreciation of my talent.
This afternoon, I was touched by an SMS she sent me. She told me that she has read my articles and said, “You write well and sensibly. I’m proud of you.” The last sentence touched me deeply.
After all these times, I am still a child and a son of my mother.