OUR OWN VOICE
Printed Version may be bought at AMAZON.COM or you may inquire through our_own_voice
The collection of writings in this issue is not unlike a river spilling over an embankment in search of sloping paths, veering away from any obstacle in its path, pools if blocked, but breaks apart—in search of any hospitable terrain that allows a converging and a flow. Flow by its very nature is never “self-conscious” even during its gentle burrowing intent. A sense of focus itself is what “flow” is all about. The water’s end goal is unknown. Where it stops it expands, always unwilling to be confined.
Writing as a call is that which is unwilling to be confined. One may defer response for a better time. But one’s call in life never heeds a better or a best time. It burrows through and makes itself immediately known. Best to nurture the call and let it meander where it may.
Writing is a lark at age 10, a prolific creativity that either peters out or explodes at 21. The urge to express in any medium, but especially in storytelling by way of words on a page, affects most children. These days, give children a video camera and they’re a pintsized film crew. And the story over which they confer is given to the appointed “scriptwriter” or storyboard illustrator.
For some, writing is a need. It is an ache to articulate to oneself all the hoarded clumps of seeming inanities that seize on moments when the confusion suddenly relents, separating into neat areas of clarity—begging to be “sculpted” into words. For others, writing is a connecting experience more vital than life; a hyperbole that spells itself out in a writer’s unconscious search for that specific one or an audience who may or may not be aware of the reams of paper written with them in mind.
In the course of time, the literary effort is played out in the field of connecting. It evolves into a search of the self for The Other. In connecting the dots of experiences, the reader exchanges isolation for communion because that one writer’s stream of words “exposed” the reader’s heart. Small epiphanies begin to strike up a new awareness in disparate hearts. And a “kinship” begins.
In her persistent search for new writers on the various aspects of the writing life, I am grateful to Aileen Ibardaloza for an extraordinary achievement. She brought together the roster of energetic voices from around the globe in this issue that speak volumes about the growth of our literature in the Diaspora.
Reader and writer alike, we have converged and we flow above the same riverbed of longings. We have all become home to each other. Coming together in this terrain, toss out self-consciousness and the need for conventional approval. Write from where the ache resides; there are those of us who are waiting because your words, in whatever form, self-reveals our hidden lives.
7 September 2005