top of page

Scribblory Writers Library

Your virtual library of true stories has come to this site!

Scribblory Writers Library shelters short true-to-life stories written by the memoirists of Scribblory Writers Group. This virtual library started in 2020, at the outset of COVID-19 pandemic. While the world was losing many lives, we held our pens and preserved life stories.

Are the write-ups here too few to quell the thirst of the reader in you? Head out to our old site and read some more.


Category: Writing


Writing: An Extension of Me

Written by AnKat

July 26, 2020

When I was young, I made a simple comic-book type of story in a drawing book. In my teens, I kept a diary. My family was based overseas (the Netherlands) at some point, so I documented our life there for my friends through snail mail.

It was the beginning of Junior High when teachers and classmates saw my talent in writing. They encouraged me. This continued throughout High School back in the Philippines. In college, I started blogging stories and my adventures of, yet again, living in another country—Texas and California, USA. There, I would share my insights with my support group.

Writing, to me, was a lifesaver. Not only that, but it also brought me inner healing. I can say that it has been part of my life. Even when I tried to abandon it, it would always manage to come back to me somehow.

There came a point when I found writing to be overwhelming, yet at the same time, there was an urge to keep going. Initially, it was just for private reasons—for selected family and friends. But eventually, writing became (and now is) a part of my life, an extension of me.

Category: Writing

Writing on Her Journal

A Writer's Mirror

Written by Sisang Batute

July 23, 2020

Why do I write?

The lack of someone to talk to. Or should I say the lack of someone I can talk to about topics I want to talk about?

I am from a faraway barrio where little minds can only cater to the daily humdrum of life. Only the whos and the whats are the initiators of a conversation. I do not expect more because the how-tos and the whys of life in our barrio are never answerable, not when one can merely feed a family of more than five. Our only source of riches is the family's capability to produce more little ones who will follow in the footsteps of their old folk. I grew up looking for something that is beyond our barrio. And yes, I grew up confused and misplaced.

I learned to read late. Even if I passed my first year in grade school, I did not read well compared to my classmates. Maybe, it was because of a lack of materials. But when I finally got the confidence to read and to comprehend every word, there was no stopping me from reading--especially when I learned how to use my English-Tagalog Dictionary that my mother bought me. I remember those days in the 80s, when our barrio did not have electricity yet. I would read under the glare of a gasera (gas lamp). Whenever I woke up in the morning, I would excitedly pick on my nose for treasure while I continued reading where I left the night before.

I started to write when I was in Grade 4, when all my barrio childhood friends totally abandoned me. Maybe they saw me as crazy with my unheard-of dreams and ideas. Before I learned of Anne Frank's diary, I already had been writing mine without knowing that it was a so-called diary. All I knew then was that I could clearly talk to myself if I would write my thoughts and read aloud them back to myself. A lot of times, I would read them in front of the mirror—with emotions. No, I never intended or dreamed of becoming an actress. It was just that I wanted to animate the words I wrote, talking to myself as good as if I was talking to another person. Do you think I was indeed crazy?

What I wrote then was all fresh from what was within a child's tiny world of curiosity. If only I saved those scribblings of my past, especially those answers to my questions of whys and hows when I was little—maybe, I could learn from them once again . . .

My world today has become complicated.

I want to admit that I have narcissistic tendencies after my peculiarity when I was a young writer. Why? When I was a child, I did not have the concept of an audience. I only freely expressed what was in me. I would write without thinking of offending others or of how I could impress someone. Maybe, this is one of the reasons I become lazy when an idea hits me. It is not because I am not inspired to write; I admit that it is plain and simple laziness and pride.

But whatever thoughts I have about my attitude towards writing, this is the only thing I am sure of—writing balances my life. It gives me direction because I clearly see myself when I put my thoughts and emotions into written words. Spoken words are good, but the tendencies of our mind to change are part of its consistencies.

There was a time when I totally abandoned writing—when the adulting world consumed my whole being. It was when my world was chaotic, my thoughts muddled with others' own thoughts about me. It was the time when I forgot about my only solace—to put words to my thoughts and my emotions, a way for me to see myself from the outside.

When I started to go back to trusting the written words, forming their phrases according to their own pace, only then did I resurface from the suffocating world of vanity and pride.

Category: Writing

Adult Students

Why I Write

Written by Sophia Ruth

July 21, 2020

There are lots of things in life that we do without asking ourselves the reason why. But I guess, if you'd do something that would require a considerable amount of your time, then you might ask yourself why.

So why do I write?

To be honest, I find the question really difficult to answer if the goal is to come up with a tear-jerking, inspirational, 'Miss Universe' sort of an answer.

I am no writer by profession. In fact, I only got introduced to writing just a bit recently, which happened out of a grave necessity to express myself freely and without judgment.

Writing is every ink of me bleeding out on paper. Every word, every comma, every punctuation placed here and there represents my bared soul. And the same could be said for any other writer. A writer's work is one that he can completely own as his and his alone. People may write about the same topics, but no one can tell it the way each one does. The writing voice is just as different and unique as our genetic make-up.

In the same way, the question "Why I Write?" is something as unique to me as it is to anybody else. There is really no generic answer nor a correct one. I couldn't even give you a clear answer for mine, just like how I couldn't explain why I like peanut butter or never ever liked painting.

I write because it's who I am.

Category: Writing

bottom of page