On Writing

I have found an awesome blog written by my friend, Reyna Johnson. I don't know if I'm supposed to say her name, haha. I immediately loved her writing style, and all her posts just seem so effortless every time I read them. But this post I will share because it captured what I really feel about writing. Truly, it is a gift you can't deny. :)

On Writing

For some, writing is a mere tool, a means to an end. Perhaps an end of getting a good grade, or of proclaiming their tenets to the world. And nothing’s wrong with that. But for me, writing is itself an end. I write the way some people sing in the shower. They’re not rehearsing for a performance, nor are they trying to brighten the morning of anyone in hearing range. They sing because they can.
Much of what I write, no one has even glimpsed. I write because an idea in my head begs for release. Perhaps the idea is the germ of a fictitious story or maybe it’s a deep, sobering thought that needs analyzing. Sometimes my writing’s dark and lonely, crying out like a child lost in a desolate wood. At other times it sings like a lark and dances under a cloudless sky, mafficking in endless bliss.

That’s not to say that all the musings I commit to paper are mere inward ponderings. I am a communicator and writing is my preferred method of communication. By writing, I can express myself more fully than I ever could by speaking. I take the time to reflect on the words that pour forth from my fingers, to patiently modify each word until it is a mirror image of what I feel, the way an actor will make the slightest of changes in his performance until he reaches perfection. When I write, I have an entire world at my fingertips, waiting for me to breathe life onto its barren shores and fill it with creatures beyond imagining. I can take a peasant and turn him into a king, transform a king into a pauper. I can take a single sentence and string it out like a rope of pearls gleaming in the sun. I can take an idea and transform it into a tiny seed I plant in my readers’ hearts, to take root and blossom into hope.

This is why I write. To scream love to the heavens, to whisper promise to the wind. To etch in stone who I am, to declare for all time what I believe. To examine my most inward thoughts and express my most pressing needs. I write because I am compelled to write, because writing is my gift, a gift that cannot be denied. So I write, and lift my voice for all to hear.

Long days and pleasant nights from the Tale-Weaver.

I probably know you, but...

She roamed around the floor to see where her friends were. She looked through the window in her classroom and was surprised that they were already walking towards the gate. She pulled out a chair and sat. She can still see her friends laughing as they went out the gate, their laughter made the winter season warm. As for her, she was alone, and the only warm thing she felt for a moment was the air as she breathed out a sigh. It had started to snow two days ago, and she was worried about having to spend the winter vacation alone.

Time to get up and trod through the snow, she thought. Her classroom was at the end of the corridor, and the stairs were at the other end. "Hey, Sheryn." Someone behind called out to her. When she looked, he stood in a distance that he looked like the size of her finger, so she couldn't make out who he was. "Hey," she answered, and continued walking. The guy jogged a few steps to catch up with her. "Oh great, I have company," she muttered sarcastically. Though she did want to be with someone, she doesn't exactly hang out with strangers.

"What's up? I see that you're going home late. First time." he said, as an attempt for small talk.

"Yeah. My friends already left. Since I don't have to mind them waiting for me, I fixed my stuff already."

"Pretty early. So, um, have you decided what college you're applying to?"

"Stanford. Early admission. Accepted."

"Wow. Great." he had nothing to say anymore - or at least nothing to impress her with. He wasn't smart, or rich to be able to pass an ivy league college, much more pay for it.

They went down the stairs silently, their steps surprisingly in sync. She noticed that he had beautiful eyes with lashes that she envied. His face looked sad, or tired maybe. She also noticed that his jacket was old, like it was passed on to him from a great grandfather. He was also inches taller than her, and his hands were slightly shaking, probably from the cold. She had noticed this because she usually notices details. But then, she was irritated that she couldn't place where she had seen this guy. Was he a classmate in Economics? Trigonometry? English? Why hadn't she noticed? He couldn't have known her outside of class since she was the quiet academic overachiever who never joined any club or student activity. Whatever, I'm sure I know him from somewhere, she told herself as she shook the thoughts away.

"It's already dark. I can walk you home," he broke the silence.

"Thanks, but I think I'll be going somewhere else first." she said hesitantly.

"Oh. Okay."

"Do you want to have coffee?"

He didn't answer. He only looked at her and smiled.

"That must be a yes," she assumed. The memory of his smile was on her head, and now she wasn't sure if he really knew the guy she was with.

508 words. Just practicing for NaNoWriMo! :D

Have not been hearing from me lately?

I'm preparing, that's why I'm telling you this. Tired of my boring posts? Miss my creative writing? I'm terribly sorry. I don't have any excuses except for joining this:

November: National Novel Writing Month.

Do show your love by commenting or sending me encouraging emails or just bugging me to finish my novel already. Thanks folks!

*I am now actually freaking out because I have no confidence in my plot, I haven't established my characters yet, I still don't have an outline and a back story, and November is only a few days away. This is a challenge to myself since I really haven't written something thatlong except for my college papers. Haha. And what do you know, I actually love challenges.

So far, this is as much as I can gather. A synopsis perhaps.

There’s a parallel universe in our dreams, we just don’t quite remember it when we wake up. People always go to that parallel universe when they sleep, and the twist is, it opens portals to different kinds of dreams – medieval, futuristic, you name it. Also, portals aside, the real world is actually the exact opposite in that parallel universe. But when Zerah stayed in the Dream Abyss longer than other people do (and we both don’t know why), she finds Kian who claims to have stayed in the Dream Abyss for quite some time, and that’s when their adventure starts together.

 

Magically, if a person chooses to stay in the Dream Abyss, their souls will remain there even after they die. There’s a secret door that would lead them back to reality (forced exit), but the consequence is they won’t be able to come back — as in they won’t be having dreams anymore, and who knows what will happen to a soul if its body had already died. Meanwhile, Zerah has been philosophizing about her existence, dreams, and illusions, and she is determined to go back to the real world no matter what. Kian wants to follow, but he doesn’t know if he still has a body to wake up to.

 

Trivia: My main characters’ names are Zerah Aislin Jones and Kian Ankanoush. “Aislin” actually means dream/vision in another language, while “Ankanoush” means the fulfiller of the dream. — I hope that does something.

Any suggestions? I suck at plots. Haha. I’d be grateful if you have one.

50,000 words in 30 days. I dare you.

Tagalog Untitled 1.1

Sana alam ko ang sinasabi ng mga mata mo. Sa bawat pagtawa mo, nagpipinta naman ng kalungkutan ang mga ito. Waring nagsasabi na hindi mo ito gustong mangyari. Hindi mo gustong mawalay ako sa'yo. Sana makita kong muli ang bakas ng kasiyahan sa mga mata mo, lalo na 'pag tinititigan mo ako. Ngunit nawala na ang lahat nang 'yon. Hinayaan mong poot ang maghari sa puso mo. Sana alam ko ang sinasabi ng mga mata mo. Sana hindi ko na lang dito nakikita ang lahat ng kahinaan ko. Gaano ko man ito gustong malaman, hindi pa rin kita huhusgahan. 'Di tulad ng panghuhusgang ginawa mo sa'kin nang ako'y iyong pinakawalan.

Tagalog Untitled 1.2

Hindi na kasabay ng pag-ulan ang mga luha. Parang nawawala. Tulad ng pagkawala mo, nung gabing tinalikuran mo ako at hindi na bumalik upang malaman man lang kung gaano ito kasakit. At sa bawat pagpatak ng ulan, parang lalo ka lamang inilalayo sa'kin ng oras. Sa bawat yabag ng paa mo, lalo mo lamang sinasabi na hindi ka na babalik... kahit kailan. Paano kaya kung sinundan ko ang mga mata mo? Paano kaya kung sumabay ako sa pagbuhos ng ulan at mag-makaawang bumalik sa'yo? Wala pa rin namang magbabago, dahil nag-iba na ang pintig ng puso mo.