because i don't know what to call myself

and "writer" seems too pretentious to be used to describe me. Then again, I think all "writers" must go through some sort of pain to be able to well, write. And hey, the forever Pollyanna in me still says I got it better than other people. Take this story, for example.

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A Writer's Real Worth Is Inside
By Howard Fast

How did I become a writer? That can be answered in one line - the back of my seat to the seat of the chair. Why did I become a writer? That's a little more complex. I became a writer because I was a writer, because wherever I looked there was a story I had to tell. Sometimes, I think it started in the womb, but that's a bit too far back for me to remember. I began to tell stories by the time I was three, and I suppose it drove my poor mother crazy. Her recourse was to teach me to read, and by the time I was five, I was reading quite fluently. I had two brothers and a sister. My sister was the oldest, and she informed me that my stories were lies. I responded that they were stories. It didn't matter that things had not happened; the point was that they could have happened.

When I started school at age six, I encountered my first and most daunting difficulty: I was and am left-handed. My teacher, as with all teachers then, insisted that I write with my right hand, and since I was not at an age where protest by a six-year-old mattered, I attempted to do as she said. The result was my handwriting, which, at best, would be marked deplorable. To this day, almost eighty years later, I still write with my right hand - if I use my left, it does mirror writing - and reading back what I have written is very difficult. I must say at this point that one day, many years later, I encountered Norman Corwin, who gave form and meaning to radio drama, sitting on a bench in Central Park, with a large pad on his lap and a pencil in his hand. He was writing."Norman," I said, "you are doing what I always dreamed of.""Which is what?" he asked me."Sitting in the shade on a spring day and writing with a pencil on a yellow pad." Ah well, such were my dreams.
At that time, not when I met Corwin in the park, but when I was a six-year-old, engaged in the very difficult business of growing up, we were poor. My father, with six mouths to feed, when he was working and not laid off, brought home between thirty and forty dollars a week. Then my mother passed away when I was eight years old, and my sister took over. And then the Great Depression came. It was very difficult, and it is almost impossible today to comprehend what "poor" meant in the thirties. At eleven, I got my first after-school job, delivering the Bronx Home News; and between then and the time I was married, in 1937, I always managed to find some kind of job: delivery boy, library page, road work, cement work, factory worker. Perhaps because of these jobs, I came to the conclusion that I had only one way out - I had to be a writer who was paid for his work. I began the process at age twelve. I read magazines in the New York Public Library, and I wrote stories and sent them to various magazines. I wrote in pencil on notebook pages, but of course, even the most charitable of editors could not read them. I wrote about everything; all was grist for my mill, and at long last, I received a note from an editor: "Listen, kid, get a typewriter." I was fifteen by then and earning five dollars a week. Good money, considering the times, but never enough. We had too many hungry mouths. Nevertheless, the future called, and I went to the typewriter shop and asked what a used Underwood Upright cost."Twelve dollars, kid." Out of the question - way beyond my horizon. Twelve dollars - we could live on that for a week, and often enough we lived on less. I knew about my handwriting. I knew that I would never sit in the park and write on a yellow pad - still a dream today."Do you rent them?" I asked."Fifty cents a month." I had exactly fifty-five cents in my pocket, and I plunged, signed all the papers, and lugged that big Underwood home. I couldn't wait to sit down in front of it and try that beautiful, wonderful machine that translated my dreams into proper words that anyone could read; and here I must say something about the Underwood Upright. Not only was it the most wonderful endurable machine on earth, but like the Deacon's One Horse Shay, it ran nearly forever. When I married in 1937, I bought a new Underwood out of our wedding money. In 1981, I retired it - because typewriter shops could no longer cannibalize parts. Meanwhile, I had turned out at least eighty books, at least one hundred short stories and newspaper columns beyond numbering.But, to get back to my story. How did I find time for school, after-school jobs, and the Underwood? The answer is that I have no idea, but I did, and the stories poured out. For the next two years, I sold nothing, but I kept on writing, and then, at age seventeen, I sold my first story to Amazing Story Magazine, for thirty-seven dollars. By God, I was a writer! No, it's not as simple as that. I had to learn how to write, to punctuate, to understand the shape of a story. I had to learn an art - one of the most difficult arts known to man; and I had to learn it well enough to consider it a profession - and not have to haul bricks and cement to stay alive.I came to understand that art and creation is not simply another profession, but a reason for being alive on this earth. I had to listen to people and learn all the subtleties of language, the cadence and rhythm that distinguishes one from another. This is a process I am still engaged with, and that will be for the rest of my life.
Today, I am eighty-five years old, and I still write. A day without writing, for me, is a day lost, tossed away. So if I were asked the question, "What must I do to be a successful writer?" I would answer that you must want it more than you want anything else. Whether you write for a magazine or a newspaper or as a novelist or playwright. Most writers do not make much money, and in this world where money is the measure of everything, or I should say almost anything, you must find another measure. There are writers who make millions, and there are other writers who earn a mere pittance, but that is no measure of worth. The real worth is inside of you and can only be measured by your understanding of the human condition. Learn to think clearly, understand your medium and understand people. I might add one thing to this. Read the writers you admire most, unravel the net of words that they spin, and let them be your teachers. You can learn a great deal about the mechanism of writing in school, but the real picture lies in your understanding of the human heart. No school can teach you that. Only your own ears and eyes.

parang hindi busy

found this in old email exchanges...
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Re: random ramblings and froth from the mouth: 3/16/2004
Message:
laica marie wrote: life does not stop when love does. you get on with your life and live it well and you do not wait for love to come back or to arrive again. you cannot spend all your time waiting for that someone. you create your life on your own and if someone arrives, when that soulmate who was meant to be your partner will come, he WILL come and he will be there to complement you, enrich your life BUT he won't be there to COMPLETE you. You COMPLETE me?! sorry, that line from Jerry Mcguire is pretty much a lot of BS..there is NO ONE to complete you but yourself - and that is a choice you have to make - because when you have a life -and a great one at that, you can have everything and anything that is possible- yes, even finding your one true love.

all in day wok, you kno?

You gotta envy this guy's job. He lugs all the bags he can carry for a fee, up to the falls in Kawasan. Literally back-breaking, but I suppose it's good exercise. Hey, can't beat his "office view" - trees, water everywhere, sunshine, and the perks- fresh air, getting healthy, clear deliverables, meeting people. Not bad for a day's work.

Picture by me, Kawasan, Badian, June 2007.

happy back to school!

I would love to go back to school, mainly for the shiny new things that you get. Oh alright, the new people too :)

Buti pa this old lady; kick-ass granny, go!

BaaBaa Black Sheep and Other Stories

For an ordinary day to start it would have to be preceded by more ordinary days, humdrum minutes ticking by, never amounting to much more than hours spilling over to days spent in nights upon nights of restless sleep.
Alas, this rare event of a vacation happened recently and I will not allow any mishaps to happen. I was determined to have fun, do everything on my list.
Thanks to Cebu Pacific’s 999 Promo Fares, we got tickets to Cebu from Clark. People kept on asking us why we had to leave from Clark- there was no other reason except that for cheapskates like us, it was the perfect excuse to go on a road trip. You’d be surprised though how nice flying from Clark airport is, but I digress.
Suddenly I was all so fired up with all the work I had to do, trying to finish and turn over everything so people wouldn’t have any reason to call me on my away-time. By Thursday night, I had turned over enough work that I could resign and not come back (like that could happen) but I hadn’t packed a single freakin’ thing. I panicked and over-shopped on new underwear and now I have loads of pretty under things. Whatever happened to packing light on tank tops, shorts and summer things? As it turned out, I ended up carrying a full sized duffel bag, with an extra backpack tucked in and my trusty green tote as hand carry. Not bad.
The trip up to Clark airport went on smoothly enough; not much traffic even if it was on a Friday morning. We got to the airport with an hour to spare; amazingly, the check-through was hassle-free and it pretty much boded well for the rest of the trip. Note to self: is it possible to just go from Clark to anywhere else from now on? Compared to Manila’s airports, where up until the last minute your senses are assaulted with grime and pollution, Clark airports start you off on your vacation in the right mode. Sounds brochure-ish, I know. Anyone wanna hire me?
Anyhoo, we enjoyed the flight though we didn’t win any game prizes. Or numbers. Got to Cebu all in one piece, kissing the grounds of Cebu and the Tita Sunshine kissing us back and my dad’s staff from the hotel holding up a sign-thankfully not my name.
First on the itinerary- welcome lunch of Cebu’s best lechon, ngohiong and puso, with a surprise welcome by an old friend who was kind enough to bring us to some of our go-to places: passing through new places from Mandaue to the city, lighting incense sticks at Taoist Temple, the spankin’ new IT Park, and generally being our touristy selves. Checked in at Cest la Vie, the pension house near my college alma mater. Nice place, potential to get creepy though. First night’s dinner was at this Asian café somewhere in IT Park, Cebu’s version of Libis.
I should have really just made a Cebu guide packet while I was at it- Amazing Race, Cebu version. Because we moved around a lot, between pension houses, hotels and resorts, we got to indulge and swim in all bodies of water- from fresh waterfalls, to saltwater and chlorinated pool water. Pity we didn’t get to go snorkeling though. Everything was fun, because it was purely vacation mode but top picks and things I loved about it-and not in any order:
1- Singing road trip en route to Moalboal and back.
2- Lots of photo ops, which accounted for half the fun.
3- Trekking a loooong way up to Kawasan Falls, only to get waylaid by goats.
4- The goats that Melai sang Baa Baa Black Sheep to.
5- Hiking up to the source of the falls, and rewarded by a great swim like it was my own private spa lagoon. Super heavenly. You wouldn’t believe the colors of the water and the exquisite beauty of it all. (And this only in Cebu! I can’t wait to discover all the corners of the country, visit what I can in my lifetime.)
6- Getting minimalistic and pared down to essentials: I didn’t put on makeup most of the time, just some gloss and yet, I had great skin the whole time! And nicer hair too. Ahh, what living stress-free does to you.
7- Food! Lechon, seafood, hotel buffets.
8- PinoyHenyo, twisted version.
9- Casino! The Chinese gambler in Shoti was so inspired.
10- Rediscovering Cebu. Funny how leaving makes you appreciate it more than ever.
On the downside, there was a night we wanted to go out and party and there wasn’t an open place to go to. Maybe we didn’t look hard enough? And we had a bunch of other things that we weren’t able to do, but ah well, I hope there’s still a next time. And soon!
Well, either am too lazy to write about the trip or I couldn’t remember half of it. Maybe both, but if there’s one thing am sure of, it’s that I need more vacations and travel time. In the meantime, my memories of the water and my tan lines keep me company in my wait.

uy

happy 1st anniversary pala to my blog.
well there's something to be said about consistently...blogging.


watch out for cebu vacation kwento and pics.

somekinda hitback, once again from the top

I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house
That don’t bother me
I can take a few tears now and then and just let them out
I’m not afraid to cry every once in a while
Even though going on with you gone still upsets me
There are days every now and again
I pretend I’m ok
But that’s not what gets me
What hurts the most was being so close
And having so much to say
And watching you walk away
And never knowing what could have been
And not seeing that loving you
Is what I was tryin’ to do
It’s hard to deal with the pain of losing you everywhere I go
But I’m doin’ it
It’s hard to force that smile when I see our old friends and I’m alone
Still harder getting up, getting dressed, livin’ with this regret
But I know if I could do it over I would trade give away
All the words that I saved in my heart
That I left unspoken
What hurts the most is being so close
And having so much to say
And watching you walk away
And never knowing
What could have been
And not seeing that loving you
Is what I was trying to do

:What Hurts the Most, Rascal Flatts:

contentment and happiness

according to the universe-

Stay put in your life and enjoy where you are -- because it's a pretty nice place to be. If you are constantly thinking about where to go next, you will lose appreciation for where you have struggled to be.

midweek moomba

Kahit 'di na sa Moomba.

On a Wednesday out a couple of days before my trip, I am out playing hooky (because as usual I was going to stay home or work).

At Capone's from Dusit's Fiesta lounge where 3rdAvenue was playing. Being such a music mongrel, I enjoyed both genres of music but with the band at Capone's, I was more in my element with a rock band playing (and they were really good, Overtone was it?) and it all reminded me of my chupets years and it hits me- I don't think I'm totally ever non-chupets. I will always be chupets and I rather like that- one is never too old for chupets.

I met nice new people and I had fun. I beat shoti at the Timezone trivia game (but he got all my tickets-official votes in- yes, I beat him at trivia :D). Am glad I came- I was just going to work on another all-nighter and it pays to be reminded that yes, I have a life outside work-

This while I have Wok-In Chinese take-out in my bag.

warning- work rant

First off, I work with great people and I'm pretty blessed with the company I have. I trust them, they are good at what they do. I wouldn't still be here if I didn't think so.

What's bothering me is that knowing myself, I tend to be pretty hard on me. I always have these ideals in my mind that most of the time, I get stuck on the things that I should do instead of actually doing them. That, coupled with the actual demands of the job make me a stressed little girl. What's wrong with this picture? I lead a team of people who are good at what they do- and I use the word lead loosely as I don't think am doing a good job out of it. I take feedback as it is and try to do something about it- you know how I hate not doing something about it-whatever that it is. I try to learn as I go along but there are just times I don't get it. I try to make my mark on things and try to do things the way I know. What is so frustrating is the doubt that I'm actually doing something right. I don't care for recognition, rewards will come sooner or later; I just want to get the job done. And why do I feel like I'm doing everything? Shouldn't a good leader be able to plan out everyone's work properly? Why do I think I'm doing this the wrong way? sigh.
Nobody warned me about this.

So there. I think I should learn to just let go of some things that I cannot do anything about and really just focus on what I can control. I think that the most responsible thing that one can ever do is to take care of yourself.

bahala na si batman. am thinking, thinking, nooneenoo.

kawawang batman. buti nalang may robin siya.

quickies on a long day

random thoughts, written on random days:

trusting desire, pursuing bliss

finding love, finding strength

getting there and moving on

not losing yourself along the way

falling- no questions, no apologies, no excuses

i don't want a happy ending, i just want a happy "now"