My Reading Buffet, or Why I Read More Than Ten Books At A Time

Ten books is an understatement. If I were to trust my Goodreads record I actually have about eighty books on my Currently Reading List. But I want to keep the number to the books I have been actively reading through for the past two weeks.

Reading multiple books naturally slows me down but just to be clear, I do get to finish them. According to my Goodreads record, again, I am 28%, or 11 books, ahead of this year's Reading Challenge.

Books are my therapy. More specifically, owning them, reading them, and highlighting my favorite passages, not to mention copying those passages and using them in my various writings. I read both fiction and non-fiction, popular as well as literary works. I am partial to fantasy and mythologies and books with magic.

But why do I read so many at the same time? Because I get impatient. And I have this irrational need to feel that I am moving along more than one story. Maybe it is a way of filling my near-absent social life, filling in my social calendar with different stories instead of different parties. But I also like pursuing a thread of thought or the urge of a mood as soon as possible. That is the impatience working. The thought or the urge could be triggered by anything. It could be a genuine need for knowledge and information that could be useful for my work. It could be pure whim or curiosity from hearing a book or an author or a subject mentioned in fils, or even another book, that has moved me in some way. Neil Gaiman gets me going on a lot of reading, helping me discovering authors and genres in the process, expanding my reading appreciation. So does Joseph Campbell and Julia Cameron.

I have this strange constant sense of running out of time. As if I am forever cramming for an exam or a graded recitation. I have this constant hunger, every single day, to learn something new or to feed myself new images and words and stories. I can feel that what I read buoy me up and help me survive every endeavor and every encounter. What I read may inspire me, or literally provide me with a nugget of knowledge that will enable me to save the day, or guide me in the decisions I have to make. Books are my lifeline. They anchor me amidst the sea of unpredictability of the everyday. They remind me of my values and set examples by which to conduct my life (Thank you, Jane Austen).

I seek the variety because it makes me feel that I am covering as much ground as I can. Who knows when familiarity with a specific subject might come in handy? I guess I also don't want to be limited to a very narrow range of topics that could severely limit my already challenged conversational skills. I make up for not being updated with current news and events by being well-versed in books. (I avoid the daily news because I avoid all the negativity and anger and vicious circles of blaming.)

I cannot be idle and not read. While I do enjoy the occasional meditative silence of being still, for most of the time I have to have a reading material of substance in my hands. A book or two in my bag plus books loaded in my smartphone and tablet give me the same comfort as a fully-loaded survival kit in a zombie apocalypse.

My reading list covers a wide range. I follow my heart which pages it wishes to explore at any given moment because that is also when I know that I will get the most from a book.

As of today here are what top my active list:

In my Kindle I have:

The Cuckoo's Calling, by Robert Galbraith
The Twenty-Four Hour Mind, by Rosalind Cartwright
Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, by Mason Currey
Writing Well, by William Zinsser
Writing To Learn, by Willian Zinsser

I love finding unexpected connections between the books I read, even when they seem so different. The important lessons gets echoed because they are important. And when I badly need some clue, a hint of budge in the right direction, my books often come to the rescue. Or sometimes, a simple line can bring a whole load of comfort when I feel most alone in a dreary endeavor and resolution seems too far away, such as this quote from Kafka:

"...time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant, straightforward life is not possible then one must try to wriggle through by subtle maneuvers." -- excerpted from Daily Rituals: How Artists Work.

What's on your reading list this week?

midyear review

Come with a whoop,and come with a call.
Come with a whole heart or not at all.
(Neil Gaiman, The Ocean At The End Of The Lane)

I am on my third year of being independent from employed work. It has been a very rough road but every time I look back, even though there are a few tweaks I would like to have done, I never ever regretted the move to resign from a very lucrative employment.

Whenever I look back, what stand out are the shining moments of my rediscovery of my passions. The first time I painted after more than two decades. The first time I wrote a novel. The first time I acknowledged how much I love writing, reading, and making art after many years of believing that they were dispensable hobbies next to the career that everyone measured me with.

Last year the solo work got to a point that I was desperate. I was in danger of losing my home because I had missed payments. There were no projects for more than six months. I wished for a job.

This year the job came. And so did the projects. And I found myself in a quandary. But in the end I chose to be true to what I have become.

It sounds crazy. A steady, most likely very fat, paycheck given up for a continued life of financial roulette. All I had to do was say yes. But I said no.

It was not an easy decision. But my heart has been more vocal since I started on this particular journey and it would not give me peace. My mind came up with exquisite arguments, logical explanations of the hows which, I have always been told, should be left in the hands of the Universe. Logic can only take me so far. In the end, will I be happy? Will I wake up in the morning with optimism or with dread? Will I risk the joyful creative life I have started to build for a life that satisfied only the expectations of others?

At the hardest point of my contemplation, Neil Gaiman's The Ocean At The End Of The Lane presented itself like a sign. It had completely slipped my mind that it would be out already, and I stumbled into it on the way to a client meeting. A beacon amidst the turmoil of my own thoughts.

"How can you be happy in this world? You have a hole in your heart. You have a gateway inside you to lands beyond the world you know. They will call you, as you grow. There can never be a time when you forget them, when you are not, in your heart, questing after something you cannot have, something you cannot even properly imagine, the lack of which will spoil your sleep and your day and your life, until you close your eyes for the final time...you will die with a hole inside you, and you will wail and curse at a life ill-lived." (Neil Gaiman, The Ocean At The End Of The Lane)

The Year of True Paths is halfway through. After finally making that crucial decision I need to make a plan. Solid enough so I will be true to myself in the daily choices I make, loose enough to allow for the playful storytelling of the Universe. For instance, London. I know I want, I need, to be there. The how is not clear, but I can do my part every day in little ways. London is my love story now. Each day is a step closer to a happily ever after.

"...so I turned, randomly, down another road, and took a left, and a right. It was only then that I realized where I was going, where I had been going all along, and I grimaced at my own foolishness." (Neil Gaiman, The Ocean At The End Of The Lane)

I heard it said, "When two points are destined to touch, even if a direct connection is impossible, the Universe will always find a way."

My heart tells me it is only a matter of time. And what of time? There is plenty. There is always enough. It is always perfect.

spilled

This homemade video spilled out of me today. I have been in a strange mood for the past few weeks, inundated by too much work and besieged by dreams.

The images in the video are approximations of what I see playing in my head. I hope to capture it better when I have the time after all the madness of this month.

The music I used is by A Fine Frenzy, a song titled "Swan Song".

what i want

But I have had to do a lot of errands and work even over the weekend. I did manage to read and finish Why We Broke Up (third book from top of pile) but felt so horribly guilty and stressed afterwards because I read instead of working. I hated the feeling.

Hence I worked all Sunday, only pausing to celebrate Father's Day with my family, and I secretly envied everyone I saw in the restaurant and in the mall because they did not have to go home to work.

I was feeling so low that I could not even appreciate the books in the book shops, nor was I in the mood for any indulgent snack. The work kept bouncing around in my head and I was busy convincing myself that I would get it done.

I did buy myself a little something to remind me of why I got myself into this bit of a mess in the first place, and at the same time also to remind me of the resolutions I have come to in the past four days. I dug up an old Evernote post and everything was there, all the answers I have been looking for.

"To be 'on purpose' means you're doing what you love to do, doing what you're good at and accomplishing what's important to you. When you truly are on purpose, the people, resources, and opportunities you need naturally gravitate toward you." (Jack Canfield)

"Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." (Steve Jobs)

My dream of London is as big and as strong as ever. But there are many ways and many paths to get there. It does not have to be a sacrifice, or a costly trade-off of time and passion and joy. The obvious most logical choice does not always mean the only way or the best way. There are off-beaten paths. There are paths behind wardrobes. There are possibilities inside blue boxes.

the infinite stuff

There is no lack. The gifts of the universe are limitless. Be grateful. Know what you want. Be the best you can be. Be authentic. Be true to your passions. What is yours will come to you if you truly believe. Have faith. Life is always good. Be patient. Follow your true path. Find your North Star.

a sunday cat, and some sunday thoughts

I have been trying to get myself to work since this morning. So far I have ended up writing pieces that had nothing to do with work, and watching the last episode of Downton Abbey, and reading a book.

It is impossible to work on a Sunday. One can feel the holiday-ness of it. Even the sun is a certain shade of gold that meant Rest and Play.

I thought I have not made any art for weeks so I took out my little Moleskine plain notebook and made this:

I was hoping it would get me energized to work. It didn't. Why do I even bother to try to work in the first place? I think I feel guilty for being sick last Friday and not being able to work at all.

I also do not trust my immense capacity to:

Work pains me. At least the kind of work that takes me away from the writing I want to do and the art I want to make. It would not have been so bad if it were simple work, nothing that taxed me to the point of exhaustion. But the nature of my day-job demands a lot of mental effort, and mental effort is exhausting. I also have to exert extra effort to make up for my lukewarm heart.

I am reading this book on the science of success and I can understand perfectly what it is trying to say but as simple as it sounds, it is very difficult to practice. My mind is a noisy babble of anxiety and impatience that possibly slows me down towards the life I want.

I must not be distracted. The day-job is a means to an end. I must be careful not to get trapped as if it is an end in itself. I was in that cage once. I must never get caught again.

"Play your roles, but KNOW that they are NOT YOU." - Joseph Campbell

i am a bookaholic

It started when I was twelve years old. It was during summer vacation and my best friend then took me to the public library. I was the kind of kid who stayed home so I discovered places only when people took me to them. I was thrilled to find out I could get my own library card without much fuss. I did and that was the beginning.

Being twelve, I started off with the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. But those quickly ran out because I was a voracious reader. I read two to three books in a day or two and I had to go to the library at least thrice a week during the summer and twice during schooldays.

I began venturing into bookstores and touching the shiny brand new books on the shelves. I began smelling books and loved both new-book-smells and old-book-smells. When I was in high school, I asked that my Christmas and birthday gifts be books. Brand new ones from the bookstore. The librarians in the public library became fond of me, and waved away fines and gave me extensions and most especially, allowed me to take out more books than was permitted.

In college I was fortunate to get into a university with a very impressive library. I became its denizen and the librarians there also gave me the same privileges. I used up three to four library cards in a single semester.

Any extra money I saved up from my allowances I used to buy books.

When I started working, I spent a lot of money on books. At one point I had more than a thousand crammed in the tiny bedroom that I shared with my sister in the small apartment where I lived with my family.

I would buy books almost every week. Not just from bookstores with their brand new volumes but also from second-hand book shops. Then the internet happened and I discovered an online auction site for books and I outbid everyone else on the books I wanted. The owner of that site eventually became a very good friend.

Sometime in 1999 I sold off more than half of my book collection to fund a trip.

Two years later I moved to a higher-paying job and was able to replenish my personal library. It was even more intense that time, the book-buying, for the books took the place of everything else that work did not consume. Books became my lifeline to sanity.

Eight years later I quit the job that had been eating up my life and then I started selling off my books again to raise funds to sustain a freelancer's life. Now I wish I had been more discerning because there were titles I wish I never sold.

Three years later I began the process of recovering the books I had lost and adding new ones that feed my rediscovered passions. My library today has about 500-600 books, including those in my Kindle.

In the past three years I have simplified my lifestyle to the point that I have significantly reduced my monthly spendings and have channeled my retail therapy to just three things: books, writing materials, and art materials.

I particularly enjoy fantasy, fairy tales, mythology, basically anything with magic and supposedly impossible things. I also like a bit of philosophy and psychology. I like books on writing and poetry - Susan Wooldridge, Anne Lamott, Ann Patchett. I like the occasional chick lit and I like inspirational books along the lines of Julia Cameron, Zen, Anna Johnson, Paulo Coelho. I have favorites among the classics : Jane Austen's novels, Sherlock Holmes, the mysteries of Agatha Christie. I like food and travel books : Ruth Reichl, M.F.K. Fisher, Jamie Oliver.

In authors I absolutely love Neil Gaiman. Then there's Nick Bantock, Barbara Hodgson -- writers who are also artists. I love Sarah Addison Allen.  Joseph Campbell is right up there with Neil.

I admire bloggers who have become authors -- Holly Becker and Grace Bonney.

There are many others but I don't want to make this a very long list. I will write about most of them anyway as I read through the days.

My latest book loot is from yesterday, when I stepped out to air myself after being cooped up for two days because I was ill. I wandered into the secondhand bookshop in the supermarket and walked out with these:

The Ethnography book is just a geeky thing for me because it is part of what I do to earn a living. And it is ridiculously cheap at Php50.

The Dante Club is something I have been curious about and the copy was in very good condition for only Php148. I plan to read the original Dante before reading this one to enhance my appreciation.

The School Of Essential Ingredients is hardbound and I have a sample of it in my Kindle and it is on my to-buy list. I paid less than half for what it would cost me to purchase it on Kindle. A great bargain indeed.

This week alone I spent twice on books. But I don't splurge on anything else. No more clothes and shoes I would only wear once. No more wasteful time and money spent with pseudo-friends. No more unnecessary products in the grocery cart. Yes, it is all about books, writing, and art now. But most especially books.

currently hooked

The exercises get more complicated as the chapters go by but I am having tons of fun! This is certainly something to feel good about when other things in my life are needing a boost.

I have been having dreams of slaying dragons and I know my subconscious is telling me something very important. Maybe I will meditate on it by painting more.

it starts and ends with you

You know that experience when you fall so madly in love with a song and you can't stop playing it over and over again and every time it plays it is like the first time you hear it and your heart just explodes all over the place each time and you become just a little bit supernatural, straddling this world and that world where the song is and where a story of your life unfolds like some kind of a fairy tale except you cannot see it clearly yet but you know it's there and that you will get there eventually? It's a song that takes you out of yourself and closer to the place where you have always dreamed to be, as close to kissing the sun without burning, as deep as you dare to dive into the ocean without drowning. All your lethargic dreams are wakened by this song, even the lost ones, the forgotten ones. This song is a call to the core of your spirit. A call to journey and finish what has languished in your life because you became too concerned with what mattered less than what really matters. This song is the anthem to your happily ever after, maybe. If you are brave enough. If you let the song weave the magic through you. You can feel it already. Your body moves of its own accord, your heart beats a rhythm that is familiar and frightening and exhilarating all at the same time, your mind opens up to avenues to thought that were not accessible before. Your soul sings along. If you had special magic glasses you could probably see how the pulsing light of your soul thrums and travels and spreads through the cosmic web, unlocking chapters, touching other sleeping souls, leaving markers. The magic shimmers on your skin (it will call to what is yours), coats the tip of your tongue (be careful what you say), weaves through the veins of your heart (be careful what you wish), and seeps through your dreams at night (find the Dream King).

And I've worn so many faces

Shot my love at fifteen paces

My inheritance is all the thoughts I can't sweep away

I shout out but I just spin faster

I crawl out but my knees are water

I cling on by my nails to the sweet disaster

And I fall to the floor like my strings are cut

Pinch myself but I don't wake up

Spit in the wind 'cause too much is not enough

It starts and ends with you

(Suede, It Starts And Ends With You)

geek alert

I joined Scribd, which is hailed as a YouTube for Documents. There are catalogs from various book publishers, class lectures, serious papers -- lots of pretty useful stuff if you're doing research or merely curious. I found a paper discussing the shift from Feudalism to Capitalism which I saved for later reading. Don't ask me why. Certain things I just find interesting.

The site also shares book excerpts and I discovered this:

I have to admit, I want it.

Stuff like this interest me. Plus I really really like studying, as long as it's on a subject I like. There is a secret part of me that actually wants to be forever in a university, studying and doing research and writing papers. Spending days in the library. Hanging out in coffee shops and bookstores. Having exciting conversations with fellow learners.

If I could, I would like to go back to college and earn another degree, or two. Maybe I could. I wonder if I will survive the long homework nights as well as I did when I was eighteen. I'll take up Literature, Creative Writing, and Psychology. Then maybe take extra courses on History and Language Studies. All those reading to be done! Perfect excuse to stay curled up with books, paper, and pen for whole days.

look up

See there among the tabs, one that is titled 365 for 2013. Yes it's my own personal 365 project. It's a humble project, and I designed it to be easy. A picture a day, with a lot of leeway on what kind of a picture it could be. I was inspired by Lisa Congdon's 365 Days Of Handlettering from last year and she even got a book deal out of it before the year ended. Well, I don't think my little project will be book-worthy yet but at the very least it should help establish me as an artist in some distinct and solid way. One of the pictures has already been claimed by a cousin. She offered to buy it but I insisted on giving it as a gift instead. Generosity, especially within the early stages of an endeavor, will go a long way. Good karma always pays.

Meanwhile I am motivated to meet this challenge I set for myself this year. I am still in the early stages so it is easy to get into it but the real test to my commitment will be when work starts to pour in again. I still have my writing to make time for as well as for reading all those books lined up by my bedside table and in my Kindle.

The drawing and the painting soothe me in similar ways as writing does. It is in that momentary transportation into another plane of existence where anything is possible and everything makes sense. Where whatever comes out of the pen or the pencil is real and alive. Where colors speak their hidden names and words reveal their secret powers. Worlds are born. When I am creating stories or images I find peace. I feel a calmness that I could never fully achieve with doing anything else. Writing and making art center me, ground me, keep me tethered to life and just enough sanity to distinguish between this world and the other worlds I travel through when my hand wraps around a pen or a brush or when my fingers start flying over the keys.

Writing and making art are the refuge of my heart when it is besieged by doubt and fear. How I wish and hope that I will one day sustain my physical life with my creations! To get up in the morning eager to work because work would be walking into my studio to add products for my popular art shop or to prepare for a small exhibit or sitting in front of a half-finished book for which an advance has already been received. Blissful indeed.

What dreams are you dreaming this year?

2013: The Year Of True Paths

I woke up very late today because I got home at almost four in the morning. My sister and I spent the first couple of hours of the new year watching Sense And Sensibility and taking good lessons from Jane Austen.

When I got home I was still very much awake and had to read myself to sleep, which meant that it must have been almost five in the morning. In keeping with one of the themes I intend to embrace this new year, I progressed through The Jane Austen Guide To Happily Ever After.

I changed my curtains into a sunshiny polka-dotted piece in the hopes of attracting money energies. At this point, every little bit will help, as far as I am concerned.

In the evening, I dared to spend a little bit of cash to treat my family out to dinner. It has been a long while since we could afford to celebrate by eating out in a nice restaurant. But I figured, it is the new year, and the energies are fresh and hopes are recharged. We went to a place we have not tried but which promised delicious celebratory comfort food. We had traditional dishes of crispy pata and kare-kare with steamed rice. We were served a complimentary basket of crispy delicious cracklings while we waited for the meal to be served.

Before leaving the house for dinner though, I finished a piece that was inspired by a private joke and secret among myself, my sister, and a common girl friend.

When I got home after dinner, I did one last journal page and admired my own handiwork. Love will be taken seriously this year, in all its forms and expressions. I will not be embarrassed by it, nor will I treat it like an afterthought.

2013 will be a Year of True Paths. After the rebirths of the previous year, it is now the time to nurture what have been reborn and rediscovered. To let these, by their nature, invite the right kind of people, opportunities, events, and experiences. The true ones that will nurture my own spirit and happiness. True friends, true loves, true passions. There will certainly be a lot of walking, aching feet, occasionally getting delayed by either hunger or exhaustion, maybe sometimes putting off the forward march by a day (but never more than a day). There may even be some doubling back, because of something forgotten or something missed. A loose end slipping out that must be cut clean. But always, always, it will all end with moving forward, even if it means leaving things and even people behind (like when they don't wish to walk with you nor catch up with you nor carry their own weight in the journey.) 

In moving forward I hope to see new places, meet new people (even if it is seeing the same old people in a new light that will forge deeper relationships), gain beautiful new experiences that will bring new lessons (or new ways of learning old ones). I hope to learn new things, to discover side journeys that will help me grow, and also I hope to be something new and something true to other people. I hope to be a true friend, and when the Universe says it is time, a true love. 

What true path will you be walking this year?

a particular fantasy

This is the side that faces visitors to my home. On the other side there are more shelves filled with books. On the other side is my sleeping corner. The postcards on display are from the Griffin and Sabine postcard collection that I bought way back in the 1990s. It's a pity to keep them hidden in a box so I put them up. They also inspire me in my art-making.

For almost two weeks now I have been beset by one particular fantasy. If you have been reading this blog for a while you will know that I have been on a very strict budget because of my adamant pursuit of happiness and satisfaction in my work. Unfortunately such kind of work does not always come hand-in-hand with a satisfactory amount of money. Maybe it will, at some point, but right now they do not share the same sphere in my life. Hence, I cannot indulge in my usual book-shopping.

I have re-learned to live without a lot of things since I simplified my lifestyle to afford my journey of true paths. I have whittled down my wants and needs to the essentials, and one of those is books.

I could easily find torrents of e-books online but I find that nothing fulfills me as much as a bound volume of paper in my hands, with the scent of ink lingering on my fingertips.

For the past two weeks, especially since I finished writing my novel and while I am currently editing it, my hunger for books to read has been sharper than ever. It is like the writing had consumed so much "word energy" that I desperately need to replenish it. I crave for more stories, I yearn to meet more heroines and the men who torment their hearts, I long for the fairy tale endings that are such a comfort after hundreds of pages of almost losing hope that things will turn out well.

I have this particular fantasy of dressing up. I would be wearing a favorite long skirt, a perfectly complementing top, a pair of comfortable shoes that add twist to the whole ensemble. My hair would be behaving perfectly, cascading in soft waves down my back. I would be wearing my favorite spider turquoise bracelets layered with my pair of bracelets from India (for luck). Maybe my butterfly earrings. Or the tea and cupcake pair. My bag slung over my shoulder carrying my simple survival kit that includes a journal notebook and an inked fountain pen.

I enter the bookstore, slowing down at the entrance enough to take a deep breath like what I usually do when I enter libraries. My eyes scan the New Arrivals, the Special Discounts, the Bestsellers. But I know what I want. I weave through the many shelves to find the sections where countless joys await me. The classics, poetry, fantasy, contemporary fiction, literary fiction. I am drawn to stories with magic. Once in a while I would venture into food and travel. But I linger longest in fantasy, crashing through age lines, picking from children's as well as from young adults's. But how I wish for adult fantasy that retains the sweetness and wonder and magic of the young adults's. (Maybe that is why I am attempting to write one now.)

I run my fingers across the clean straight spines. I delight in feeling the embossed letters and images beneath my fingertips, like tracing a tattoo on someone's skin. I like the books with unevenly cut pages. I risk paper cuts on my own skin by sliding my thumb down the rough thick press of pages.

I pull a book out and open it randomly. I caress the paper, then slowly bring it up to my face so I could steal a breath of ink and pulp. My eyes play on the fonts. I like fonts that are well-spaced, not too cramped, and not too default. I like books that have been printed with care and consideration. Good paper, just the right thickness and weight and with that charming aged tinge. There are types of paper that you just know will age so beautifully. I check the solidity of the spine. Few things are more disappointing than a new book that falls apart, especially in your hands, while you're still reading it. It should be able to stand the abuse of being rolled over in bed, stuffed beneath the pillows, or slept over for hours in awkward positions.

I have a growing pile of chosen volumes beside me, as I sit on the floor, between rows and rows of books waiting for consideration. My long skirt is like a sacred circle marking my space in front of a shelf. Other people walk around me, dare not to disturb me.

I have lost track of time. Time is of no consequence. I am immersed in silent conversations, weighing promises and judging covers. My heart beats fast. It is in a constant state of agitation, of anticipation, of expectation. My fingertips are cold. They tremble with excitement at the thought of plunging into all those worlds. Of repeating the same journeys but always living through each one as if it were the first time. Of meeting every possible version of the same man who will break my heart just as he would break the heroine's heart. Of suspending my belief long enough to take me through the breathtaking climax of a happily ever after.

I expel a deep sigh that carried within its weight the litany of prayers that continue to prove my faith in fairy tales. I take my pile of books, my pile of dreams, to the counter. I become thousands of pesos poorer, possibly sacrificing the week's groceries and I would have to survive on crackers and jam on some days. But in exchange I gain days of sanity and hope as I balance along the edge of a long leap into the void.

One day, fueled and inspired by all those stories, I will finish editing my novel. I say by early next year. One day, I will be brave enough again to make one story that I will do instead of reading or writing it.

of missing poems and broken hearts

I have decided to create a new photo album in my Facebook for sharing random poetry. I have hundreds stashed in my hard drive, in my journals, on scraps of paper, and a lot more crawling around my head.

And then some of them are on lovely paper in the possession of those who inspired them, if they have not thrown it away already (possibly accompanied by a shiver of dread.)

In any case, they have always been hidden. My little children. Offsprings of my heart.

Then last night there was this series of events. First, the "dark" side of writing a novel has reared its head. All the memories, angst, emotions I gathered material from are still out in the open, raw and pulsating under daylight. I have not had time to put them away and also I was still editing so I still need them for filling in plot holes. But without the mad dash towards a finish line or meeting word count requirements, there are now spaces for breathing and those raw things in the open started to moan and groan and suddenly I was a vulnerable mess.

Second, I stumbled upon a beautiful photo of a couple I know (on Facebook of course, where everyone gets to craft a dream life) and it was taken specifically for showing off how perfect and in love they are. Regrets for my own past failed loves keened and tried to find dark corners to hide in.

Third, I seem to have lost a poem I had written years ago. It was the only one I ever wrote for one specific person and I could not find it. I started looking for it after I saw the photo because I wanted to read it to soothe myself, to comfort the dis-ease in my own heart. And when I could not find it I was overcome by a feeling of loss so great that I felt I would die in my sleep of a broken heart.

In my desire to find the missing poem I was led into many forgotten files of poetry, both finished and unfinished. They made me weep, as if I died all over again, as if I got un-chosen all over again. After a mighty torrent of tears I quieted down. My eyes were red and swollen I could barely see through them.

This morning I started to organize my poetry, killing off the bad ones, cleaning up the good ones. Then I decided I would share them. Maybe that is what I am meant to do now. Instead of hiding.

Here is a remake version of the missing poem.

On a more positive note, I feel better today. A few ideas were released by the deluge of tears and I am now playing with them, seeing where they could lead me.

the worst of times, the best of times

from http://fivejs.com/for-book-lovers-everywhere/

This has come true for me in its literal sense. I am job-hunting now and have been living on a very strict budget. The job-hunting seems to be going as well as my lovelife - which means there have been many possibilities but they have so far left me hanging or waiting indefinitely. I crafted a visually engaging CV which is both honest and brave. It has stuff in it that are not necessarily meant to impress but instead meant to express. It has a bit more heart, a bit more spirit, which were my intentions.

Today I went to the supermarket to buy food and cat litter. The cat litter could not be compromised but the food could. So I halved my food budget (less meat, more plants) so I could buy these two books.

I have wanted to read Anna Quindlen since I read a sample of her book Lots Of Candle Plenty Of Cake on Kindle. The Solitaire Mystery is a book I have read years ago and would like to read again. I never had a copy of this because my sister just lent me hers to read. I believe it's time I got my own, and it even has the printed autograph of the author.

I have this dream of getting a well-paid job in a publishing house or a book shop or a library.

When I was fresh out of college, after my mandatory stint as a teacher in my high school alma mater (a condition of my scholarship that mysteriously surfaced when I was already halfway though university), I sent out applications to many companies, one of which was a publishing house. That publishing house was the first to call me for an interview. So I went and they interviewed me, and made me take an editing test. They seemed to be very pleased with the results because the very next day they were offering me a job. Except that on that same day I also got a call from a well-known advertising agency requesting for an interview. I was young and naive. I declined the publishing house and went for the advertising agency (associated with fame, glamour, and ridiculously high salaries), which led me to a very successful career that I had to leave fourteen years later because I was longing for something like what I would probably have become if I had chosen the publishing house.

"It's odd when I think of the arc of my life, from child to young woman to aging adult. First I was who I was. Then I didn't know who I was. Then I invented someone and became her. Then I began to like what I'd invented. And finally I was what I was again."    -Anna Quindlen, Lots Of Candles, Plenty Of Cake

oh joyful words, balm to my heart

Way back in 2005 or 2006 I had this major crush on a work colleague. He was an artist and he was charming and sweet and funny. I was an overworked, generally unhappy, and creatively-empty head of a department. I was in a relationship on a downhill with someone else but I was too much of a coward to end it because it was just too much trouble. Besides, my artist crush was also in a relationship. Nah, too complicated and I didn't think my artist ever saw me in that light.

So that time I was so fascinated by that artist that I found myself writing little poems on the margins of my work notebook. Then I found myself contemplating the idea of a novel because it was the only way I could give free rein to the tumult of emotions that were harassing my flagellated spirit. Needless to say that artist also inspired my main character.

I started writing the novel and got as far as the first chapter. Then work took over my life again and the novel was shelved and I started to think I was not cut out for writing fiction.

It was a fantasy novel, with magic and dragons and a love story.

Two years ago I quit the job that sucked my spirit dry and it took me those two full years to heal my spirit back to health.

This year on All Hallow's week, I was visited by the ghost of an old professor, a writer, who had encouraged me to write. I found her letter as I was looking for something else, I think it was an account number or a receipt. As I read the letter I got goosebumps, and then quite teary-eyed. She had passed away years ago, you see. And to read her kind generous words at a time in my life when I am just aching for some magic to happen was just so timely.

The next day, I don't know how but a Facebook link led me to NaNoWriMo and I heard my old professor's voice repeating what she wrote. Then my mind went: You don't do fiction. You do poetry. You do essays and feature writing. You do blog posts. Never fiction. You won't be able to sustain it. You will just end up writing something so cliche and trite. And one of the loudest: You should not be wasting the month writing a novel that will most likely not be published. You should be Looking For A Job.

So I went for a walk, found myself in a bookstore, and my feet, by habit, brought me to the fantasy section. Jutting out incongruously among the young adult fantasy books was a hardbound book in black and red that first shouted "Neil Gaiman"(who wrote the foreword) to me, then followed immediately by "Diana Wynne Jones". Two of my most admired authors. It turned out to be a book by Diana entitled "Reflections On The Magic Of Writing".  I skimmed the contents and found pieces that would be helpful if I dared to write a novel.  I checked and found that it was the last copy on the shelf. I wasn't even sure if it was supposed to be there. Goosebumps again. Was it waiting for me? And here's the thing. She has also passed away so maybe she was recruited by my old professor to cheer me on.

When I got home I signed up for NaNoWriMo, read through the instructions, and waited for November.

When the time had come to start writing, I did. And everything I ever read about writing from Anne Lamott, Ann Patchett, Stephen King, Natalie Goldberg, Susan Wooldridge, and Julia Cameron came crashing back. I suddenly had these inspiring teachers looking over my shoulder urging me forward. Yes, just keep on writing. It's okay to have shitty first drafts. Listen, watch, the story will take you where you need to go.

I had decided to resurrect that old idea for a novel I had in 2005-2006, with some tweaks. Now it is a fantasy novel, with magic and dragons and three love stories on which the survival of a world depends. Something along those lines. One of the main characters was still inspired by that artist - I am still in touch with him and he is still charming and sweet and funny. Another main character was inspired by a person who continues the tradition of everyone else I have ever liked who never liked me back. Yes, now you see why I need to write. The happiness I feel when writing can easily make up for being ignored or passed over.

Last night I submitted my novel for validation, having completed a most-likely shitty first draft that exceeded the minimum requirement of 50,000 words. This morning I was confirmed a winner on my first attempt to write a novel.

I finished ahead of schedule, and I am now starting to work on the editing as well as filling in the plot holes and doing extra research for authenticity.

I had written a novel. After years of believing I never could or would.

The idea of getting it published is a nice thing but I want to edit and clean it up for myself more than anything else. I have a few friends who genuinely want to read it and I will let them. But the most important thing I learned as I was writing this novel was how much I do love writing and that I have been limiting myself by keeping away from fiction. Now I have a good list of ideas for a collection of short stories. I am also motivated to get all those poems in order and put them into a semblance of a book.

November is on its last week and I still don't have a job but I have the first draft of a novel. Instead of 50,000 cash, I have 50,000 words. Yet somehow I feel strangely very happy.

What beautiful thing has happened to you lately?

a book cover

I am being pressured by the empty book cover box in my NaNoWriMo dashboard so I put one together quickly. Here is working cover which basically captures the play of the elements crucial to the story, with a heavier emphasis on water and fire.

Appropriately I used and edited a photo I had taken during my recent trip to the beach this May. The photo was shot beneath the Spider House where we stayed.

And here are my stats for the day. So far, so good.

ink love

I would absolutely love to get inks for Christmas.

I downloaded this ink sample document from the J. Herbin site,

a link that I discovered through Rants of the Archer,

a person who has made pens and paper his passion and as such he receives free stuff to sample and review. I am vert with envy.

just do

It should not matter where the writing comes from or how the writing is done. The writing could come from a sad memory, or a sentimental musing, or the simply fact that I cleaned the cat's litter this morning. The writing could be done in my journal, handwritten in ink with a vintage fountain pen, or scribbled hastily on a square notepad with a Sharpie, or even typed into my iPhone with the Momento app or typed into my computer with Ommwriter. None of these should matter. Sometimes the writing will catch me at odd times and at odd places. I must simply write.

"How carefully are we willing to listen? How much control are we willing to surrender for the sake of allowing creativity to move through us rather than out trying to flog it forward for agendas of out own?"  - Julia Cameron

I like to imagine myself, beautiful like a dream, sitting by the window and writing. My hair would be in a neat ponytail. My back would be straight. I would be in a pretty vintage dress. My fingers would be ink-stained for effect, folded around a vintage fountain pen. And before me would be pages and pages of beautiful writing, in perfect penmanship. Poems and essays and little stories. With appropriate sketches and drawings in ink and watercolor. So perfect. So admirable.

But in reality, I am in crumpled pajamas or a well-worn shirt and shorts. My hair would be in a messy bun because I just finished keeping the dust in the house at bay. My fingers are wrinkly from washing the dishes. It feels too warm to sit down for any length of time and the clean blank pages of paper only echo a blankness in my mind. My penmanship wavers between okay and confused. My writing churns out snippets of half-hearted poetry, reluctant opinions, and unconvincing stories. My attempts at artful marginalia end up like thoughtless doodles or mediocre sketches.

But none of it should matter, except the simple fact that I write. I make art. Something happens on the page even if it seems not much.

I must keep at it, and then one day it will all come together, fall into place. But I must not think about that yet. I must focus on what is now, what is here. Now I do what I can, write what I can, make art as best as I can. I must not count the days nor measure the hours I have spent nor try to determine if anything has born fruit. Nurture. Cultivate. Savor the surprise when it finally happens.

where i am

"…just start where you are. It's a luxury to be in the mood to write. It's a blessing but it's not a necessity. Writing is like breathing, it's possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what."
- Julia Cameron

I have made up countless rules for myself in order to write. Conditions that I somehow believed to be prerequisites to writing. I have this illusion of a perfect piece of work emerging only when these conditions are met. For instance, the house must be clean and in order so that my own thoughts will be in order. There must be a huge chunk of free time stretched out ahead of me so I will not feel rushed or pressured. I must not be disturbed in any way. The temperature in the room must be just so, not too hot, not too cold. It must be early in the day so I will feel like my writing is fresh like the morning sun. There must not be any work to be done after, no errands, no obligations. Meals must be satisfying but not exhausting nor time-consuming to prepare. Also, the dishes must somehow be magically washed away or else the sight of a full dirty sink will distract from the writing.

Needless to say, trying to meet all of these conditions means that no writing is ever done. Five days would have passed and I would still be planning and preparing to write.

The paper must be smooth. The pen must be perfect. The ink must be an exact shade of turquoise.

Handwritten is better than typing. I should wait until my fingers lose their stiffness from playing too much Assassin's Creed. I must not be sleepy, so it will be better if I lay down for a few minutes and took a nap.

I must finish all the items on my to-do list for the day before I can write. Or else all those to-dos will keep on marching back and forth before me on the blank pages.

All the fuss and all the nitpicking for the perfect time to write. Yet all I have to do is to sit down and to write. Ignore everything else. Write as if everything else depended on it. Write for fifteen minutes. Even for five minutes. In five days that would have already been almost half an hour of writing compared to no writing because the windows needed a curtain change.

I have created for myself little superstitions that make writing like some kind of a Holy Grail. I am sabotaging my own path to the creative life I am craving for.

Today I take a burning torch and burn it all away. The rules, the conditions, the excuses. The distractions, the hidden desire for instant perfection, the reluctance to begin for fear of never finishing.

Today I will steal time to write, and to make art, and I will do it every single day from here on. No, I will claim time, for it is the desire of my heart and the calling of my spirit.

Because really, what is it that I dream of, achingly, as I go to bed every night?

To be a writer and an artist, a creator and a crafter.

Then I must live it. Become what I want by doing. To cease all pretense at preparation, to crush every ounce of fear and brew it for courage. To leap into the void of blankness, of possibility, and to make things happen. To make my life happen. To make me happen.