just like the beginning of the year

The ending of the year forecasts storms. Perhaps as strong as the ones I experienced in the beginning of this year. Maybe even stronger.

Today I have been most agitated. I could not sit to write, and only managed about three paragraphs. I could not sit still enough to read, I only managed half a chapter. I made myself watch a movie (Emma starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Jeremy Northam) and at different points I had to stand up and pace while watching because I was feeling restless.

It could simply be the holiday season seeping in, inducing both extremes of sadness and joy, as it usually does.

I sat on the floor, resting against a heavy bookshelf, my journal on my knees, a bottle of ink by my side. I wrote while I listened to a looped playlist with the volume turned up to overwhelm the street noises from outside the window.

I have been unable to eat proper meals. My appetite is often the first to go, then insomnia sets in. It is the phase. It will pass. Just like any storm. I just have to be strong and pray that I do not become too broken from the whiplash of intense emotions and the lightnings of longing. It will pass, and everything will be tolerable again.

"I think about stepping closer to him, not for any practical reason, but just because I want to see what it would be like to stand that close to him; just because I want to. Foolish, a voice in my head says."  - Divergent, Veronica Roth

loose ends, full circles

At Hong Kong, February 2012, before the retreat.
Photos belatedly, yet also timely, shared by a sempai.
My hair was so short!

It is the last month of the year. Soon enough I will be scrambling to put together some kind of year-end summary blog post on what this year had brought me.

For this post I wish to lay to resolution one thing that had hovered around me like a hungry vulture.

I had started out 2012 highly optimistic. A quarter of the way through, something gave on a part of my life that left me broken-hearted in so many ways. In March of this year, I decide to take time off from my kendo, needing time to heal and sort out my heart and my spirit.

Things built up through the four and a half years I have been practicing, starting out nice and sweet like all good intentions usually do, and then somehow not surviving the random tests that the Universe threw to poke at their authenticity. I had my failings and my failures. What made them more painful was the realization that there were also people who failed me. It would not have hurt so much if the way it happened was like a clean strike that left no doubt of its intention to slice through a hand, eviscerate, or cleave one in half. But it happened in subtle stabs and little sabotages, leaving  no evidence behind, no witnesses. By the time I realized I was wounded and losing too much blood, I was too weak. It became a time when kendo brought out the worst in me and also made me feel the worst about myself. I discovered reservoirs of hate, anger, resentment, jealousy, and other unpleasant things hidden within myself. I came to kendo hoping to learn calm and peace in the midst of adversity and I learned the opposite.

It was not just the practice of kendo, although that in itself was already a challenge that consumed every ounce of my courage. It was the the little things around it that when you gather them together could be as dangerous and damaging as a Portuguese man o' war. The things on the side that most people dismiss and take in stride. But I came to the dojo with all heart and took things too seriously perhaps, trusted too easily. Now I know oh so much better.

Yesterday, after more than eight months of absence and avoidance, I went back to the dojo. I wanted to see what I would feel, if I still wanted to come back, if I could bear to come back.

Here's a very useful advice: staying away for a good chunk of time does help. A lot. Never ever underestimate the value of a retreat, in all its shades of meaning. There will always be a time when it is the best thing you could ever do for yourself.

(During my retreat I had: written a novel, redecorated my home, painted a lot, redesigned my career, read too many books)

As I walked towards the dojo,  I could feel my heartbeat becoming erratic. Two-thirds of the way my fingertips were as cold as ice and I had to breathe through my mouth.

I came in when the session had started so I would not have to talk to anybody, and I stepped out during the break for the same reason. But one thing that the retreat had brought me was clarity. As well as the calmness of distance. That clarity was completed when I was inside the dojo with the reality of everything and everyone in it. That clarity guided me, and then finally, I knew what to do, what to say, and knew not to care if I, in turn, be the cause of hurt or disappointment. I have been making too many allowances for others, I think it's time I take mine. As the wife of the club president had told me while she was convincing me to come back, "Everyone is selfish."  She has a very good point.

There were other things that unfolded that evening, very close to my ever vulnerable heart, but already tangential to my kendo practice. One thing I have decided though, I will return to practice next week, and see where that leads me, armed with my new clarity and gifted with a new shade of courage (I hope!)

Eight months ago I truly believed I will never return. There were many things I believed were hopeless eight months ago. Maybe a few more will prove me wrong.

Dinner after practice
December 2012, after the retreat
Love my long hair now

What things have turned around for you lately?

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?

making story and art

I am a week ahead of targets for NaNoWriMo. Sometimes writing this novel feels like crafting one long spell and at the end of it my own life will take on the shape of its happy ending.

Friday night I painted a gift for someone who shared my admiration for Neil Gaiman so I drew a version of Death inspired by Steampunk. Some of the designs in the artwork were also inspired by the novel I am writing so it is all connected and complex that way.

I write an average of 3-5 thousand words a day, including what I write in my journal. My writing has been the thing that saves me and keeps me sane through the storm of questions orphaned of answers. My art-making, on the other hand, helps express or magnify what I could not contain in words.

Lately love has been lurking and I let it sit beside the lamp while I write as long as it does not interrupt me from my writing. But sometimes it would sigh and I would hear it and we would stare at each other unable to offer any consolation. It likes to hang out by my desk on late Saturday nights when it knows I tend to be more vulnerable but I am used to its tricks and I manage to bury it in a good pile of words. I would write, write, write until my fingers would cramp and my eyes would ache and love would be barely breathing beneath the pages. Of course in the morning I would find that it had managed to slip through between the lines and everything I have written would have love's taint.

I just keep on writing.

writing and music

This is a long overdue post but I have been busy doing something I absolutely love. Writing. Supplemented by lots of reading. More writing.

I have reached the 25,000 words halfway mark ahead of schedule in my NaNoWriMo novel. I have been sleeping between two to four in the morning because I find that I write better during the dark quiet night, with only a single source of light.

Except last Saturday when I slept at four in the morning because I was creating a playlist in my iTunes to provide a music soundtrack for the fluttering agitation that had me trying to write and wringing my hands and standing up suddenly and pacing and sighing oh so many times. I ended up not writing very much at all although I made a playlist and listened to it in loops while staring out the window until I started to feel sleepy at four in the morning.

"Oh you're in my blood like holy wine

You taste so bitter, and so sweet

Oh I could drink a case of you, darling

 Still I'd be on my feet"

~ Case Of You/ Joni Mitchell ~

"Do I love you

Do I hate you

I can't make up my mind

So let's free fall

And see where we land"

~ Where We Land/ Ed Sheeran~

"I'm just dreaming

Counting the ways to where you are"

~ 100 Years/ Five For Fighting~

"Every time you're not around

It doesn't matter

'Cause you're everywhere to me."

~ Everywhere/ Bran Van 3000~

"Ten to one, you're gonna smile when you walk by

Fifty-four to one, you're gonna stop and say hi

Two million to one, you'll be the love of my life

Infinity to one, we're gonna last a life time"

~ Infinity To One/ Jason Reeves~

"Sometimes it stops,

Sometimes it flows,

But baby that is how love goes.

You will fly and you will crawl;

God knows even angels fall.

No such thing as you lost it all.

It's a secret no one tells;

One day it's heaven, one day it's hell.

It's no fairy tale;

Take it from me,

That's the way it's supposed to be."

~ Even Angels Fall/ Jessica Riddle~

"I turned around

And the water was closing all around"

~ Crystal/ Stevie Nicks~

Oh, yes. Gotta weather this particular storm and channel all its excess energy to finishing my novel!

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.