Confidence

My professor is my father's partner in his law firm. It doesn't give me any preferential treatment--quite the opposite, in fact. Dad becomes privy to a lot of the things I don't quite want him to know.

Anyway, the semester's ended, and I still don't have the grades for that subject. But what I got is even better.

That professor told him that my favorite professor, the journalist everyone in the field (in my country, at least) respects, and my whole college reveres (to the point that a lot of the students cried in his retirement send-off), told him I was good.

WOW.

In Over My Head

I just realized, I can't write when I'm NOT-ENOUGH emotional. I can write when I'm deliriously happy, or extremely despondent, or cow-eyed at the thought of love and princes and fairytales redone, but when my mood is mediocre, so is my writing.

Which fairly sucks, since I've got three writing things to worry about.

There's a contest for a short story, the submission date in 6 days. I still don't know which one to submit. I do know, though, if I pass this up, I'll be passing it up for the second time.

I signed up for NaNoWriMo. I don't know why. But there it is, 50,000 words in 30 days, where I can barely string a sentence together on most.

And the novel contest in my university, which, while due next year, needs at least 200 pages.

HELL.

Diurnalis

I've been feeling so strangely about my writing for the past two weeks.

    My stories, according to the comments on Writerscafe and people I show them to, are great. Intelligent. Wonderful (though still need a little tweaking). I am a 'talented' and 'promising' writer. And on a certain level, I guess that's true; but getting esteem for stories I freely put on the web isn't going to be my life career.

    Since last year I have fallen in love with journalism, a passion which has been enhanced by interning at a watchdog press, studying under one of the more locally esteemed newsmen, and attending two media awards ceremonies. I still want to publish a novel or three and have wistful dreamers as fans, but all of a sudden writing for news filled a need in me, a purpose.
    There was this scholarship being offered by one of the top three newspapers in my country, annually given to only three students from each university. While I didn't really need it--I am studying at an already heavily-subsidized state university and paying only 10% of my former tuition--I wanted it badly. For the prestige, for the training, and mostly for recognition I was a promising, talented writer.
    I didn't get it.

    This year I enrolled under her again. Last week, during a class break she told me she submitted my name for consideration.
    If it weren't for a low grade another professor gave me, I would have had the scholarship.
    The hardest professor in the college, the acclaimed investigative reporter in the field, the former head of the best critical publication against corruption, my idol said I was a good writer.
    It was almost enough.

    Three days ago in an awarding ceremony, I had to run after the former dean of my college, also a journalism professor, for something entirely different. The moment I came up to her, however, she immediately said I didn't deserve the low grade that professor gave me.
    Was the whole department talking about me after I nearly cried in front of my mentor ?

    And a day after that, I was panicking about an article on said awarding ceremony.
    I may have lost some steam.

A Sorta Fairytale

Hi.

I've been busy. First, soaking up the last vestiges of summer (which ended spectacularly, with tears and 5-year-old bridges burned. Fun times, my birthday).

Also, there's that whole college thing, and my majors, my org, and the requisite drama will either draw time away from me and mmine (writing), or further fuel creative juices.

Writing. I've been depressed lately, under a sanguine mask (check my newest blog for that, comprised mostly of angst and emotion), and needless to say, it's not conducive to writing. The last pieces I've finished are too mawkish, even the paper seems a little soggy.

And the Novel has hit a major drawback. It only occured to me (after two years of careful character sketching, map drawing, civilization culturing, timeline mapping) that I have no THEME. You know, the core of a novel. The one that sets it apart from the myriad of fantasy junk out there.

Guh.

Serves me right for lumping 14 fairytales into one family saga spanning eons, with chunks of local mythology thrown in.

Critical: Writing

Note: this is a rewrite, since the original accidentally got swallowed up two hours earlier.

      Writing's in my blood. I've been making up stories, and putting them down on paper ever since I've learned how to construct sentences. I've always thought I'd end up using the pen in some way when I grew up. True to form, I'm studying journalism now. Yet there's still the dream of becoming an author, of publishing a novel or even a collection of short stories. Then why, do you ask, did I not enrol in a creative writing course? Or why don't I join a writers' organization?
      The answer to the first is my favorite writers didn't take cw either. Before they published their books, they were doctors, soldiers, and yes, even journalists. As a media practitioner, I would get a more informed view of the world, and probably get to travel, too.
      Why didn't I join a writers' organization, then? To be honest, I was leery of them. Based on what I heard about them from students from the colleges that housed them and friends, there were two types of writers in those clubs: those that gave flowery praises not worth a damn, and those with the egos the size of small countries. The former would laud your stories without giving any real insight, then snicker once your back was turned. The latter would bully you with their supposed literary, theoretical existential clout, utterly convinced in their superiority.
      Those organizations also have a crab mentality, in that they drag a writer down if he or she shows real talent. I didn't want any of that poisonous environment.
      But, if that was the case, how was I going to improve my literary craft, without receiveing any feedback from my fellow writers? I turned to the Net, published this blog in hopes of getting insights. A few weeks later a friend (Will, I emailed my problem to you) directed me to a site where writers freely interacted and supported each other. So I joined that site, fell in love with it immediately. It seemed to fulfill that promise. We could focus on the writers' work, and not the superiority complexes that came attached to them.

      Right.
      I'm less upset now, but awhile ago I was extremely distraught. A drunk writer immediately lashed out at what he perceived to be an offensive and insulting review from me. Normally I'd apologize if indeed I lambasted someone, but this...this response was vitriolic and plain nasty. I'm certain I didn't leave an arrogant review; I COMPLIMENTED him, in fact, and the suggestions I gave were his to disregard as he will.
      His response, as I see it now, wasn't really the thing that upset me. After all, he could be drunk; he could be one of those writer-megalomaniacs. What distressed me was the realization I've strayed into another toxic environment.

      What should I do?

Musings

Grr. I can't get into Writers' Cafe for some reason--has it suddenly become extremely popular over the two days I haven't checked it? At the meantime, I'm researching for a story.

See, I have this idea, one that features and awful lot of cheesy puns about food (the idioms, in fact, are really my motivation for doing the story). But developing it is starting to become a massive headache.

That's all. Summer's started, along with summer class (community service), and with the infernal tropical heat I'm not sure I'll be able to churn out fiction and prose easily.

Wordsworthless

This should be emotions
Recollected from tranquility
But serenity doesn't come
When one is free-falling.

No reason, no rhyme
No beautiful lines
And the subject
Is rather vague, too.

Because how can you say
Elegantly with symbols
(For that's all words are,
Elephants to nine blind men),

That your mother called you fat
As she had for a score,
And all the heavy issues
Attached to it--ignored completely.

You can't,
And the words
Die in your mouth
And become useless.

Writing Recuperations

I was out on a week, exploring some pretty exotic sights. Lots of inspiration came, however the fruits of my sojourn are thoughts that no virginal semi-convent-raised 19-year-old girl of supposed moral fiber should have. Not to mention that manifesting such thoughts into stories really won't fit into the mood of ths blog.
    How can one right erotica, after all, when one hasn't experienced the mechanics involved herself? No matter how many Regency trash and other fiction of questionable literary value I devour, I'm pretty certain I'm going to freeze up in my first real date.
    And there you have it. I confess, I'm nearly two decades old and never dated, never had a proper kiss. And I'm really not torn up about it. I don't like it that many of my peers get boyfriends just for the sake of saying they have such, even if the boys are really disgusting and have the brain cells of a sex-crazed lemur. What will happen will happen, and despite all pragmatism I do believe I will end up with my equal, someday.
    I'm fully aware the picture-perfect images of romance and love are just that, far from reality, and it's highly foolish of me to persist with my idea of chivalry and true love. At heart however I'm still that little girl who grew up wanting to be a Disney princess.
    A quandary, then, only resolved by dreams and writing. For the past five years, however, those dreams grew steadily more sensual, and in my stories I've tried to portray the world in vivid colors both passionate and full of wonder.
    I've written two pieces with two mature scenes, and I'm wondering now if I should post it. As a writer, I should, if I follow through with what I've been threatening to do and become the first ever virgin romance novelist. Criticism is a must. On the other hand, here the paradox reasserts itself, and I shy away from revealing my hidden desires, the depths of my dreams and escapism.

Any ideas?

The New Year

In the silence of
A screaming hundred thousand
As witchlight played through the night
You greeted me with a kiss.

Boy Met Girl

(At the risk of discovery, I'm reposting this)

He has nothing to sing about, nothing
To write—his dreams are all of dust.
He fills his journals with mad denunciations
And colors their faces with jade.

The works he weaves are women worshipped,
Naked, and sadly aware of their glory
The women and he have stale sex and beer
Trying—and failing—to revive their dead hopes.

He sits, the image of bitter youth.

She breezes in the sunlit class, chattering-blathering-yammering
Joy. Her eyes, how they sparkle, blaze with passion
For the world and life she says still believes in.
She gives a blinding metal smile as she giggles,

And her slight plumpness does not mask her light.
Blindingly oblivious of her beauty
She seems, and just as aware of the ways of the world.
She needs a keeper, or so he first thinks.

They sit together, the boy and the girl.

He is captured by the pictures she painted,
Of hope and dreams and great make-believes.
The sour taste in his mouth is getting sweeter,
And in spite of himself, he believes anew.

And she laughs at his jokes, though cruel they may be;
Of his pessimistic view, she’s extremely uneasy. Naïve,
She allows him to touch her,
In fleeting hugs and gestures.

Soon he’ll assume it is love at first sight.

But she’s not as innocent as she seems—
Her glass is half-empty. The veneer of cheer
Hides an angst-ridden heart—
And her eyes sometimes age an eon, or two.

She’s fully aware of his growing ardor,
Annoyed at his cynical jibes.
She’s far from the perfect princess he imagines,
And he’s in no way her knight-errant.

So ends the fairy tale of boy and girl.

Period

It’s burning white vision bursting at the tops of my eyes.

    It’s nausea, shivering and plunging at ten thousand feet. Pulsing, pounding pressure, starting from the low centre of my body and radiating downwards until I can’t move, can’t do anything but lie limply on the bed. Every step taken is an epic battle in itself. Cold sweat becomes rivulets pouring down my spine.
    Considering this happens once a month, it’s shocking how we’re considered “the weaker sex.”

Crossfire

You feel your heart sinking within the first few minutes of the meeting. Though the stone table is round, it’s possible to discern edges—and you’re on the fringe of two boundaries.
    One side spins out rhetoric like bullets, aiming for the more impressionable young. They’ve found their marks on quite a few, and riddled with wounds the few limp off the battlefield.
    The other camp suffers from lack of authority, experience, supplies. It’s apparent they’re embattled, but here and there they gain a few pyrrhic victories. Their salvos when launched land on the others’ troops, but there are too many soldiers for the left cause. Your heart aches for the rebels, as cannons fire from all around you.
   A union, what a laugh. It’s more like a civil war.
   And as you duck that last fiery, spat-out word, you fleetingly wish you joined the other club.

Once More Into The Breach

I've been under a lot of pressure lately--academic, filial, amicable, aesthetic, and yes, even physical expectations.
Strange as it is though, the more work piles up the more story fragments drift into my head.
I'm going to try to write more...at least once a week.
Shouldn't be too hard, since I'm pretending to be anonymous.

Here's to professionality, and the shaping of a new persona.

Here's to the pretensions of a wide-eyed dreamer.