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The last time I did this, or at least tried to do this was two years ago. I remember being in college, and being excited about this project. I wanted to be disciplined in writing. But I stopped. I was busy at school, and lazy. I regretted that.
My poetry prof always insisted that we should have a writing schedule. I guess we were too lazy for that. I only had a writing schedule when I was writing my thesis.
Now, I'm willing to do this again, for discipline. The best reason is just, I miss writing.
I just suddenly remembered to do this again at work. My writing had been almost non-existent since I graduated.
My account's still here. All I have to do is begin writing. You would think since I have three blogs online and a journal notebook, I'd come up with interesting things to write about. That's what's frustrating: I don't. Probably once in three months.
I can still write though, I think. I can't help being paranoid sometimes, like my grammar skills have deteriorated, that all the things I learned from the awesome writers I had for teachers had been washed away.
Reading my past blog entries, I found out that the last time I did 100 words was November 2005. What a coincidence. Hopefully this means I'd be able to make up for my laziness before.
It's hard to do this, honestly. It's quite easy to write, but what to write about, that's what's hard. Hmm, but I like to contradict myself all the time, so I say, it is easy for me because I like to write, and I can be nonsense in my writing. It's just that sometimes you have to be serious, especially when one has an audience.
I decided that I should not write about sad things here. Usually when I'm trying to impress people or just impress myself so I could be proud, I write about sad things.
The thing is, I'm not really sad. Just average. And that's good, right? Maybe that's why I'm not a good writer.
Anyway, I'm trying to think of something profound or poetic that came to me. There's none, or it's just that I forgot about it.
I wanted to write a story, and was hoping that the words will flow out, but maybe it's not time yet.
A 100-word essay (not even an essay) is pretty short, isn't it?
I still find it hard, sometimes. I'm not wordy, I don't like long conversations with strangers, I don't like over-explaining myself (unless I'm passionate about the subject), and I'm not really good at talking. Is that why I find this hard?
I'm at work now, I guess that's also why. I'm out of my zone, whatever that means.
I'm an editor, so I'm constantly looking at words. Sometimes I feel like the words I read aren't as powerful as they used to be when I was still a "writer".
Reading my past blog entries, I realized how annoyingly happy I was. I honestly don't know if I was being pretentious or if I was genuinely happy. Was it because I was young and I have friends who understood me? That I was in college, loving the degree I was pursuing?
Weird. An online friend once said that she remembers me writing about happy things in my blog. About two years ago she said she's noticed the change, that I wasn't always happy and bouncy in my writing as before. Maybe I grew up. I'd like to think that.
Lately there has been a frog that came to live in our kitchen. It's a really small frog, about two inches small, light brown colored. I prefer to call its color poop brown, because its color reminds me of poop. During rainy days, it (he or she? I don't know yet. How do you know if a frog is male or female anyway?) sits on top of one of our metal steamers and just stares blankly ahead, either to the direction of the sink or the direction of the fluorescent light. My brother and I named it Gamakichi.
It's raining again. It's been raining often since last week, I think. I'm hoping Gamakichi, our little froggy tenant, will appear tonight so I can take a picture of him. I'm planning to post a picture of him in my blogs. He's interesting; I've gotten tired of talking about myself and other people.
I miss noticing little things, observing unnoticeable creatures. As humans we learn to be adults by looking at the big things because we think that's the way we can achieve our big dreams. See, this is why I like children, and I like thinking like a child.
Nope, I still wasn't able to take a picture of precious little Gamakichi. He didn't appear in his usual position last night, even when it was raining. No little frog staring blankly ahead, not even croaking or swishing out his little tongue to catch a fly. Though I don't think he's already eating flies. I wonder what he eats.
I wonder what it's like to sit in one position all day and stare at one point. Just unmoving, silent, staring at whatever space you can find. There were times when I did that, but my mind was not in silence.
I think Gamakichi is lost forever. We haven't seen him for days.
Anyway, on to other things, I've been reading the appendices of Tolkien's The Return of the King this morning. I think there were four or five appendices in that book. It's just so amazing, that world that Tolkien invented. Or let me just say Tolkien himself.
I remembered when I was still writing short stories, how sometimes words just came flowing out of my head to be written out on paper. It's amazing, isn't it? How you create such a world or a universe by only words.
From the time I graduated from college, that was April last year, until this time, I still haven't thought of anything that's worthy to be published. It kind of frustrates me, but I also understand. I always say this: maybe it's not time yet.
I learned to wait last year. The whole unemployed or bum experience taught me to be patient, and that, yes, patience does pay off. That is, it pays off in the long run. I think it's also important to just accept things, and to somehow know, or at least have an idea of what you want.
The Q&A portions of beauty pageants irritate me a lot. Like asking, "How do you describe the beauty of Mother Nature to a blind child?" My dad and I were watching the news tonight, and they showed the winner of a pageant answering that question. Sure, she's pretty, tall, has a good head, I guess. She looks like she can smile and think of a good answer to any question at whatever event she's in. She doesn't care about the pressure at all. She answered something that I'd rather not write here, and the crowd went wild with applause.
I bought this book called An American Childhood by Annie Dillard about two years ago. It was one of those amazing moments when you just suddenly find a book you've been wanting to have for a long time. I think sometimes it's the book that chooses the reader.
Anyway, I was reading that book at work today. I think I've read about a fourth of it before, but I just forgot to finish it. Which is a pity, because it reminds me of myself. Something about Annie Dillard's writing, her observations, her imagination, reminds me of what I want/ed to be.
I'm one of those people who can listen to most types of music. I can listen to pop, rock, jazz, R&B, classical, Broadway, spoken word, et cetera.
When I was young I daydreamed that I was a singer. I still do that now, but now that I'm older I no longer believe that I can ever be a real singer. I can sing in my room, and I can sing outside with only a few people, but that's that. I'm not a real singer that I sing for an audience; I just sing for myself. Don't we all do that?
Singing for yourself is kind of like writing in a journal, dancing alone, sketching landscapes or scenes without anyone watching. You don't act because you want people to see you acting, performing, whatever.
Some people say, "Share your talent." How do you know if you've got talent? You need critics for that, people who really knows talent.
It's also scary, isn't it? Sharing your "talent". You leave yourself vulnerable. You want to be better; validated.
I like to sing alone, dance alone. With writing, I love it too much that even though I'm scared, I'm willing to be vulnerable.
Last night, I went out with my college friends. We ate out, went to another place to eat, and then went to a bar. I guess all people do that.
(I'm afraid this is going to be a boring entry about my friends.)
The good thing about my friends is that, they can be mean at times, and nice at other times, depending on the need. We can listen to each other without blurting out, "You're an idiot," even if we did think of that. There's understanding. And another thing is, we don't look the same, we're not some regular clique.
I've been blogging since 2002, and lately I've been open to writing about my childhood. Tonight I read an entry that I've written two months ago. I wrote it because I thought it was the right time to finally just let it out. I guess my friends and family do know about my insecurities, but they don't know the root of it. So I decided to write it down.
When I read it again tonight, it's like reading another person's writing. I cried, because I pitied that girl who was teased and bullied; somehow I forgot it was me.
There's nothing interesting that happened today. I haven't even thought about anything interesting to write. I just thought I should post something, because I've been cheating lately and posting entries a day after.
It's Sunday today, and I'm sick. It's just common colds, but I hate colds. Having colds means I can't sing when I'm taking the shower because it'll be difficult to reach high notes. It also means having trouble sleeping, because it's hard to breathe.
I'm not even going to wonder how bad my day is going to be tomorrow. I just hate being sick at work.
I was checking my Facebook, specifically the Visual Bookshelf application, when I just realized that in my twenty one years of living, I've only just read about fifty books, not counting the pocketbooks that I collected and read when I was in elementary and high school. And I call myself (or at least in the past) an aspiring writer? Gah, that's frustrating.
I've prided myself with having read classics, and Shakespeare plays, and Ibsen, and all these metaphysical poetry, and mind-raping texts from thousands and hundreds of years ago, and yet I've only read about fifty books? Must start reading.
This morning as I was leaving the house for work, there's this guy that started hooting, like he was calling my attention. There was no other girl walking, so I assumed it was me. I started walking fast, and didn't look at him, and when he asked why I was ignoring him, I said, "Shut up." And then he called me by my first name, (I thought, "Stalker!") and I ignored him. He said, "Leo!" and I thought, "Oh, then he has a friend named Leo?" Later, I realized it's
, my former high school classmate.
Erm. Sorry, Leo.
Last night I was asked if I would be willing to work in the company for ten years. I said no, because I'm still young, I don't know what's ahead of me. They asked me why, and I said, I might have plans like taking my master's abroad, passing a scholarship, learning a foreign language, et cetera. I said I'm still not sure what I want to be.
The thing is, I
know. I want to be a writer, full-time if possible, just to write and be published. I'm still sure of that, definitely. But I didn't tell them.
Oh oh oh oh my god, oh oh oh oh yeah yeah yeah.
I always love songs about sex from musicals. Well, so far I've loved only two, one from RENT with the song "Contact", and now from SPRING AWAKENING, the song "Touch Me".
Everyone knows I'm pretty much a prude, but yes, I have read porn-ish fiction and wrote erotic poetry for class. I know how to appreciate words like these.
Songs like these are much closer to, not erotic, but romantic poetry. They're not rude nor racy, though they still speak of truth. Sex doesn't have to be dirty.
I used to say that I didn't want a routine job, the regular eight-to-five desk job. But I guess that can't be helped.
You can't really resist it. It's like that thing that I went through with my first job. I didn't like that job, but since it pays a lot of money, and a lot of normal people wanted that job, I thought that I should at least compromise. And I did, but it didn't turn out well. I quit, and after six months I found myself in a regular routine job. But I'm not complaining this time.
I've been telling my friend who's undergoing the same things I went through last year to just hang on. We have the same insecurities and issues, but I'm more expressive than her, I think.
She said she thinks she's going crazy. She doesn't know why she's sad; doesn't know what she wants to do, being a fresh grad and all. The truth is, she knows. She needs to realize that.
Last year, I dug up my own hole, and shut myself out of the world. How did I get out of my own hole? Acceptance. That's where I started.
Today marks the twenty-fifth day since I started doing this 100 words project. It feels good. :)
It's no trouble logging in everyday and writing something down. I'm always online. What troubles me most of the time is when I can't think of anything to write. And when I do, usually I just want to keep on babbling, and then I have to cut what I wrote into just 100 words, exactly 100 words.
And sometimes the cutting defeats the purpose of free writing. But I suppose it's a good exercise too. I'm reminded of poetry, even though this isn't poetry exactly.
I have this green journal that's almost filled up with words and doodles. I think there are only less than ten pages left. I started writing on it in 2005 when I was doing my undergraduate thesis.
It's good that I was able to write my thoughts down on paper, and was able to write whatever I wanted, as opposed to writing by computer, and erasing ideas with just a few clicks and presses. It was good for my writing. But now, I don't know what to write, how to fill it up. It would be my first filled-up journal.
Just this morning, we were talking about songs in Avenue Q, the musical with puppets. My friend just discovered it. She mentioned the song, "There is Life Outside Your Apartment", and she said she could totally relate to that song because she's so busy with work. And she said it should be, "There is Life Outside Your Work". I made this joke saying mine should be "There is Life Outside Your Computer".
Haha! It made me think though. I do have friends outside, but yeah, the internet takes too much of my time. Hmm. I should lie low a bit, huh?
Reading blogs by writers and editors and important people reminds me to take writing online seriously.
I rarely write serious blog entries, perhaps because I think writing something that took me a long time to think about isn't worth it if it's just going to be published on a blog. I'd rather get serious if it's on paper. It's just too easy to take blogs for granted.
But still, I love writing, and no matter how much I say that blogs aren't serious, I guess they are. If they're not serious, then how come I'm sometimes bothered on what not to write?
Recently, Neil Gaiman had a talk about writing fantasies and how imagination is important in writing. I managed to read a transcript of it.
There was this thing he said that struck me the most, something about Stephen King. Stephen King said that usually a page consists of 300 words. A novel usually consists of 300 pages. A year has 356 days, and in a year, if you just write 300 words every day, you'd have a novel.
I'm writing 100 words a day for this month, but I suppose I can try and write 300 words next time.
It's been thirty days. I finished this project!
I was a little worried that I won't be able to manage this, that I'll get lazy again. Sometimes I don't trust myself enough when it comes to discipline. But alas-- I have managed it. It feels good.
What's the realization I got from this, if any? Any epiphanies? Well, probably that I still had anything else to write besides the usual things on my blogs. I won't do this next month though, I might run out of things to write. Hopefully, I'll have new things to write here on January.
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