My Journal Notebook. On July 21, 2014. My Old Post

A Glimpse of My Past: Why I Write

After sometime, I am back to my writing again!  That feeling of restlessness, that mixed feeling of sweetness, concentration and lightness, that near consummation of love, that "it" thing that comes fast and slow in a world’s glint and praise of a Creator.

As always, my writing comes out of necessity when one craves as to physical urgency. 

When I was a child, I wrote on notebooks and coloring books.  My coloring was imperfect because it went out of lines.  In fact, my art teacher did not like me.  I was better in English, not so much in spelling, but almost perfect in vocabulary. The first poem that I was able to memorize was “Drop a Pebble in the Water,” by James W. Foley.  I made it easy in impromptu speaking and class discussions.  In written exams, I often got high scores and never failed.  I always searched for new words that rhymed.   I was a fan of Popeye and Moby Dick on TV.  There was one time I fought with a boy on a swing and each of us tried to push each other out of the swing.  I ended up bruised and thrown out of the swing, but I didn’t care because I was able to kick him back.  I did not cry.  That is how I could relate to Sandra Cisneros’ story "The Monkey Garden."

In my teens, I cut out quotes and memorized them all.  Music lured my ear and I always memorized song lyrics.  We were taught to sing well, especially those King and I songs and Huckleberry Finn songs. I played musical instruments and created some poems just for pleasure.  I collected poems by heart from Literature books and tried diagramming sentences.  In many subjects, I was one of the exempted students, not required to take the final exams. It became a habit to stay in the library, if not in the canteen. I loved reading Florante at Laura (by Balagtas) and El Filibusterismo ( by Dr. Jose Rizal).  I couldn’t forget Raskolnikov in the catacombs (Crime and Punishment by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky) and the play  “Jesus Christ Superstar.”  There was one time I played the role of Mother Mary, another time I played the role of St. Magdalene.  I began to admire boys, but was tight on the rules of my Dad.  When my Dad died, I was broken. 

In college, I wrote small poems and prayers.  I began to buy posters and chapbooks.  I memorized Desiderata and Mi Ultimo Adios (My Last Farewell) by Dr. Jose Rizal.  After graduation and while I worked, I wrote to God, “Dear God,” in my notebooks.  I became intimate with the Black Nazarene in Quiapo church when I went home after school; everyday. That time, I reviewed the classics read in high school, especially the Maxims and Reflections of La Rochefoucauld and the Lives of the Poets of Samuel Johnson.  I fell in love.  I was out of love.  It did not matter because I was happy studying and learning with my friends.  My thoughts of becoming a journalist did not pursue; all I wanted to do, that time, was to finish college and graduate.  My Dad wanted me to become a government servant like him and finish Accountancy.  And so did I.  But then, I continued reading, reading and reading.

I worked after graduation.  I thought it was one of the most boring works, ever!  I had strings of boyfriends as Anne Frank, and in one of the roads less travelled by Robert Frost, I fell in love.  And then, writing came to me for real! 

“Ideas come in search of the true writer.  They throng upon him, and most of the time he does not know where they come from.  The best thing he can do about them as they appear is to make notes.  He never knows at the moment what may come of them,” (Paul Horgan).

When I worked as a paid writer, my writing was brought to discipline.  I always thought of Charles Lamb, “Rise with the lark and sleep with the lamb,” in Essays of Elia.  For some time, I only slept for three hours and awoke at dawn.  My sleep was disturbed by an urge to write and to finish what I was supposed to deliver.

During the hype of high technology, I was on and off my blogs 24/7, until the time my mother died (while she struggled with cancer).

Now, Rilke’s letters have become clear to me, “A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.”  I never thought I would be writing and sharing, as this, in this 21^st century; all I know is I have to write or rage.  My writing goals before was to be popular and earn a booker prize.  Now, it has changed.  What I hope for is to be read, not for anything, but to share lessons in life and make you (the readers) happy.  After all, that is the goal of literature and the goal of mankind in any field of every vocation.

And so, let there be love. That is why I write.

And this is me, now.  A blessed Monday everyone!  Mwhas!

/rosevocations. Sept 24, 2013.

reposted on july 20, 2014

July 2, 2014. My Journal Notebook. I Am A Writer

I didn't use any gadget on July 1st.  I tried to savor the simple life.  It was stress free.  

Now, I'm back to our modern life.  We need to update.  I need to update because this is my work. My body seeks its vocation.  Once a writer, there is no turning back even if you get more or less of it.  I will not change the saddle of my horse in the middle of a fight.  My body is made up a pool of shades that swirls into time. I am a writer.

As always my mentors, tell me to let go.  I say, "No."  

"You have to... "They insist.  "Why?"

"I'm scared I may not be able to come back."

So here I am.  I cannot come back.  It will be foolish to pretend. And as literature is a very complex art, I cannot explain what drives me mad.  Reason is impotent.  

Yes, I have to write honestly. That is my responsibility to those who will read my work.  I will try to write better everyday in my fiction, in my essays, in my poems.

 As Kierkegaard says, "We encounter the true self not in the detachment of thought, but in the involvement and agony of choice and the pathos of commitment to our choice."

So help me God.

I Wrote Fiction: On Creative Writing

When I hear about creative writing, I feel as though lighting had struck and stones would turn into toads or diamonds, just like the fairy tale I read when I was youngest.

Creative writing is sort of happy-ending fairy tales and sad fiction stories that trigger blood out of flesh and broken bones.

Of course, the mechanics of writing can be taught, but creating something is another story. You cannot teach someone how to be an artist, but you can always help someone write better.

What is Creative Writing?

From an ordinary writer's point of view - creative writing is the art of writing embodied in various genres of literature: poems, fiction and nonfiction, among others.

It deals with writing and more than just writing, because it is creating something beautiful. It is more than just words, but using correct metaphors, nurturing a style; and maybe... the urge of a writing vocation that assumes hard labor. Money? Never.

Many writers aspire to be creative writers and we don't know if we are one. Time will judge. And maybe, some mark in the core of the writer's being and an endowment can answer for that.

"An odd feeling," other writers say.

You cannot boast "Hey, I'm a creative writer!" Other writers will surely laugh at you because the term itself connotes pride. If others will say "He/She is a creative writer," be thankful then. But try not to say, "I am a creative writer." However, you may say "I'm into creative writing." This can be an attempt and can give some confidence.

Try to ask a poet how he/she writes.

Ask a fiction story writer how he creates his characters.

Ask a dramatist.

Ask a feature writer (creative nonfiction with a sense of style, etc.).

Or read the scribble of someone who did not study writing, but can express words in paper; beautifully; after a series of attempts.

Paul Horgan says in his book Approaches to Writing, "Some masterpieces are born of observations; others of intuition. The first will ordinarily tell about the author; the second, about everyone else."

Creative Writing is a task of life and more than just writing. It must embody learning logs and give the readers value for their reading time, at least some kind of pleasure, meekness or motivation.

Paul Horgan adds "We begin to create when we see everyone else in ourselves."

"In writing, there are two levels of professionalism: one the lower - is based on ambition driven by competitiveness; the other is based solely on fulfilling a vision in word and overall design, without regard to what anyone else is writing or publishing."

/rosalinda flores on ezine articles.com

A blessed Wednesday!

today is Wednesday

i am exploring possibilities

of the global community

i can embed pictures now

with some of my poems

it really is "bird by bird"

maybe you read me, maybe you don't

but what matters is we've touched here

a piece, i come into your heart and thought

and as i am, as i write this

all of me is yours

this is my work

this is my vocation

i thank God for you and me.

/rosevoc.march 2013
/iwrotefiction

Dear GOD, thank your for another year. Here's me again...