“His and Her Story” (A Picture Romance Short From the Web)

Found something cute and sweet, but a tad bit sad, on the web, I just had to save the images and post it on here. ❤

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“I Am a Writer, I Think?”

~ Struggling with my confidence as a writer, I was determined to find out if this was really my life’s calling. I’d have to admit, even though I am now at the starting point of pursuing writing as my lifelong career and passion in life, I have never considered myself one. I’ve always believed I’m just a person who loves to express her emotions through the written word. It has been quite frustrating to juggle all these emotions of uncertainty, low self-confidence, and unbelief when I’m trying to write, and after I’ve finished writing, I take a step back and look at my work. BAM! There’s that feeling again, one that’s full of dissatisfaction because my work always lacks something, and I can’t pinpoint what it is. Was I just delusional to think that I was a writer? But if I weren’t writing, what should I be doing? It pains me to think that what I love and I’m most passionate about is not what I’m meant to be doing. Before spiraling down further into depression, I did something I considered to be risky. I entered a children’s story writing competition. I was so desperate to see if I was really meant to be a writer that I had to compete with other writers. My intended goal was to make the cut above the rest, and win the contest.

On the summer of 2012, I started to work on my concept and story. It has to be based on a certain painting the judges have provided. Finished with the outline of my story, I gathered every courage I could muster from my weak, scared heart and prayed. Then I began to write. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I was literally crying while I was writing. The thing is, my story was not a tear-jerking drama, it’s a light-hearted story for kids. Weird, right? I just found myself crying because, maybe, I was struggling inside. At that time, demotivating and discouraging thoughts were going through my head. You already know you’re not going to win. Why? That’s simple. You are not good enough. But despite my fears, I went on writing. To make a long, depressing story short, I submitted my entry, and after waiting for 2 months, I finally got the results. I DID NOT WIN. Did someone just pour cold, freezing water on me?

As I look back now, my intentions were pretty silly and petty. Winning a competition does not prove that I’m a writer, nor can any accolades and titles say who I am. I’ve grown to realize if this is what I love and most proud about doing, I should never be disheartened to stop from doing it. All I need to do now is accept and become who I really am, regardless of the lurking uncertainties and self-doubts. I still have a lot of room for growth and improvements, and the following years will become my learning years as a writer. Though I can’t feel and see it now, after this summer, I can proudly say I was born to be a writer.

Here’s an excerpt of the short story I’ve written over the summer entitled, “Pablo’s Pleasant Surprise”.

“That’s it! That’s my dad’s house!” Pablo pointed below to the small house, with a bright red roof, standing on top of a hill. It was the same house that Pablo had seen in the picture his father had sent him. Pablo has not seen his father for two years since he left to work overseas. As he was preparing to land the twin-engine he was flying, there were two explosions that burst violently into flames. The loud blast pierced into the hushed atmosphere, and then there was darkness.

Pablo slowly opened his eyes. Everything looked familiar. He was just dreaming. He reached for the alarm clock ringing beside his bed and turned it off.

“It was just a dream, David.” Pablo got up, still clutching David. Being an only child, Pablo treats David, his precious teddy bear, like a brother. Pablo sighed deeply, his heart still beating fast, and left his room still gasping for his breath. As he descended the stairs, he could hear the bacon sizzle, and the smell of scrambled eggs and *pan de sal filled the dining room. Pablo eased himself into the chair and stared at the breakfast feast before him.

Pablo’s mother Maria was putting bacon onto a plate when she noticed the sad-looking Pablo.

“It’s a bright Sunday morning, Pablo, why are you sad?”

“Mom, I saw Dad’s house in a dream. I was on a plane and just when I was about to land, the engine exploded, and then I woke up.” Pablo paused for a moment and asked, “Will Dad come home tomorrow for my birthday?”

*pan de sal – round bread usually eaten by Filipinos (Wikipedia)

~~

I figured I could end this post with a quote from Jeff Goins taken from the Introduction of his book, “You Are a Writer”.

“Every day, somewhere, a writer is born. She comes into the world with a destiny: to share her words and proclaim a message. To make a difference.”

Ride Home (Shorty Short)

I.

Darkness has marred the once bright sky. The road, outlined with streetlights, passers-by, and congested traffic, was  where the bus was  sitting, waiting for the lights to go green. Inside the bus, comforted by the empty seat beside her, was a lonely stranger, oblivious to the world outside. She did not mind being alone, but under a calm and tranquil face, something shook and troubled her inside – a longing not one soul has understood. She shifted her position and nonchalantly laid her head against the window pane.

“Would it make a difference if this was his shoulder?” She absentmindedly thought.

She casually glanced at the unfamiliar faces to see if they had heard what she had thought. No one even bothered to look back at the curious eyes. The response was all too familiar – nobody cared. This was enough to send her back to a place only acknowledged by her. This world, in grateful return, only acknowledges her. It wouldn’t have had existed if it weren’t for her mind. Looking back again at the starless city night sky, she was readying herself for a grand entrance. It’s time to return to the place where she belonged. With a silent sigh, she slowly closed her eyes. Her soul hurriedly drifted with the wind of make-believe.

II.

Everything was still in its rightful place. The wind blew quietly over the beach where two friends, each with a secret, had met. Both of them are sitting contentedly beside each other under the canopy of a star-filled sky. Not a word or a sound was uttered, only the sound of the waves from a distance lingered in the cold December air.

“We should be here more often, don’t you think?” The woman was first to speak, adding more ease to the comfort they both felt. Her voice was filled with excitement that it encouraged her friend sitting beside her to gather the strength to say what he truly felt.

“I agree. I think we should stay here forever.” The man gently replied.

“Were you just confessing?” asked the woman, teasing her friend. All books and poems she’d read, written with words of affection and unwavering passion, have not been able to prepare her for the answer that came next.

“Yes. I was.” The man turned to look at his longtime companion. She was his best friend for many years. He knew this feeling was inevitable. At some point, he was bound to fall for her.

The woman, unable to move her lips, just sat there staring back for what seemed like a million light years. Her mind did not understand. No one has ever confessed their feelings to her before. This was the first time.

“I don’t understand. I…,” she stuttered at every word. “I–,” the stinging sound of a horn pierced into the peaceful night.

III.

Reality beckons. She quickly opened her eyes just in time to see beyond the window lies her final destination. She looked around as if time has frozen the people inside. They were still the same. Yet, they’ve become the familiar stranger. She stepped off the bus. As she was walking along, she traced every step on the way home and breathed in what seemed to be the air of life she had well-known throughout the years. She was used to the uncaring world, and she didn’t mind. Only one thing shook and troubled her inside – the longing not one soul has understood.

I wonder why…

“I wonder wonder wonder why…”

 

I heard this song a thousand times when I was a kid without even understanding a single word.

…Now the lyrics seem to make more sense now.

 

“Every little thing that my mind can question just leads me back to one thing… God’s love for me.” 

 

Joy Williams – I Wonder

 

Thinking About You

I’ve been waiting for this cover. :”) And it’s played on ukulele. Now, that’s just… cool.

 

Frank Ocean’s Thinking About You Cover by Gabe Bondoc

 

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