My Difficult Friend Edith

Edith, how many times do I have to tell you? I must finish my work first before you can start checking it!

Sigh.

--

Borrowing the analogy I made the other entry, I would compare a writer editing his draft with a sculptor applying finishing touches to his work. Both serve a common purpose: to make their work the most excellent version of themselves. It is especially difficult because it is almost always a given that what they had in mind (the rawest expressions of their works) would be unrecognizable from the physical manifestation of their creation. In other words, works transform because artists transform, and I do not know about the others, but I would usually have no idea whether or not the evolution of my pieces is an indication that they have, indeed, become better.

Editing is probably the main reason why I always find myself in a quagmire; this rather confusing process demands my work to be in its best form, and to do it efficiently, I must be brutally honest and objective with myself. As a result, no editing would happen; I would always end up admitting that, to begin with, my storylines suck. Even if there is a way to traverse it as efficient and as immersive as possible, the path remains the same. I would always go back to where the road started, distraught and ashamed.

I have learned from my past experiences, though. Presently, I am quite certain that I can write short stories that could be considered as such. Novels? Definitely someday. This may come across as me being all high and mighty, but to be fair to myself, I have been self-defeating my entire life. 

Note to self: Create a story that is worth editing.

Since I am still on the process of creating characters for a short story that I plan to post here and in Reddit (r/NoSleep), I think it is wise to at least give you a glimpse of what editing in writing is about (because this entry is about editing, duh, F.).

The educators at "Start Writing Fiction" has given us a task to edit a certain passage down to no more than two lines and answer questions regarding it.

The heavy black and blue winter sky groaned awfully with rain clouds that at any moment were really about to fall crashing heavily down upon the street where, because it was rush hour, so many people, wearing all manner of different clothes, hats, shoes, boots, some of them carrying bags, suitcases, briefcases, scampered and strolled about the place as though oblivious to what was just about to happen over their very heads. One of these people was called Hilary and concealed inside her voluminous coat she carried the loaded, snub-nosed gun, and she also seemed to be the only one looking upwards into the tempestuous thundery heavens.

This is my version:

Concealing her snub-nosed gun in the depths of her coat, Hilary chuckles to herself as she grows aware of the peace and quiet, looking at the roaring, heavily-clouded winter sky and then to the large crowd of people rushing mindlessly towards their destinations. "A literal and metaphorical calm before the storm," she utters weakly to herself as she wonders what will paint the white ground first: the chilling rainwater or her target's warm blood.

Honestly, I think I overdid it.

Luckily for me, answering the educators' questions is a great way to explain all of this.

  

1.) What really matters about this scene?

- Several, but what matters most is the character (Hilary) because she is the one progressing the story. Once you put her out of the equation, the passage would then be descriptive rather than narrative. Also, another interesting thing to take note of is Hilary hiding a gun inside her coat. Surely such a detail would not fail to pique one's curiosity. Why does she have a gun? Will she use it in this part of the story? Who is her target? Or is it just for self-defense?

- For my answer to be more complete, I will tell the things that do not matter (or are given unnecessary emphasis) about the scene. First and foremost, the obvious: enumeration of what people are wearing and carrying. It does not only make the paragraph unnecessarily longer; it also feels... bland. Moreover, one does not need to tell its readers that a group of people wears and carries different attires and bags for the readers to visualize the scene.

- The winter sky has also been over-described. The passage tells us that it is groaning awfully with rain clouds and supplements that statement by telling that it is about to rain. I think that one does not need to inform us of the obvious byproduct of a common catalyst. Additionally, the last sentence again describes the sky as tempestuous and thundery. Perhaps it would have been more concise if the author chose to use only one method of describing. In my edition, I used "roaring, heavily-clouded winter sky" with hopes of implying that it is going to rain without over-detailing it.

2.) What 'adds' something to the scene?

- Definitely the fact that Hilary has a gun in her. Personally, it gave a huge impression. I was so curious that I jumped into conclusions; my edition involves telling the readers that she will kill someone—even though I have no idea what the story is about.

- Also, I have always been fond of authors matching the mood of the world (so to speak) with the mood of characters. The winter sky that is close to pouring rain, to me, is a fine addition that implies a calm before the storm (as my edition's Hilary thinks). But maybe I just find it interesting because it complements my writing style; I like my characters contemplative.

3.) What merely adds confusion, detracting from the main point?

- By chance, I have provided the answer to this question on the first one.

--

So there you have her: every writer's difficult friend, Edith. We do not have to like her to know that she makes our works as polished as possible. Rude, discouraging, and party-pooping, she keeps telling me that she is just a misunderstood, tough lover (honestly, I do not think she loves us...) who wants the best for us.

She is always with me (and annoyingly so). As of now, I am supposed to finish this blog entry, but she keeps demanding that I need her help to fix my errors and learn from my mistakes.

But I am still the writer, okay? Edith, she is just an extra... Hey, Edith, do not take over the stage.

Source:

The Open University

First Drafts Are Embarrassing...

...but they are a relevant, inevitable part of the writing process. 

I just finished rereading "What Did You Jazz Say?", and to say that I was disappointed that I posted it on my blog would be correct. However, it cannot be helped. To pretend that I am a wise man, I will use an analogy: A statue's basic shape and structure are bound to be imperfect, and obviously, that phase is not where the sculptor stops. Simply put, he has to refine it until his work does not just pass off as a statue, but as an art. 

First drafts are like statues in their infancy stage. To make myself clearer, I figured that it would be better if I give an example, so I will.

The familiar ambiance of the place completely overwhelms her senses in an instant, a moving red light crossing her eyes and the smell of cigarettes twitching her nose. 

The excerpt is from "What Did You Jazz Say?", and it is an example of a misplaced dangling modifier (the clause after the comma). The subject ("The familiar ambiance") of the sentence shall always be what the dangling modifier describes, not the predicate ("her senses"), but it is clear that the dangling modifier describes her senses (eyes, smell, and nose). On a related note, twitching her nose is grammatically wrong; I wanted to tell the readers that her nose is twitching, but instead, the sentence came out to be in a way that the smell of cigarettes is the doer of the twitching.

I have revised it.

Her senses are completely overwhelmed by the familiar ambiance in an instant, a moving red light crossing her eyes, the smell of cigarettes making her nose twitch, and the music pounding her eardrums. 

This time, I revised the sentence so that the dangling modifier would describe what it should describe: her senses (which is the subject this time). Also, note that the smell of cigarettes is still the doer, but I made it clear that it is the reason why her nose twitches. I added the sense of hearing to make the clause that describes her senses seem more complete.

I found several more errors, but I am not going to elaborate further. What I am trying to say is that creative writing is simply not putting fancy words into papers; like a statue, it is a piece of art that demands a lot of energy, time, and effort. If anything, rereading and revising are tougher than the writing itself. One day you will find yourself amazed by that you have written, and the next day you will tell yourself, "Does this pass off as 'writing'?" Next thing you know, you are holding the Backspace button of your keyboard, deleting paragraphs and obsessively thinking of a better alternative for that sorry excuse of a prose.

That is one of the reasons why writing is lonely.

--

Isisingit ko lang.

The educators in FutureLearn's "Start Writing Fiction" course has asked its "students" to discuss these questions regarding our radio story.

1. Did you think what you wrote was a story?
- Yes. More accurately, I think it could be considered a minor part of a vaster story that I have in mind.

2. What made it a story?
- Simply put, it tells of an event. It also has some elements that make up a story: setting (Deadpan Pub), and characters (Eve, Ben, and Bill). Throwing in a conflict is, I think, a nice addition too.

3. Did it have a structure?
- I think so, but it is incomplete. I have presented the place where the events of the story happen. It has a conflict (albeit a minor one: a disagreement between Deadpan's regulars and Ben) that implies a larger conflict. Also, I tend to use comic reliefs (I always have fun writing them), and in this case, the comic relief is the part where people in Deadpan teases Eve for defending Ben.

That said, I think my story lacks two parts: an introduction of my characters, and the event's ending; the former probably because I wrote the 500-word story with the thought of putting it in the middle of the storyline and the latter because it would take a thousand more words to properly end it.

(If you are interested in how it ends: essentially it is Bill explaining the inspiration and rationale of punk rock music to Ben and how it is not just a "meaningless noise", but a powerful medium of truth in regards to social issues.)

(Seriously, read about the punk subculture.)

4. How did you go about portraying characters?
- Lacking in physical description and personal history aside, I think I have described my characters in an implying way. For example, when I wrote that Ben resists the urge to wipe his expensive coat and that he is deliberately using body language to insult, I wanted to imply that Ben is rich and arrogant. Moreover, it was also implied that Bill is respected in Deadpan Pub (Like a conductor, Bill puts his fists up and the crowd goes back to their own businesses.). Lastly, it is implied that Eve has some sort of feelings for Ben (or does she?).

Actually, these characters already have a complete (I like to think so) description written on a separate word file, but it is so wordy that I would be breaking the purpose of writing a 500-word story had I decided to include them. That said, I am quite disappointed that I was not able to at least tell concisely what they look like, but I am confident that readers would come up with an appearance on their own. Still, it is not an excuse.

I must do better next time.

Source:
The Open University

What Did You Jazz Say?

This short story is an assignment from Start Writing Fiction. I was tasked with writing a 500-word story using the characters I had developed beforehand. The tricky part was that we did not get to choose our own topic; the educators wrote that we should write about the first thing we would hear the moment we opened our radios. I used a website called Radio Garden and searched for a random station. The result? Boracay Radio playing a jazz music.

I could not help but find the irony in all of this. You see, the characters I created are punks (the subculture, not the loose term). They live the lifestyle of a punk: a nonconformist who expresses their ideologies through their fashion, tattoos, and "rebellious" songs. They are regulars in a place I would like to call "Deadpan Pub". As a plan B, I made another character, and his purpose is to kindle a conflict. 

Before you read it, I would like to add that writing a story with the thought of reaching an exact word count was sort of frustrating. I was not able to express myself the way I wanted to, but perhaps it speaks about my lack of conciseness. Sadly, the short story I wrote has 657 words.  

--

What Did You Jazz Say?

Colorful, disorderly, and—for the most part—stinking, Deadpan Pub serves as a sanctuary for diehard punks like Eve. It is a relatively plain place at daylight, but its real charm reveals itself at night. A combination of enthralling yellow and red lights permeates the place. The loud and aggressive music is rarely a recording of punk rock songs; ten paces away from the bar is a makeshift platform wherein live band performances are hugely encouraged to perform. They need not bring their own instruments as two electric guitars, a bass guitar, a keyboard, and a worn out drumset are already on the stage, waiting to be used.

I’m home, Eve thinks to herself as she opens the door. The familiar ambiance of the place completely overwhelms her senses in an instant, a moving red light crossing her eyes and the smell of cigarettes twitching her nose. She may stick out like a sore thumb inside plain, same-looking establishments that conform to the modern standards of architecture and interior design, but she is warmly received whenever she comes here, like an important person of a tribe has come back from a long pilgrimage.  

Today is no different, with the exception of bringing Ben. His face is overtly expressing discomfort. This is what you call a party? Several hands pat him on the shoulder as he resists the urge to wipe off his expensive coat. A few handshakes and small chatters later, he and Eve situate themselves at the table where Bill and his friends are sitting.

Bill is known for being confrontational, and when he notices that Ben is deliberately using body language to insult either the place or the people, he measures him up with his eyes.

            

“Give him a break, Bill,” Eve says, detecting the tension. “This here’s a rich kid.”

            

“A rich kid who likes to think that other people are below him just because he has more money,” growled Bill.

            

Ben puts his chest out to hide the fact that he is intimidated. After a gulp, he says, “You… You call that,” he points at the onstage performers, “music? You don’t know real music!”

            

Ben thinks that it is only his imagination, but the place goes silent; the band stops playing, and all eyes stare at him.

            

“What did you just say?” Eve and Bill ask in unison.

“Jazz,” he responds, unable to hide the shaking in his voice. “Saxophones. Smooth vocals. Lighthearted lyrics. Relaxing instruments. Unlike… unlike this one!”

His blabbering is received with a cacophony of deafening laughter; laughter that does not inspire glee nor friendship.

Ben looks pleadingly at Eve. Say something! I’m going to get beaten up here! Stop them.

“Looks like we need to teach someone a lesson,” the man beside Bill says.

Bill nods. “I agree. Don’t worry, kid,” he winks at Ben who is visibly shivering. “We won’t be too rough."

Eve abruptly stands up. “Please, we’ll just leave.” She instinctively puts her arm around Ben’s shoulder. “Don’t do anything to him.”

Laughter booms once again, way louder than its predecessor. Eve and Ben look at each other like as though the explanation to this confusing situation is found within each other’s eyes.

“Told ya, Bill,” the band vocalist says through the microphone. “Sweet li’l Eve likes that Conformist.”

Eve blushes. “What the hell kinda stupid assumption is that!?”

Like a conductor, Bill puts his fists up and the crowd goes back to their own matters. “We’re not going to break his face, Eve. You know we don’t do that.”

“I know…” Eve sighs. “I’m just wo— I just don’t want to feel guilty because I’m the one who brought him here.”

Bill nods knowingly, and Eve shakes her head. Nate does not understand what is going on, but when Bill’s eyes focus on him, he waits patiently for him to speak.

“You dislike our music, Conformist,” Bill asserts. “But does your music speak the truth?” 

--

For more information, read all about the punk subculture. It is rather fascinating.

Source:

radio.garden

Writing: Then and Now and my Love-Hate Relationship with It

Discounting writings that are mandatory (school assignments, projects, theses, et al.) and are casual by nature (love letters, text messages, diary, et al.), I have written about 8 poems (if I had to guess the exact same number), short essays discussing various topics which are too many to count (and one discussing my own philosophy which I have discarded since then), and a few short stories up to this day. Moreover, I have composed approximately 11 songs (some of which I hugely dislike) and created--but did not manage to finish--11 novels, 9 of which had ended in their first chapters and 2 of which were already halfway done.

I will get to that later.

Before I get started, I think it is important to note that I used to be a romantic--that is, until a series of heartbreaks had pulled my love goggles forcefully. I had written my first song when I was 16 and continued to compose more until I was 22. My first songs are terribly generic, but my more recent ones have some degree of complexity in them in terms of tune and lyrics. I would like to share that my favorites are titled "Little Song I Wrote For You (Mama)" and "Ghost (Always Here)"; the former because I believe it was where I expressed my emotions in their rawest and the latter because it was a bit technical.

I had not made an effort of preserving my poems, but there is one that survived which I like the most.

Ninety-Nine and One Roses

A bouquet of natural roses are cut from their nurturing tree

Forever losing their ability to maintain their true beauty

They'll wither eventually to the point that you have to throw them away

So to represent affection by a method so materialistic and ironic will never be his way

An internal rose tree is created by a set of hands guided by a purpose-driven goal

They are not from a garden nor a flower shop, but from the depths of his soul

Like their maker's feelings, even if you willingly neglect them, they'll never wither

For every part of the rose are made from his life's own spring and winter

In retrospect, I was never a prolific poet. How I form structure is subpar, and it is obvious in my example poem that I merely focus on rhyming the last words. Nonetheless, I still rejoice in the fact that the message that I want to get across is clear: a gesture of giving a rose to someone is nothing compared to a simpler, more meaningful expressions of love that comes from the giver of love themself. 

I mentioned an essay regarding my personal philosophy, but it would be more accurate to refer to it as a set of maxims that are elaborated with several statements. It is titled "A Regular Man's Philosophy", but what is written is so unattainable that I just ended up disappointing myself for not being able to live with my own words. For example:

XIV. If ever I am tempted to judge people, I shall reflect on my own soul first; I, therefore, will realize that I, like them, am imperfect.

I would reprimand myself every time I looked at someone and insulted them at the back of my mind. Next time this will not be the case, I told myself. Next thing I know, I was making fun of someone's hair again.

It was the regular occurrence of this example (and others similar to it) that made me conclude at some point that I was never going to be the man I had always wanted to be. Even now, I have always been forcefully pushing myself towards excellence, and it is not only in this matter that I have stumbled because of rushing impatiently and carelessly.

I want to talk about my unfinished novels, but let me digress a little. I wrote a short story called "Consciousness", and it tells the story of a man who plays a battle royale shooting game (think PUBG or Rules of Survival) in his non-working days. The story turns for the worse when his game glitches and he hears his avatar talk to him as if asking him for help. He dismisses it and goes to the game creator's large mansion when the game announcements inform players that the creator will entertain several loyal players and welcome him to his home; the protagonist is one of the people who is chosen. At one point, the creator reveals his secret to the protagonist, but not before drugging him with a paralyzing substance. Essentially, he boasts that he implants real consciousness to the game's avatars from real people. The last thing the protagonist remembers is that he is on a familiar battlefield, unable to stop himself from running and killing people.

My friends told me that it was very Black Mirror-esque, and while it was not inspired by any TV shows or books, I took their comment as a compliment.

I have 11 unfinished works, but I would like to focus on the two who had the chance to be completed: Searching for Hope and To the Amazing Sharpie, my Brother-in-Arms.

Hope consists of 134,000+ words, and there are still about four to five chapters left before it ends. Call it a writer's block or a brain fart, but at some point, I ran out of ideas. Just like that, I had abandoned it. Though, if there is anything to be reaped from the experience, it is the notion that I can write a full-length novel. That said, it did not stop me from sinking into depression. I took a rest from writing and resumed in June of this year.

Many came before Sharpie, but they all just ended in chapter one. Sharpie seemed promising, so I went through with the story for a month. 35,000+ words were written, but I was not going to make the same mistake as I had with Hope. After days of obsessively thinking whether the story would serve as a competition with other novels in the market, I concluded that Sharpie, too, was not going to cut it. This time, though, I accepted the defeat gracefully; it did not take days for me to get back to writing again.

Let me tell you this: scrapping a novel and euthanizing a loved one bring the same feeling. After all, writings were never a result of magic, a divine revelation, or a light bulb suddenly shining above one's head; it is the result of one's time, effort, and energy. Writing is hard, and for emphasis, I would like to repeat myself: Writing is lonely.

Presently, I have been taking it slowly. I am taking a free online course on FutureLearn called "Start Writing Fiction", and my decision has never been more right. Additionally, I have been making sure to write at least 1500 words a day and to provide a story for writing prompts. I consider it as the kind of mental workout that would definitely make me a better writer just like a certain physical workout would make a basketball better at the sport.

Writing is extremely difficult not only because of the process itself. This may sound needy, but I believe that this blog will help alleviate some of the hard parts one way or another.

A Necessary Introduction

Exactly when does one deserve to be called a writer? Of that, I have no idea, but I still would like to call myself that.

People communicate every second of every day. A juicy gossip here and an important announcement there, language is one of the aspects of humanity that separates us from other animals. The ability to interact exceptionally with one another by uttering a bunch of syllables to form an audible, sensible sound is nothing short of extraordinary. You know what is just as wonderful as that? The ability to make sense of symbols that we call letters and numbers. Fundamentally speaking, it is wonderful to think that a mere compilation of these symbols has a powerful effect. It can hurt. It can inspire. It can be a source of dismay. It can change someone's life.

In my case, I would like my compilated symbols to evoke a sense of genuine, naked humanity through creative writing. I am certain that everyone wants something timeless to leave behind before they breathe their last, and I am no different. Through my short stories and novels, I want to influence people. To create timeless pieces of literature that will be relevant for a long time is my life-long goal. However, I am well aware that I am still far from even seeing the finish line with my own eyes. Through this blog, I want to hit two birds with one stone: practicing my writing and expressing myself.

Writing is lonely. More accurately, it is an activity that demands loneliness. As a person with depression, I have sometimes wondered why I had settled with this pursuit. If I may be honest, writing actually drives me nearer and nearer towards insanity.

Nowadays, people are destined to be salarymen. I do not want this post to be about political philosophy, but I would like to share that I am an anarchist. Now, assuming that you, the reader, believe in the current general idea of "anarchy" and the concepts involving it, I would like to inform you that you have been misled. For this, I would like you to read works of iconic figures of anarchism and learn more all about it.

With that being said, everybody who knows me has always seen me as idealistic and proud. People judge me for being unemployed since I graduated two years ago and dropped law school one year ago. My loneliness is a combination of my depression, lack of people's understanding of what I want to do, and my overall beliefs (and the lack of being with like-minded people thereof).

I have ideas dancing in my head. They are so crowded in there that some of them want to be manifested in the physical world through my writings. Yes, I may be farfetched, stubborn, or perhaps out of my depth, but writing is something that I am compelled to do.

And I have no motivation other than the desire to be listened to.