crazy_octopus

Some days, you just want to quit.
Some days, you just feel like hiding under the blankets, closing the window blinds and sleeping it off. Sleep it off Vanrinkle-style and wake up when everything blows over.
Some days, you put down your guard and expose your face to the punches,
wallowing in the pain because it is still a feeling, after all. Anything will do, as long as you feel like you are alive.

Lately, I'm having more and more of those "Some days."

Today, the manager approached me and asked me what was wrong. A perfect opportunity to shout everything that has been eating my insides for the past few weeks. But instead, I just shrugged it off and bottled it back in. There's no use explaining when you don't know where to start yourself. I don't know what's wrong but every passing day seems to drag on like it's a year. Time goes by so fast and yet it seems to come to a standstill, like i'm wedged between two satellites revolving in opposite directions, with opposing gravitational pulls. 

I need a good long walk, so I'll probably visit UST's Paskuhan later on and just wander the corridors, the fields, or walk aimlessly while fireworks go off somewhere in the distance. I don't even know why I'd want to go there since it seems depressing; everyone is rejoicing and it'll just remind me how old I already am. But something inside is pulling me to that place, willing my feet to go to that direction despite the horde of Thomasians I have to battle along the way. I want to get drunk and make a scene and lunge beer bottles at birds in the sky. I want to shout myself hoarse and lie down on the field, sleep and wake up to the warm sunrise kissing my cheeks - beautiful sunrise that I have not seen for so long.  I want to get out of this shell of a body I am in and just explode into something spectacular, splendid enough to be at par with UST's fireworks. 
   
I don't want it to get to my head, but the lyrics of Phoenix's Lasso keeps repeating on loop: "Forever is a long long time if you lost your way.." Someone point me to the right direction. 

I’m suffering from a serious connection problem. I can’t seem to get in touch with the other bloggers in the blogosphere.

My friend says that I should put myself “out there” more, like a door-to-door salesman peddling my wares. It makes sense-- if I’m serious about a future career wherein I am able to reach and affect the public with my writing, I must at least grab a handful of readers with my blog. Otherwise, my blog will just be a dead space in the corner of the internet; a collection of the author’s juvenile rants to an invisible audience. The time will come when the Internet decides to reclaim its lost baby (my site) and probably convert it into something profitable, like another 9GAG site.

I never knew how anti-social and introverted I was until I looked at my LJ Friends page. It’s so quiet and empty here that you can actually hear cicadas chirping on my comments page. In fact, I don’t think anyone will read this entry anyway, so even if I insert a subliminal phrase here no one I lost my virginity to a pillow will notice.

Maybe it’s because I have nothing to sell? But then, that’s not true either. My blog has been selling something ever since its conception and that is writing advice. As far as I know, most of my entries talked about writing: the struggles, the process, how to deal with writer’s block, how to start a story (and consequently, leave it unfinished), finding your muse, etc. I even recently included a story on being unprepared for an interview, which will go into an imaginary section of this site titled “What NOT to do as a journalist”. While other blog tackle fashion, food, movies or the inanities of life, rare are the blogs that take on writing and the struggles of being a writer.

Of course, I’m not delusional enough to think that I am an authority on that subject matter. In fact, it’s the opposite. I know so little about it that any new writing experience intrigues me, to the point that I would dedicate a blog entry to it. I love writing so much that I had unwittingly made it the center of my Livejournal (which is even named “Sideways Writing.”Go figure) Most of the time, the entries would contain my philosophy on writing. In some occasions, it would be a simple rant about being a writer. Whatever the topic may be, “writing” seems to be the recurring theme.

So, for any bloggers that may have accidentally stumbled on this site, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and urge you to stick around a bit longer. I know you are fans of writing, and this blog is my personal ode to that wonderful craft.

I may not offer any reviews on popular restaurants, recent movies or the latest fashion trends. What I can give you is the story of an aspiring writer, who is wholeheartedly chasing after his dream.
 

“So are you here to just waste both of our time?” said the doctor I was interviewing.

I was stunned. Never have I heard such brusque and frank words from someone I was interviewing. And the hurtful part of it all was that she was right; I was indeed just wasting time with this interview.
Serves me right, coming into the interview unprepared. I had met my interviewee – a doctor from an international health body – to talk about the real score of maternal mortality in the Philippines, and whether or not the country will be meeting its Millennium Development Goal target of reducing maternal mortality to 75% by 2015, which is just four years away.

We met in an expensive coffee shop inside the mall, thinking it would be the ideal place to conduct the interview. I had barely gotten through with the pleasantries – the polite exchange of greetings, looking into the other person’s background info – when my interviewee stopped me mid-question. She must have smelled something from me, because at the time, I smelled it perfectly. Despite all my efforts to conceal it, the air still reeked of the unmistakable scent of “bullshit,” mostly coming from my mouth.  It was bullshit because all my questions seemed half-baked. Granted, I did read up on the topic the previous day; I did my homework and researched about MDGs and the rate of maternal death in the country, but that was just light reading when you consider the subject matter – I did legwork that barely scratched the surface of the issue at hand. It was sloppy research, one that hindered me from asking the critical and hard-hitting questions. I knew it, she knew it, and I was left to focus on the napkin on my table and mutter apologies.

However, it wasn’t a complete waste of time. In fact, I think that icy cold interview was the best thing that happened to my writing.

It was like waking up from a long sweet slumber. That venomous and much-needed wake-up call that showed how shitty a journalist I was jolted me from the quicksand trap of mediocrity I was currently stuck in. It was a deadly mix of complacency and overconfidence – a volatile combo that exploded on my face.

I apologized for having come unprepared and proceeded to pay the coffee bill, when she stopped me and told me to sit back down. She said that the subject matter was very complex and it’s understandable that I don’t know it that well. Then, she went on a tirade and lamented on how people don’t seem to read anymore, and how cocky past journalists who interviewed her were as they seem to think they knew everything. I accepted her criticisms whole-heartedly and burned it into my mind, along with the other lessons I learned from that interview: 1.) Never ever come off arrogant; 2.) Know your subject matter 200%, and if you DON’T really understand the subject matter; 3.) Don’t ask stupid questions that would show your ignorance and worse, waste both the interviewer and interviewee’s time.

It was only after getting my ego trampled on when the interview turned around. She told me that she would do me a favor and help me, since the topic is close to her heart and I look genuinely interested to write about it. She also mentioned that I seem like a decent guy who wouldn’t con her (I was just grateful I decided to comb my hair and put on deodorant that day). To cut the long story short, she gave me a list of people I can contact and some leads on where I can get prime information for my article, like going to public hospitals notorious for their appalling treatment of pregnant women. Pretty soon, we were talking about topics like healthcare and pregnancy, in a manner that friends do when catching up with each other. The conversation was so genuine that I couldn’t help liking this person, for her tact and her intent to help. She sent me off with well-wishes and told me “make a kick-ass article and become famous.” I hope I don’t disappoint.

In the end, what was originally a disastrous interview turned out to be one of the best lessons I got, when it comes to being a writer. I may not have gotten the information I need but my interviewer did give me something equally valuable: a much-needed reality check, and renewed drive to excel and work on my flaws. Despite that day’s mishaps, I still feel blessed. After all, it’s not often that you meet your muse in real life.
 

I’m sick again, for the nth time this month. I’m having difficulty breathing through my nose, and my lungs feel constricted. I wasn’t able to go to work yesterday, just stayed home and hoped that the bed-rest would be good for my health.

On a positive note, I was finally able to get the peace and quiet that I’ve been longing for; a tranquility that writers often seek but rarely get. It was nice to be working at home. Unlike in the office, where a normal day is divided into a series of distractions (i.e. you are given a new task by your boss, there are letters to send to people for interviews, or a co-worker distract you with a video of a kitty and a dog fighting on Youtube and he says you have GOT to see it, etc..), working at home shuts off all these. It’s just you and your laptop, getting everything done in an hour and a half whereas it normally takes a whole working day to finish everything. And forget about the stuffiness of being in your office clothes -- at home, no one will care if you are in your SpongeBob boxers as long as you get things done.

I wished I worked at home more. But then again, that is the kind of privilege that you only get once you’ve attained a high position in a company. Consider it the Filipino yuppie’s equivalent of the American Dream: to do you job at the comfort of your home, at your own time and pace sans any distraction. Heck, if that happens, I might even finally show up on time for work.

One thing I had to learn the hard way over and over again is to always, ALWAYS finish something once you start it.

I can't count the times when I'll write down a short story or a journal entry and midway into it, I'll go off to do something else, like watch television or check the fridge. Eventually, the entry is left forgotten and unfinished and it'll never see the light of the "Publish" button. All those heartfelt entries, those interesting stories that might've had Palanca potential and my first attempts at poetry -- all gone to waste because I have the attention span and concentration of a grapefruit.

And whenever I try to revive the entry by forcibly finishing it, it just isn't the same. The magic is gone, and it feels like the entry was written by two entities: the original, by someone super creative and artistic; and the conclusion, made by a pasty and boring guy with a really bland tie, like that father in American Pie. 

(Ironically, this entry itself was unfinished. We were on our way to Batangas to attend the wake of an officemate, when inspiration struck. Immediately, i whipped out my mini notebook and started writing. There was like 15 of us in the van, and barely enough room to write. I managed to do the first part, but the highway was getting bumpier and light was fading -- fast. I had to stop because I could barely see what I was writing. I couldn't decipher whether the thing on my notebook was a work of creativity or some random scribble that looks like a drunk chicken walked all over it.)

So I hope that this will be the last time i let my Muse down by not finishing what I've started, be it a short story or a journal entry. It might be hard to do, with work getting in the way and everything, but I'll find a way around it. I'll muster all my willpower to just sit down in front of my laptop, finish that damned entry, and stop myself from opening the fridge every five minutes.

"Love is patient. Love is kind. Love isn't jealous. It doesn't sing its own praises. It isn't arrogant."My

My favorite quote about love, taken from 1 Corinthians 13:4 and dedicated to a special someone who makes me feel EXACTLY like this. Thank you :)

Whether they admit it or not, whether they like it or not, writers know that when they chose this profession, they are in for a solitary career.

To be a writer means subjecting yourself to a LOT of alone time, staring at the monitor for minutes on end, waiting for inspiration to come (if it comes at all). It means being in constant conflict with your inner voice, the one that constantly tells you your work is not good enough, or that you're a phony. The trials you hurdle to improve (grammatical, technique, etc), the books you read to find inspiration, the countless editing marks that you have to endure -- all these, you tackle alone.

Writing is such a personal process that when the story is finished, it is like giving birth to a kid. Suddenly, you turn into an overprotective parent of your masterpiece that any insult or criticism hurled at it transforms you into a fork-tongued harpy, foaming at the mouth and savagely defending your "offspring" with sharp talons. I think this comic captured it perfectly: http://www.gmanews.tv/humor

No wonder many writers are deemed eccentric. They pour their entire soul into their work, and choose to live most of the time in the confines of their imagination, composing ideas, brewing insights and crafting stories to share with others. It can be a fulfilling profession, but at times, it can be quite lonely too.

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It's good to know that somewhere in the web is the perfect gathering place for these eccentric creatures.

I'm talking about a website dedicated to writers and the art of writing. It was something I chanced upon in omnipotent Facebook, where it was a link that talked about the importance of traveling while you are young. It was so well-made that I got hooked and immediately followed the link back to its original page: www.goinswriter.com. The creator, Jeff Goins, is a pastor and a writer who has dedicated precious bandwidth to EVERYTHING about writing. There's tips, insights, anecdotes and even contributions from other writers.

What I liked about the site was that it showed the candid parts of the craft, like the struggle a writer goes through in dealing with writer's block, snooty critics and - most importantly- their blown-up ego and self-doubt. It also featured stories from writers themselves, highlighting the lessons they've learned about writing, about how hard it was in the beginning and the things they did to overcome obstacles and ultimately become better. Best of all, Jeff was able to show the real and uncensored side to being a writer, and in most cases, it was pretty ugly but also very human. With this, i fell in love with the site.

For an emerging writer, finding a place full of veterans who are more than willing to share what they know about the craft is a very important treasure. I can't even begin to explain how valuable this is to me - to have all these teachers in writing. I remember back in college, I used to be taught by a handful of good professors, but these were very few, and the semester was too short. I had wanted for one or two of them to be my mentors but it didn't happen and soon, we just drifted apart.

With this site, I feel as if I finally have a teacher. It may not be ideal or conventional  but I  will  take what I can, even if it means being mentored by a group of vocal strangers in the web. Besides, anyone who thinks they can only learn from professors and teachers are full of themselves. Wisdom can be taken from anyone willing to share it, and these web writers are more than willing to do so. They have a lot of wisdom to impart , for the benefit of others just starting down on a path that they've trudged on a long time ago.

It's also a good source of daily inspiration and hope; a reassurance that someday, a budding writer like me can unlock his full potential. God knows how vital that push is, especially to someone doubting his/her talent. I just hope that someday (in a couple of years, perhaps more), I can pay it forward and impart my own wisdom and experience about writing to a promising upstart, who will be as confused and doubtful about his skill as I am today. It all comes back full-circle.

It took 20 years before I finally knew my father.

Not that he was bad or anything. Nor did he have a second family (well, none that I knew of), or a vice, or any similar problem that would make it hard for his son to know him. No, he was the perfect provider – very hardworking, driven and financially stable. In fact, maybe he was TOO perfect, even.

Growing up, I never really got to know my father because he was always away for work. He would go to the office early and come home very late, way past my bedtime. In the mornings, he and my mother would be at their respective offices while I am left to the care of my evil nanny Wilma, who resembles Princess Fiona in her ogre-form. Wilma was so evil that she would put Vicks in my eyes so I would cry myself to sleep. Waking me up for school comprised of her grabbing my feet and pulling me quickly out of bed and into the floor. As far as nanny goes, she was as nurturing as the Sahara desert.

Of course, I could never tell this abusive behavior to my parents because I didn’t see them as the kind you’d turn to for these sort of problems. We never really communicated much at home, or had those heart-to-heart moments that other families might have. Our household was pretty much like a boarding house where you simply slept – the members would punch out their time on the bundy clock when they would leave for work in the morning, and punch in again when they arrive home in the evening. In short, my parent’s dedication to their career had inadvertedly made them “strangers” to me.

All that changed this year when I got my student’s license. My dad accompanies me during my practice driving session around the city and it was during these fleeting moments when I got to know him, bit by bit, kilometer by kilometer.

Our initial drive was awkward. We drove our new Avanza to SLEX, en route to a gas station near Pampanga that sells these delicious ducks. Those first few hours driving was the most time I spent alone with my dad; it was also the most silent. We weren’t talking for most of the trip, until the lack of noise was so defeaning and unbereable that I begun talking about random things just to get things rolling– the weather, driving, the new camera I took for this roadtrip, anything that I could pull out of my mind. He smiled and begun easing into the conversation, sharing his thoughts on peculiar matters too – being a ployglot, going to foreign lands, a new scrabble game he downloaded the other day. There we were on the highway, two people talking about the strangest things while Jimmy Hendrix nails a wicked guitar riff on the radio.

We drove past a river that was ravaged by lahar and he noticed I was so enthusiastically taking pictures of the scene. My dad told me I would get a better shot if we stopped for a while and he then parked the car by the shoulder lane. We went down and I took a few snapshots of the breathtaking landscape before me, even managing to shoot my dad in front of the car, with his arms raised up high and wide and a goof grin plastered on his face. After a few more shots, we went back into the car and I was feeling a lot more comfortable sitting next to him in the back seat.

For every exit we passed, I learned about him more and more. In a Starbucks inside a Shell station (dubbed as "Shell of Asia"), I learned that when he was in college, he would go to the restricted area of the National Library and read their exhaustive magazine collection comprising ALL the back-issues of U.P.’s the Collegian, Esquire, Nat Geo and other materials that were banned during the Martial Law period. Upon taking the Angeles exit, he told me about how would make the most out of his savings by taking my mom to "free movie nights" held every Wednesday at the Spanish institute Center in Malate (it was here when his love for language was sparked). And in yet another Starbucks branch on the way home (we drank a LOT of coffee on that roadtrip), he revealed how he and his other activists friends hid in the mountains when the government issued an arrest warrant for them, and yet he would still go down sometimes and risk being caught just to be there for my mom when his father-in-law was killed, or hold an impromptu magic act for my sister’s 7th birthday party.

He was being so real and honest that I couldn’t help opening myself up to him too. I told him about all the significant things that had happened to me in the past: the time I almost drowned at sea when my Kayak drifted far from the shore, the time I skipped my Photojourn class just to be at the college parade, and most importantly, that time in elementary school when I flipped the "fuck you" sign to a bunch of bullies and got chased by them all over the school, until my asthma caught up to me and I got pummeled by them on the pavement. In return, he told me about his “rumbles” in college when he was part of the UP frat, the way he would also cut Law school to take part in rallies, and how he would pretend to be a slow swimmer in the varsity swimming team tryouts; he didn’t want to get in, he just wanted to use the swimming pool for free.

My father’s anecdotes proved that the image I had of him was wrong all along. He wasn’t the uptight, unapproachable, serious businessman that I thought he was, the one who was only concerned with his career and not about his kidu. didn’t care much about how his kids were. No, he was more of a goofy, fun-loving, mischievous guy who coincidentally also had an unsatiable thirst for knowledge. He was totally dedicated to his family, working day in and day out to provide what’s best for us, even though his kids may not realize it because they were too young to understand how things worked. In many way, I see a lot of myself in him, excepts he is eons smarter and can speak Spanish fluently, along with 10 other languages.

We might’ve not gotten the duck that we came for (the shop was closed as we went there on a Sunday) but I sure got something better: I finally got to know my dad after all this time, even if the journey took a while getting there.

There is a quote in Sandman that says it’s a tragedy to forget what inspires you, what rips you from the world of dreams every morning to face the mind-numbing reality of office work. To lose one’s cause and inspiration is similar to losing one’s soul. Without this, we would be assembly-line workers, mindless drones working day and night, for survival purposes. Workers that are detached to their work, alien to the product they toiled to make. Workers who feel emptier and more exhausted with each paycheck and passing day. Everyday, the same grind.

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Speaking of grind, our website, The Daily Grind, is up! Please check out the http://thedailygrindonline.com. The site features a medley of articles and stories pertaining to things in pop-culture. We are also accepting contributions (essays, poetry, fiction, short stories and what not)so if you like writing and you want your works published online, we have a place for you in our roster. Comments will be greatly appreciated :D