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Book lovin’ babe

Aren’t just there moments in your life when you finish a book and you sigh and think, “I want to read that again.”?

That’s the power of a book. And being an eighteen year old girl who has read more books that the hair follicles on her hair, I know all about it. Funny thing, I first loved writing before I loved reading. Maybe it was because we didn’t have a proper bookstore in our city when I was younger. All I had were my mother’s monthly Reader’s Digest, and a few Sweetvalley High books. But once I got into college three years ago and two bookstores opened up in the city, I piled up on books. And when I discovered e-books, I read more.

Addicted? Yes.

But one day though, I’d love to read my own book like I’ve never seen it before. Like I just bought the book for the heck of it, forgetting that I even wrote it.

Now that I’ve read 600 or so books, I’d love to read more. So I’m going to try and do some book reviews. Free books for my opinion sounds like a great idea.

Another reason I’m going to be a book blogger is that I’m taking a pause from posting my stories and poems online. Every writing competition seems to require that every entry has to be unpublished, so I’m going to take a break for a while. But fear not! Whenever I get published, I’d post it here immediately!

Here’s my new blog, Book Lovin’ Babe! I’m still working out the kinks 🙂

Now off to more reading!

Care to recommend me to author’s who’d like to get their books reviewed? 😀

Imagination

12am and I still can’t sleep.

I imagine lying down beside you, your arms around me. I imagine you kissing my forehead while I close my eyes, your breath ticking my nose. You slowly lull me to sleep, making me smile all the while.

But in the end it’s all just an imagination.

In the end you’d still be ten feet below me, together with your slut of a mistress. Bloodied, and never meant to be found. Just like the knife with my prints on it.

——————–

Scaredya didn’t I? (insert evil smile)

Damsel in Distress

She’s Sherlock Holmes
with a twist
a spunky attitude
and a curled up fist
she doesn’t give up
even in a fight
cause she’ll only give
the bully a fright

she usually stands up
for herself
and doesn’t really need
any help
she can sometimes be your
girl next door
or as crazy as a big wild
boar

you can depend on her
during crisis
cause she’s the type
of gal you can’t miss
she can be as smart
as a duke
but can surely pick a fight
with captain hook

make sure you dont underestimate
her sweetness
or you’ll wind up
in a real hot mess
she’s the type of girl
you’ll fall in love with
and i can tell you,
she ain’t no myth

she’ll really love you
for who you are
and doesn’t really care
if you’re a star
and if someday she’ll
look your way
you’ll know she’s here
to stay

she’s miss SMARTASS
as some may say
but she’s only looking for someone
to brighten up her day
and in the end, she’s the real
DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

——————————–
Written four years ago, so I’m guessing I was fourteen. I’m rummaging through my trunk of old files, and this is by far the funniest poem I wrote. I love how it describes the spunky teen I was, before I found out that violence is never the answer. Sometimes. >:)

Streetlight

After four months, it lights up our streets.
And ultimately, our hearts.

In between publishing my book, getting confined in the hospital for a week, and struggling with my studies, it’s easy to forget that four months ago, Haiyan almost drowned me.

Last night, something beautiful happened. A streetlight near our house got turned on.

To some of you, this may not be a big of a deal. But for us who have been powerless since the storm, it’s a way of igniting that someday everything would be the way that it was.

The turning on of the streetlight lessened our fears of someone breaking into our house, since it would be lighter outside.

The turning on of the streetlight meant that soon, we’d get our electricity back soon.

The turning on of the streetlight means that I don’t have to bring my laptop everyday to school just to charge it.

The turning on of the streetlight means that I won’t have to be too afraid of going down stairs in the morning since I could just light things up with a flip of a switch.

The last four months haven’t been easy, as we adjusted our lives after the storm wrecked our home. With the streetlight on, it makes us hope for something better.

The fed-up hopeless romantic’s letter

Dear boyfriend,

You know how I feel about you.

You know how my eyes sparkle when I see you. You know how I can’t help but smile when you stare at me. You know how I get dizzy when you kiss me. You know how weak I get when you hug me. You know how I feel giddy every time you tell me you love me, and in return I can’t help but tell you how much I love you back. You know how I can’t help but melt whenever you’re around, even though I’m mad at you. How I can’t help but fall in love with you every moment. You know that I’d do anything you want in a heartbeat, no matter what the consequences would be.

Even when I don’t want to do it, I do it anyway because I like seeing that smile on your face. God knows how I want you to always smile. And yet, all I’m asking from you is time to be with you, and you always have reasons not to do so. I have to demand it, like I’m at the lowest of your priorities. You like to take advantage of how I feel for you, in more ways than one. You make me chase you, then you make me feel like you were the one who was doing the chasing. You rarely do anything for me anymore, aside from loving me the way you do. If you still love me that is.

Someday you’re going to miss how one look from you and you’d see me practicality floating for you. Someday I’d float for someone else,someone who isn’t you. Someone who would REALLY drop everything for me. Not just dropping because he can, but because he has to. Because he wants to be near my side the moment I ask for it. And when that time comes, I won’t even remember what it was like to be in love with you. Please don’t wait for the day when our forever becomes a never.

I’ve never been this demanding; so I hope you think this through.

Always remember, I love you. But enough is enough.

Girlfriend. <3

————————————————–

There’s a Filipino quote, “Pag ang tanga nauntog, lagot ka.” (When someone stupid awakens from their stupidity, watch out)

Kind of fiction. Written by me, maybe for someone. In my 3-year long relationship, some days are better than others.

Twelve in the morning

Jake

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about her.

Again.

If my brothers knew about this, I was going to get a real butt kicking for thinking about a girl.

But how couldn’t I?

She had the smallest hands a sixteen year old could have, so fragile yet coarse. She has the same hands with my mom after she comes home from the restaurant, but smaller. When I kissed her hand, it was like nothing in the world made sense. I didn’t know how I lived without kissing her hand, a small part of her.

She had cheeks that would turn pink whenever I catch her looking from the other side of the classroom, when everybody should be reading. She had cheeks that would turn pink when I called her name. She had cute cheeks.

And her smell. She always smelled like a flower garden, the way they do when you just bought them from the flower shop. Whenever she passed by me in the bus, or decided to sit beside me, all I’d do was smell her hair. She made me feel like I was floating, just by her smell.

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about her.

And I knew I was in love.

Hannah

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about him.

Again.

My dad would get mad at me for thinking about boys when I was supposed to study for Honors Class.

But how couldn’t I?

He had this smile that would make butterflies feel like eagles in my tummy. He had a pink upper lip, and a brown lower one. And when he kisses my hand, he closes his eyes, like he could never get enough of kissing my hand so he has to concentrate on it.

He has a way when he reads, the way his eyes never seem to leave the page unless he has to turn it. When he reads it’s like he’s melting into the book, but only looks my way when I stare too much. But then I’d notice his eyes, how it softens when he looks at me.

And his voice. Whenever he talks to me it’s like he’s singing to me, and when he sings to me it’s like my ears were made to just listen to him. He speaks from his diaphragm, and he sounds strange when he has a cold. But he makes me melt with his voice, like a fire that’s never dangerous to touch.

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about him.

And I knew I was in love.

——————————

So, I submitted this to a competition, didn’t get in, so I’m letting YOU guys read it! A writer needs feedback after all.

The dark subconscious

I rarely go to this part of my subconscious.

Mostly because people won’t understand. Heck, I don’t understand it.

People always said that writers went to places where they’d weave their stories from. Beautiful creative places where they could make a hit story with just one wave of their hand.

J. M. Barrie. got Neverland.

I got darkness.

I usually get myself busy so I don’t have to travel to the darkest place of my mind. I read, or study, or do chores-anything to take myself away from this place. I surround myself with people. But when I’ve been stuck in a hospital for five days, it does things to me. It takes me there.

Then the bad thoughts come.

I get suicidal thoughts. Lots of them. Sometimes I’d hold my breath just to see if I could die. I don’t. I don’t usually know why I want to die. I just know I’m not scared of death. I just want to end everything. To end trying to be better when this is all I’ve got. To end trying to please people when I really just want to be myself. To end being trapped in a world where everything was messed up, and everywhere you went there was always more cons than pros. To end being a burden to almost everyone. To end everything. Yeah, that sounds nice.

I slowly get insecure, thinking about what a bad writer I am and how I’d never get famous. How I’d die because I got sick all the time. How I’d never reach my dreams, how everyone secretly hated my writing. I get jealous of younger writers getting their work recognised without even trying so hard, while here I am looking for publishers and agents and people who’d get my work. Everything I’ve achieved has been done with me trying so hard. Nothing ever comes easy for me.

I sometimes remember the times when I got bullied. They’d say bad things about me, and it was easier not to care. But when you bully yourself, you slowly eat yourself inside out. You see all the things wrong about you because you know yourself more than anyone else.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this, but I needed to get this out. To get rid of these terrible thoughts that hinder me from finishing my book, from emailing publishers and promoters, hindering me from reaching my dreams. I do want to get there. I do. But I want to do it my way, because I’m too stubborn. Sometimes I just want to do away, anywhere. Just to see if I could do things on my own. Everyone says I should profit from my writing, but I don’t want that. I write for the sake of writing.

I would cry silently, something I’ve mastered through the years. I cry, making sure I feel every aching pain. I let it out, because when I don’t I hyperventilate. I have the need to talk to someone, but I don’t know who to trust. I’m just afraid that everything will backfire.

This usually comes when something triggers a part of my subconscious that I’ve long decided to keep hidden. Or when I get rejected. Or when I remember something that keeps on happening to me. I hope I don’t scare you all, but I just wanted you to see another side of me. Another side of this struggling writer.

That people aren’t always who they seem to be.

The one who was always left

They leave.

They always do.

Whether they’d leave tomorrow or the next day, they leave. No one cares enough about me more than I do. Heck, I sometimes want to leave myself if I could. I always roam around life, with a lot of masks, a lot of faces. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognise myself. They all say I’m afraid of commitment. But I’m really not.

I’m just afraid of being left behind.

Sometimes they have a reason why they do it. They make up stories how we could never work out, or that they found someone else. They’s be sweaty and fidgety when they tell me, trying to tell me that they had a great time. They’d try to make me feel better, telling me how beautiful my hair is, or how smart I am.

The worst are those who don’t explain. Everything is happy one day, and then suddenly they don’t have the balls to tell you it’s over. You just stare at your phone whole day, wishing it would come alive all of the sudden. You throw your phone across the room when it’s a spam text, or you don’t answer your mother’s calls because he might call.

But in the end you know, all of them will leave.

Until he came along.

At first I never wanted to believe he existed. But the more I pushed him away, the more he wanted to be with me. He made me believe in fairytales, the once I puked over when I was a little kid. There was something different about him, they way he said my name, they way he held my hand, the way he kissed me. I found myself getting annoyed of his texts, and he texted me all the time.

“Karen.”

He’d text.

“I’m outside your window. Open up.”

But I don’t. I don’t let anyone in anymore.

He’d just wait outside my window, sometimes all through the night. Then I’d hear him talking to his mom, making him go home. He’d always leave a rose on the window sill, and it always smells better in the morning.

But one day, the roses stopped.

The texts stopped.

And when I was yearning for him for some reason, I found myself sitting in front of a gravestone.

Left alone, once again.

————————————————-
Fiction, originally written by yours truly.

My chocolate

I was thinking about him again.

I knew I really shouldn’t, especially since he loved to tease me that he can’t fall asleep with me thinking of him all night.

But something about him, I don’t know what, drives me crazier than chocolate. And that’s saying something. I love chocolate; dark, white, melted or frozen, but he’s..more.

Like when he holds my hand, sweaty and all, I sometimes forget which was mine and which was his. Like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle. I don’t know why I held the hands of other guys before when he made me feel like this.

And when he met my parents, oh gosh, I thought I was going to die. My dad kept asking where his parents worked, and I knew that he was poor. But I smiled when he stood up in the middle of dinner when dad asked again.

“With all due respect sir, I know my family is poor. But we work hard for what we have, and that’s how we like things. Grime and all. My father is a construction worker, my mother a maid. But I’d never exchange them for anyone.”

He sat back down, trying to keep his cool. But I was the only one who saw his shaking hands. By the end of the night, my dad patted his back and told him that he’d love to see him more often.

I groan as I turn around and face my pillow, trying to hide my squeal. When he was leaving that night I walked him out like a proper lady, and leaned it to kiss his cheek. But at the same time he was leaning to kiss my other cheek, and we ended up kissing. Kissing.

I knew my mom was peeking, especially when I heard her squeal, but I was already a goner. He smiled in surprise, and kissed my forehead after. He left sparks that made my tummy feel so queasy that I couldn’t sleep that night, and the next morning he complained about not getting enough sleep cause I was thinking of him.

But deep inside I knew, he was thinking about me too.

I bit my lip to hold back a laugh when I saw my phone lighting up, his shocked face on the wallpaper. He complained all day about the flash on my camera being in the way of his eyesight all day, but he let me kiss his eyes in the end anyway.

“Hello?” I whispered. I knew I would be in so much trouble if my parents knew I was still up this late, but I couldn’t help it, he was addictive.

“You’re thinking about me again.” He says, his voice having that hint of smile that made me feel all giddy inside.

“You’re hard not to think of.”

I began to have these sensations all of the sudden, the same ones whenever he was near. It left me feeling like I had the best chocolate in the world.

“Go to sleep already.” He tried to say with a serious tone, but came out with a chuckle.

“But how?”

“I’d give you chocolate tomorrow. A whole bag of them.”

“Okay goodnight!”

I turned off my phone and closed my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep. Maybe I still loved chocolate more than him after all.

————————————

Fiction, written by me and nobody else but me. <3

(Plagiarise this and you’ll be digging your own grave. [dun.dun.duuuuuun])
This post only made me crave for chocolates, which I couldn’t UNFORTUNATELY have because I have asthma. Huff.

Why write?

Write a hundred books. Make love with a thousand words. Touch millions of lives.

“And the Nobel Prize Award for Literature goes to, Le-an Lai Lacaba!”

Everyone rises up, their shiny gowns reflect on the spotlight that has been focused on me. After 50 years of being a writer, at long last I’m finally here; the first Filipino to receive this award. I rise up, my limber 60 year old bones are now shaking, but the smile on my face is still plastered on tight. I look at my husband and I squeeze his hand as I am ushered up the stage. And to think, 50 years ago I was a sixth grade elementary girl who started making stories in her diary. And now I’m here, in front of everyone who have read all of my works, and who have helped me up when I was down.

Crush-inspired stories. A small princess diary. Teacher issues.

“Le-an! Are you not listening?”

In that moment I look up at my teacher who looked angry. Oh wait, she is. I slowly sneak my diary in my bag, but my teacher catches sight of it.

“What is that?” She demands.

“It’s her diary ma’am where she writes stories.” My best friend quips.

I look at her angrily, the way she betrayed me like I was nothing to her.

“Let me see that.”

My heart leaps into my throat. I shakily give my diary to her, knowing fully that I wrote bad things about her inside. She takes it and walks to her desk, keeping the diary in her drawer. I looked down at my feet, feeling ashamed. It’s true that I wasn’t listening to her, but it was only because I got inspired on writing. Who am I to resist the calling of making a novel about me and my crush? This reminds me, he really looks cute today. Ugh, my diary! >.<

It was graduation day when she gave my diary back to me, and I have given up writing since that time. I felt so ashamed at what she did to me, doing it in front of class and everything.

“Ms. Lacaba, here you go. You’re a good writer for someone who’s eleven years old. But next time don’t make me the villain in your stories okay?”

I didn’t know what to do in that moment, so I just smiled and took the diary into my hands. Little did I know that my teacher would become a headmaster at a school in Thailand six years later. So maybe that was a sign.

Bullied little girl. A “class diary”. More crushes that left me crushed.

Everything is such a daze. No one wants me to be a part of their group, and I stopped hanging out with my best friend’s barkada because I was treated as an outcast. I hear them calling me names, talking about me behind my back. I don’t even know what I did. And so I write here in the corner, thinking of reasons why no one liked me. I write stories and poems about how it would be like to have real friends.

For a whole year I try impressing them, but the most hurtful moment that showed how much they despised me was when my teacher made a mistake in announcing that I was in last rank. They all cheered or something. Then when my teacher took back his words and said it was their friend in last rank, it was like they hated me more. I didn’t know how to deal with these people. High school sucks.

In sophomore year I began writing a novel in my diary again. At least I have friends now, with whom I show my stories to. But they weren’t only interested in my stories that were written at the back of my diary. They also wanted to read my actual diary. It was no big deal for me. Everyone knew who my crush was, even my own crush. So I let them be, I let them read my deepest secrets. I don’t care because maybe this way I would have more friends. Would you be my friend?

My crushes are somewhat cute. But every writer needs a muse right? In my case an escort. So I accept every guy whom my heart beats for. I know I sound like I easily like guys, but I have standards. Sometimes. Anyways, there is this one crush of mine whom I’ve been crushing for most of my high school life. But he became a bit of a jerk ever since he knew I liked him. He was kind of my friend during my “bullied” days, but now he just is a snob. I push myself into crying at times, just so I could write something about pain and suffering.

An unexpected victory. Finding out my weakness. More ideas to write.

My hands are shaking and sweaty. My face is hidden from sight. My constant mantra is “Please let me win. Please let me win.” My arm is on a chair and my head is rested it as if I was sleeping. They’re announcing the winners of the DSPC Feature Writing contest, and I feel so numb.

“In seventh place, in sixth place, in fifth place, in fourth place.”

My name hasn’t been called and they’re already in the top three. My heart is beating wildly. All my schoolmates have won a place for the regional competition, and my category just had to be the last one to announce. I keep muttering my mantra, as my friends pat my back. This is it. There’s no way I’d get into the top three. I look up just as the emcee announced the first place.

“In first place, Le-an Lai Lacaba of STCDCFI!”

OMG. Was that my name? The next thing I knew I was being pushed unto the little stage with my schoolmates jumping around. Next to me were six other winners, and I was standing in first place. This is it. This is my calling.

Oh no. They want me to write about the RSPC Pageant last night. I don’t know anything about pageants! I did attend it because I was required to, but I never thought they’d choose this for a topic! My head is swirling with so many things and ideas that I couldn’t put anything on the paper. The next thing I knew time was almost up and I had to hurry up. I wrote what I could, hoping for the best. During the awarding day, I knew I wouldn’t get a place. And I didn’t. I learned that my weakness was writing live performances or anything that I couldn’t make up. So I learned from that.

They say it doesn’t count on how high your position is, what counts is how many times you lift yourself up after you fall. So as I tried to recover from the RSPC fiasco, I picked up the pieces. I wrote about the little things in life, I wrote poems and short stories and tried to make a novel. I never wanted to stop writing, in hopes that someday I’d be one of the best. I’m going to get there someday, somehow.

A new school. Same type of “friends”. Different inspiration.

Entering college was just like entering high school all over again. I had no friends because it was like I was absent during the day that they all became friends. Although there wasn’t any bullying anymore, I still felt alone, tagging along from one barkada to another. I never really got attached to anyone. And so my “loner” instincts kicked in, and I found myself writing in the library, during class at times, and at home. I just wrote whenever I felt like it. I never felt like I belonged to anything anyways. So I belonged to myself.

During those loner times, there was someone who inspired me. He’s my current boy friend now and my best friend at that time. After a long time, I had an escort for my novels. I began to write love stories again, and the problem of not being close friends with anyone faded in the background. I began to take what I could take, and just let the good times roll. I tried walking on my baby feet as I staggered to the world of college life, and I’m still staggering every time I stand after I fall.

A new opportunity. Facing my fear. It was in the genes after all.

When my mom started to write for a magazine, I was ecstatic. She wrote beautifully, and her words were carefully chosen. I was excited whenever I saw the latest issue of the magazine, and planned to write for the magazine someday. Little did I know that it would soon come true. I got really excited was when she appointed me to cover national star’s concert. I looked back on the RSPC competition, and I challenged myself into writing something that wasn’t fiction. And in the end, I felt really good about myself because I impressed my mom.

A few months after that, I was called into a meeting for the magazine. Turns out, they were planning on making a junior writers team, and I was appointed leader! I knew there were responsibilities and tasks, but I was up for the job. My bucket list of working for a magazine was ticked off as I faced a new challenge.

And as I write this essay at twelve in the morning, I smile to myself as I look back at all the things I’ve gone through. I never realized how much I pushed myself to get back on the horse. I realize now that the best way to achieve anything is not to mope around and do nothing while you’re lonely. My motto is: when lonely, write! The best things in life come unexpectedly, and you better be ready with a pen and paper.

Almost one year later. A published book. Book number two on the way.

I’m finally here. After all the grueling and tiresome nights. After reading and editing till I was sick of it. After printing the copies to read it again. I’m finally published.

I have stumbled, and fallen. But I always knew that I was meant for this, I knew I had to endure them all.

After surviving the world’s biggest storm, I have stood up, dusted off the dirt, and wrote. I have written till I couldn’t, I have written till I was worn out. And now I’m done, my work is out there. With my blog and book in hand, I feel taller, though I’m only five feet tall (since I was 15).

Everything’s the same, yet a lot has changed. I still have the same escort, the same one who got me really started. One more year and I finish college, then it’s off to the real world. My younger siblings are now taller than I am, but I still get to boss them around. I am rarely lonely, I have my characters with me, just bursting to get out.

And now I have a new motto, one I will surely live by till the day I die. Write till your heart runs out of ink.

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The first part was written almost a year ago. I’m proud to have come this far, to be where I am today. Tomorrow is still another world to tackle, but at least I lived today.

Less than three is now available on Kindle! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IAJURRO

And the 14 ebook giveaway expires tomorrow! Enter here! http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/share-code/NGY1MzE1MGJiYzgxNWZhMGExMWZkMWFmMjdlOGFkOjA=/