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Meeting aliens like me

When you’ve been a loner all your life because you prefer books more than people, it’s such a breath of fresh air when you meet aliens like yourself.

For me, I met them on May 26, 2014.

They didn’t come in a space ship, nor did they come with trumpets blaring my eardrums off. No. They were in normal clothes with their almost human faces.

They clearly made their work speak for themselves.

The 21st Iligan National Writer’s Workshop was – for the lack of a more exaggerated word- simply electrifying. Gathering writers who were just starting to make a name for themselves and writers who already have a stand in the literature world was like entering into a room with creativity palpable in the air.

It felt like I was on cloud nine actually.

Someone loves me up there, because that person granted me the wish I wanted ever since I was that bullied little kid.

I wished for people I could relate to.

I couldn’t believe that there were people out there who shared the same weird thoughts as me, who were as curious as I was about the world. People who understood what it was like to just pour everything out onto the page.

And even though we spent the workshop criticising everyone’s work, the pointers and suggestions people made were more than helpful to each and everyone of us.

The panelists? Don’t get me started on them. They were ruthless, honest, and downright helpful. They made us see our work in a different light. They were a breed of their own, each with their own right to be sitting in front of us and ripping our work as painfully as they could. Their background and knowledge of literature that was so vast that all I could do was stare in awe.

As for the other fellows? They brought out my inner extrovert, even for just a week. They were just a group of people who seem to be pieces of my life I never knew I was missing. It was my first time interacting with people who aspired to be a real writer like me. Each of them came from somewhere, each with their own story to tell.

Those six days in Iligan were days that would forever be imprinted in my mind. I just hope I get to see them all again!

So now I will write MORE. I’d definitely be fulfilling my motto. Which is to write until my heart runs out of ink 😉

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=/

On being a contributor..

Being a seventeen year old writer(then) who wants to become a great writer is tiring to be honest. I have to find readers, people who are actually interested, then I have to balance school and my dream. It’s a great thing that my degree program is related to my dream, or else everything might go kaput. Anyway, this year has been awesome so far, and I can almost taste my dream coming into a reality. I’ve been guest blogging, publishing my works wherever I could, and slowly these efforts have been paying off. I have been chosen as a contributor for two magazines!

The first one, is a local magazine here in the Philippines. This magazine features Eastern Visayas, which is where I came from. It features those who came from our group of islands and made a very obvious footprint on the big world. It tells stories and shows people that everyone’s dream can come true. So here’s my first article on said magazine which was published last April:

It was really a great boost to my dream, because they wanted me to write in the magazine again! So just this October, the new issue came out:

And it’s really exciting! The second magazine that asked me to contribute was called LDR Magazine. So far, this is a new mag for long distance couples. For those of you who have read my article on long distance couples (read here), it was actually the one that attracted the editors to my blog! And so I’ve been asked to write articles, and when they updated their site, I saw it! (read here)

So it’s really exciting! Now that I’m eighteen, I can enter more blogs and magazines because I’m legal 🙂 I do hope I could reach my dreams one day! So I hope some of you could help me achieve my dream of being a full-on writer by either subscribing or recommending me to those interested!

I also want to thank all of YOU who read my blog. Without you, well, I’d still be writing with less than fifty views per day. <3

Don’t break a writer’s heart

Never break the heart of a writer, because it’s just a recipe for disaster. -imperfect princess

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because she’ll remember every little detail about you.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because she’ll write about you. She’ll write about your weird personality. She’d write about how you snore at night and how it fills the dark room with a monstrous sound escaping your lips. She’d write about every moment you made her cry, like that day when you forgot to call her even when you knew she was sick. She’d write about the times you flirted with other girls in front of her, how you made her feel like there was a competition for your attention.

She’d even write about how oily your face was, and how her lips would feel slippery after she kisses your cheek. She’d write about the times you hands felt clammy, and how she would just wipe her hands on her pants after you held hands. She’d write about your bathroom voice, the way the earth seemed to shake when you sang that high note of “I will always love you”. Writers love to exaggerate, they just go over the top.
She’d tell about the times she cried when you’d cancel your date, only to find out you went to the bar with your friends when you stupidly post pictures on Facebook. She’ll exploit every flaw and every failure, her heart slowly mending with every word while you become a fictional monster character in her poems and stories.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because she can make you fall in love with her again. She’ll write stories about how you met. She’ll write about how it felt on your first date, the way you opened the car door for her. She’ll write about the way you made a move to kiss her cheek, but she moved her face at the same time and both of you ended up sharing your first kiss. She’d write about the crazy things you did for her, like doing a harana in front of their house. She’d write about how your voice made the dogs howl, but it made her smile never the less.

She’d even write about the time both of you were sitting down and watching the sun set, your arms around her shoulder. She’d write in detail how she perfectly fit on your shoulder, and the way you’d sniff her hair in a funny way. She’d say the things she wanted to say to you, like she never had any other crush since she fell for you. She’d send butterflies into your stomach, remembering each moment. She’ll pour out every amazing moment, and while your heart breaks in two, her heart strengthens and hopes for a better tomorrow. You’ll be a knight in shining armor, the one who saves her at the end of a grueling day.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, cause it will be both heaven and hell.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because goodbye might be the last thing you’d ever tell.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because she’d make you eat your words.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because doing that would just be absurd.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because soon you’d just be another character in her stories.

Don’t break a writer’s heart, because she can easily heal before you could say sorry.

Trust me, I know. I’m a writer after all. 🙂

Crumpled Paper

I stare at it. And it stares back at me. I may look like an idiot for looking at this damned paper for two hours, crumpling and uncrumpling it, I just have a feeling that I shouldn’t throw it away. And so to no one’s surprise, I open the paper again. I stare at it, wishing that it would fill up by itself. I examine the yellow paper that has blue lines, but alas the only words written was the same thing I have written two hours ago.

“She ran through the corridor, her red dress torn..”

Ugh. What next? Damn this writer’s block! I crumple it again, this time like I was going to tear it apart. I put my head down on my desk, full on exhausted. I begin to play characters in my head. And one by one they come alive in my mind.

“She ran through the corridor, her red dress torn. He catches up to her, a knife behind his back. His face is calm, charming even..”

My head snaps up, and I look for my crumpled paper. I frantically search for it, almost flipping over the office. I mentally slap myself for throwing it away. I check my table and my chair but I never found it. I knew I shouldn’t have thrown it away. I peer into my trash can, separating the bond paper from my yellow paper. Good thing I never throw gross stuff in here.

“Hey you okay? You need anything? Your office is a mess.” Gaby suddenly says in one breath.

I struggle not to roll my eyes at him. He was still eye candy after all. I smile at him and say,

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He then gives me a thumbs up, and walks out of my office. He was lucky to be an art specialist. He’d never experience writer’s block like I do. I suddenly remember what I was doing and I search my papers once again. When I had the yellow papers in one container, I began to open them one by one. Lo and behold, I discovered some old stories I tried to write earlier this week. My eyebrows scrunch together as I read them. I wrote stories that started great, then ended up with dot.dot.dot. Some had titles, some didn’t. Titles and endings were my kryptonite. I read on.

“You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. I repeated this mantra over and over again till I reached our apartment door. As it creaked open, Eric shouted..”

“A single heartbeat. A whisper. A moment that could never be repeated..”

“I stare at the man who is so called my husband. He’s ridiculously putting on his tie, his thumbs graciously moving. He looks at me with a small smile..”

Wow. I never thought that I wrote these. I look at all the crumpled paper around me, all with a story to share. I blink, and a ridiculous rush goes through me. I want to finish all of this! I suppressed a squeal, knowing fully that I was known around the office as the “weird writer”. I start up to my desk, and I do an eenie meenie miney mo on which story I should do first. That’s when I saw it.

Sam’s cat, the woman next to my office, was playing with one of my yellow papers. I stand up and try to grab the paper, but to my misfortune the cat ran. I sigh, running my fingers through my black hair. I put my hair into a messy bun and sat down. I look at the papers once again. All crumpled papers, each one with an amazing story.

The question is: What’s next? That’s for me to decide. 😀