In an open discussion about writing that I attended, a contentious point remained rooted in my mind.
A resource speaker said, in essence, that writers should sometimes deviate from what the readers expect to read. Readers, he stated, could get tired of reading, for example, funny stories.
He added that readers would not mind when a tearjerker of a story is included in a short-story magazine.
I was still new in the writing profession, but what the speaker said lingered in my mind. I did not quite buy the idea that he suggested.
It wasn’t a puzzle where the speaker…
THE day that my mother got married was also the day that I thought I’d be free of my “important duty”. Their wedding was very simple: it was held at the local civil registry office, and the basic ceremony was performed by the lady civil registrar.
My mother wore an ankle-length chiffon beige dress that she made herself. Barry wore an old, ill-fitting dark suit.
As per his instruction, my mother made for me for the occasion a pink-and-white flower print frock. …
From the morning you deign to get up to pick up your pen
The words you write, even punctuations, are packed with pain.
The images you make are cleaved in serrated commas of whine
While fogged pictures you forged show nothing will ever be fine.
Each line you wed to sentences in your vamped up paragraphs
Drips of colonic apostrophes of resentment akin to autographs.
Acidic asterisks that are there, like the brackets of shrill ill will
Could not dash or hyphenate the misery you want us to feel.
But the us, alas, finally pulled in a flash of point…
My mother gave birth to me when she was only 15 years old. A wizened midwife attended to my mother’s home birth. Home was the ancestral house of my maternal grandparents.
The midwife buried the placenta with pen and blank paper in the garden. The midwife told my mother and her parents that, that act would make the newborn intelligent, maybe even a writer, when she grew up.
This was revealed to me when I was already a published book author. My grandparents had already passed away by this time. …
Before the Covid pandemic, my daughter and her partner adopted Thor, a rescue dog from Bosnia. I thought that was great. Their Siberian Husky, Loki, would have a companion and playmate.
When there’s no will
Are you just over the hill?
When there’s no hope
Will you just weep and mope?
What is it with people
Who, with a whiff of wind, fall
See a short hurdle as a wall
And think of lump as a knoll.
Far better to be a bird
With will and hope like a laird
With bird-brain uses its wings
Hunting for food, with will it clings.
BUT this salve did nothing to lessen my anxiety when the time came for me and my mother to travel. I felt light-headed throughout the trip from Angeles City to the airport in Manila. We were in a commuter van, not in a passenger bus.
If not for my mother’s stern warning not to vomit, I would have done so. In the process, I thought I would die from the discomfort I felt, feeling nauseous but trying heroically not to unleash the heaving from my stomach.
Barry, my mother’s fiancé — and my secret future husband when I turn eighteen…
The clustered crimson berries of the rowan tree remind me of a tiff with someone on Facebook, of all places. It’s the last thing I’d ever want — put on display a clash of belief on social media, and against a person who is not a stranger.
How public could that be?
But it came about involving me and a relative — who is a kind person, by the way. His kindness is no secret to everyone who knows him.
It just happened that we disagreed on something important; and for the life of me, no way will I surrender…
Every now and then, I come across this advice: write for the love of writing. This is disquieting, especially when this suggestion is directed towards those who have just started their writing journey.
Write for the love of writing? Bah! What a brick wall of blather!
I might have suggested early on in my blog, Creative Writing for Beginners, to practice writing for the love of writing. Practice is the operative word here.
This piece of advice, to do practice writing for the love of writing, is specific to those who are just thinking of, or simply considering, writing as…
FORAGING is a word that I have once, long ago, associated with animals:
You get the picture of my earlier misconception.
In England and Wales, you can pick…