The Journal

October 1, 2012

Monday, 7PM

I’m exhausted from writing for over two years without being able to sell even a single piece of story to any online magazine. Maybe I will quit writing this time. Who would ever buy a story written by someone who is not a master of the language?

October 4, 2012

Thursday, 8AM

I had a dream last night. It was about me writing again. I saw my book in the bookstore. On the cover page, it said, “New York Bestseller Author”. Maybe it was a sign that I continue my venture on the path of writing. Maybe writing is really the road where I must walk. Now, I will write again.

October 8, 2012

Monday, 6PM

Just after I get home from work, I sit on my writing desk and begin writing this story about a kid who is new in a village and gets a friend and learns about the mysterious house and the strange old lady living in it and finds out something astonishing of why the old lady cultivates several flora species and put them in the mysterious house. I’m very excited to finish the story but I think I must ponder first over it to create an excellent piece.

7PM

I’m still sitting on my desk, the trash can under is full of crumpled papers. I could not instruct the pen to put what I thought into the notebook. I almost give up. I lean my back against the chair. Maybe I must go out of the house to get clean air and refresh my mind.

October 18, 2012

Thursday, 9PM

I have completed the first draft of the story. And I’m naming it “The Old Lady in the Mysterious House.” A story that deals with time travel and preserving Mother Nature almost impossibly.

November 4, 2012

Sunday, 10AM

Now, I’m done editing the story and I’m going to send it to an online magazine today.

November 23, 2012

Friday, 5PM

I got an email message from the online magazine rejecting my story. It was the 50th story I sent to them. Now, I’m losing hope. Maybe I would just quit writing. This nonsense writing! I’m so tired. I’ll just rest and sleep.

December 1, 2012

Saturday 7PM

I’m sitting at my writing desk thinking of another story I must submit to the online magazine. I’m holding my pen and directing it to touch the notebook, but still, I don’t have the right words for what I’m thinking. I rip off the pages of my notebook and flood the trashcan with them. I think I need a break. I can’t eat supper. I will leave my wife alone at the table with her prepared dish, chicken adobo. I have no appetite.

December 3, 2012

Monday 8PM

Now I’m back again at my writing desk. I couldn’t start writing. Nothing comes into my mind. I shove hard the shelf in front of me; the books fall to the floor, my notebook as well. I lean my head down on the edge of the desk, hitting my temple. Then I notice my journal on the floor. The back cover opens, facing up. Then I see something written on it. I pick it up and read. It is my penmanship scribbled on it.

“I will never give up writing. No matter what. Writing is my life and happiness.”

I write nothing at the back of my journals or notebooks because I don’t like it. I can’t remember that I wrote it. Is this a sign I must never give up writing?

December 6, 2012

Wednesday, 8PM

Thinking of a good plot for my next submission to the online magazine.

December 10, 2012

Monday 7PM

I still don’t have a story for my next submission.

I’m looking at the books on the shelf in front of me. I run my eyes over the titles to get an idea for my story. Finally, I rest my eyes on my journal, which stands next to the last of the books. I think I know now my next story.

January 6, 2013

Sunday, 7PM

I’m flabbergasted and excited to know that they have sent me an email stating I’m going to get my story published on their website. They asked me how they could send the amount of 60 US dollars as payment for the rights. I can’t believe it. Me? An aspiring writer employing a language, not my native, as the mode of telling the story.

January 10, 2013

Thursday, 6PM

The sun has just sunk behind the mountains across Manila bay.

There is a beggar sitting on the seawall. He is gazing at how the sun slowly submerged and waiting for crimson lights that struggle to seep through the silhouette of mountain edges.

I move to his side to sit there and savor the fruit shake in my mouth. I withdrew the money from my bank account. It was the payment made by the online magazine for my story. They sent it to my PayPal, and I transferred it to my bank account.

The beggar, his face rumpled with senility, glanced over his shoulder at me. “You won’t get published and won’t have that fruit shake right now,” he said.

I wonder how he learns I write and about the new story that will be published. I looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean?” I said.

“This is not your reality. Everything you perceive is your own fantasy,” he said.

I almost laugh at his nonsense statement. I think he may be crazy.

“You want to savor the success of getting published for the first time? Go home and tell yourself to right hard, edit your story with all your soul, and don’t expect your story will make it to the professional arena. Write with every bit of happiness in your heart.”

I sip the fruit shake and swallow it. “How do you know about my life?” I said.

“Just go home and tell yourself to write.”

Nonsense, I think. I walk away with a little astonishment. My heart is abnormally thumping behind my chest.

8PM

I get inside my house and smell the chicken adobo my wife is cooking. I walk over to the kitchen and hug my wife. She turns around and kisses me. She always knows it’s me.

I go inside our bedroom, leaving her in the kitchen. Just after I opened the door, I see myself sitting at my writing desk, writing with every effort. Pen in hand, running on the notebook spontaneously. I freeze for a few moments, and then I rub my eyes. It’s me at my writing desk. Then I see he strips the paper off the notebook spring and crumples and tosses it to the trash can full of crumpled papers. He gives up as he leans back against the chair.

He stands up and turns to me. His face is weary with wrinkles of struggle to get published professionally. He doesn’t see me. He passes through me like air. He vanishes with the air as soon as he moves out of the bedroom.

I move out to look for him, but I don’t see him anymore.

“What happened?” my wife asks. “You’re sweating, hon.”

“Nothing,” I say. Perhaps it was just an illusion.

I step back inside the room and settle down at my writing desk. I look down at the trash can. Empty. I pull out my journal, standing between the science fiction books on the shelf. Open it and think about what to write. Then I think of the beggar. What do his statements mean?

I get the pen and write something inspiring at the back of my journal.

“I will never give up writing. No matter what. Writing is my life and happiness.”

The door creaks in. “Hon, it’s time for dinner.”

I rise and put back the journal between the science fiction books.