Love. Write.  Two words that keep my mind preoccupied and compel me to tap fingertips on keyboard. I love to write and I write about love. This is why I have an image of  two lovers stuck in an Italian villa trying to figure out if they should stay together or end their relationship. It's a strange thing to have a Movie Head. I see these people, a glimpse of a scene, and all of a sudden it's my life mission to figure out what happened before and what will happen after that scene.  And they are not unique. I have other characters in my brain:  three women whose ages are a decade apart from each other go on a European tour and their generation gaps play out. Of course, they drive each other crazy! 


I've already figured out what I wanted to do when I grow up at 12 yrs old, but life as it has played out is taking me on the longest detour ever in reaching my writer's destination . Because first I was a teenager with real teenage issues and somewhat of a social life, then I was a College Student with text books up to half my 5 ft 2 in frame to master within three days at a time, and then  I became a wife who is also a mom who has to work full time in the real world.  


How much time have I given to writing? Judging by this blog, what, an astonishing 5 post in like 4 years, or my 1/4 inch-thick journal that I have completed in just 5 years. Prolific much? And now that I've hit my mid-life status, all of a sudden I am feeling pressure. I have to write my great novel(s).  I drive myself crazy feeling guilty for having been complacent, of not being serious enough. So much so to the point that I'm unproductive.


And so I've decided to quiet my mind, to be still and go back to the basics. Fact is I love stories, the trials and triumphs of a character that makes them evolve. On one rare occasion that I was able to attend a writing class, I also discovered that writing is my one means to witness and immortalize moments, events and people with life lessons to impart that will otherwise go unnoticed by the rest of the world.  If I remain true to the core of the reason why writing means so much to me, I'm sure I will eventually hold that book in my hand with my name after "A novel by."

Writing Is A Marathon, Not A Sprint!

Just because I haven't written anything on this blogsite for what seems like years, it doesn't mean I haven't been writing at all. I have been engaged in three novel ideas at various stages of developments. Two are actually works in progress in the form of Microsoft Word documents, and the third one is unfolding at a surprising rate....in my head.

I feel as if I have been a Student Writer forever, and the sense of urgency to get published as an "author" wants to overwhelm me especially upon reaching a significant milestone last month with my birthday. It wants to, but I won't let it. And I'll tell you why.

I'm a great believer of the saying that "Nothing happens by accident." One afternoon, I came to be in a quaint little bookstore called Read Between the Lynes. I have been meaning to explore the small 2oo-something-year-old square in that old town of Woodstock which I had been passing by on my way to work for several months. This bookstorewas not the chainstore kind. Just by the sound of its name, it was unique and had character. As I browsed the many shelves like a kid in Legoland, I chanced upon this book, "If You Want To Write" by Brenda Ueland. An unassuming medium-sized paperback that had what looked like a fuzzy cloud for an art cover. I bought it. It may be the best writing book I have ever bought, and as a former member of the Writer's Digest Book Club, I had bought plenty.

Ms. Euland wrote this book in 1938. But she may as well have been sitting with me in her parlor or my living room, divulging advice on writing like a favorite aunt. She understood the timeless psychological challenges of writing. It was uncanny how she started off the first chapter with those naysayers from childhood, thru the academic life and thereafter. It touched a particular chord in me because I was 13 when I had shown a novel I was working on to a relative, and that particular relative simply remarked it was not good and unconvincing without any further offering of advice or encouragement. I did not finish that novel, and the one novel I did finish prior, I put away and it eventually became lost.

She went on to write that some writers get stuck because we obssess over our works until we are frozen into inaction. This is a direct quote from her (Ch 1, pg 7):

"And so no wonder you don't write and put it off month after month, decade after decade. For when you write, if it is to be any good at all, you must feel free, free and not anxious."

Ms. Euland was also a great believer in "creative idleness." Meaning, it is perfectly ok when there is no jolt of sudden inspiration. It is allowed for writeres to mull things over, let it stew in the brain. And no, I am not making excuses for my apparent unproductiveness despite the fact I've known I wanted to be a professional writer since 1998. Ms. Euland's book is not a license to be a Slacker Writer.

On the contrary, as aspiring writers, we should always be engaged in some form of writing. It's always better to be doing some type of scribbling, be it in a journal, note pad, typing on your pc, or i-Touch. Five-minute writings are perfectly fine as long as they were done without pressure and the burden to churn out an award-winning piece. The point is to enjoy the process and forget the would-be critics. Although, there is nothing wrong with the desire to have a million-dollar bestseller among the top ten list of the New York Times, that sole purpose will not help produce the best work we are capable of.

And so, whether or not I would ever give birth to a breakout novel, I would still keep at it. Yes, I want to write, and I love writing that much.

This Is My Quest....!

I have come to appreciate that song "The Impossible Dream" with a new level of heightened perspective. My dream is to be a respected Filipina-American Writer along the caliber of Jhumpa Lahiri or Amy Tan. That is my quest. But life is ever challenging and I am tired of making excuses. It can only happen one word at a time, one page at a time, one chapter then another until it becomes one book.

In spite the fact that I am a wife, and a mom of two boys, with a full-time job, I know I can only achieve my goal if I stick to a discipline that is not so unreasonable. Write for only 20 minutes a day, if I can't commit to treating writing as if it's a full-time job. Even 15 minutes is better than nothing. How about 5? How about simply starting with Julia Cameron's 3-minute daily excercise of scribbling anything that comes freely to mind. At least, I will be writing. It's better than nothing.

Slowly, in increments, I may finally be able to call myself a respectable writer and not merely a hobbyist. It starts here. I will blog away just so I can keep myself in the game. It's a healthy form of writing exercise. The mind searches for words and analyzes ways to put them together in a cohesive and effective fashion. The fingers thrill at touching the keyboards as Mozart may have done on the keys of a piano.

One thing though, I must apologize to my fellow Filipino-American writers if I refrain from reading your work for the time-being. I want to find my own voice and writing style. I am still lost at the moment. I hope to find it some day soon. I can feel that something within me is taking shape. It just needs the chance to become.

Dusk by Johanna Francisco

The old woman sat still and serene on the large sage green armchair situated by the window. The sitting room where she sat was painted in soft muted yellow-ochre tones. It was a small comfortable room peppered with family photographs. The afternoon rays of the Indian summer sun streamed through the window, at its brightest now before its setting. Cool playful breeze danced with the veil of ivory lace curtains. It was perfect weather. Seven decades of diligent living earned her the right to rest and bask in this idyllic moment.

With her eyes closed, she did not feel the coolness of the breeze. Instead, she felt the heat of a scorching faraway sun. Outside, from across a nearby park, she did not hear the shrieks and laughter of children playing. Instead, she heard the sound of waves as they kissed the shore of a white-sanded beach near another home from another time.

She was six again. Happy. Vibrant. Curious. She felt the contentment of the child that she was. She could see her chubby little arms outstretched and making circles in the air as she ran down the length of the beach. She laughed the carefree laugh of an innocent just before experiencing the hard lessons of life. She traced and left marks on that immaculate sand of long ago.

They were happy times and she remembered them well. It was more than can can be said of her recollection of what had transpired within the last hour, or even the last few minutes. She got easily confused these days. Events overlapped each other and became one big blur. She would like to cry in frustration if only she knew how. Most days, she willed herself to be still, to simply be. Sometimes, blankness crept in, other times memories paraded endlessly. Of course, she preferred the latter. The memories were always pleasant and gave her comfort.

At the doorway, a slim figure stood and watched, struck by tranquility of the scene before her. She was the youngest of the old woman's three daughters. She watched her mother with both love and pain. She thought her mother had dozed off. She wanted to see if the older woman was up for an afternoon tea. Maybe later, she thought to herself.

She crossed the room to retrieve a chenille blanket from the adjacent loveseat. She tucked it around her mother's lap. She gently stroked the soft gray hair that managed to look perpetually styled artfully in place. The daughter planted a kiss on her mother's forehead. She waited a minute to see if she would wake. The old woman's eyes remained close, her back against the chair and her hands now folded on her lap. With a sigh, the daughter retreated back to the kitchen to have a cup of tea by herself.

At 40, the daughter marveled at their situation. It was strange to find everything so reversed. She was the caregiver of the woman who had nurtured her and her two sisters. The woman whom she had looked up to and turned to for every need and support was now dependent on her. Her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's five years ago. But it was only within the last few months that her situation had gone from bad to worse.

For the better part of the last five years, she, her sisters and a hired caregiver took turns looking after their mother's daily needs. At first, their mother had protested. She was an independent woman who was widowed at an early age and took care of her three young daughters on her own. She found it hard to comprehend why she would need any looking after.

And the disease was treacherous. It seemed long in coming to set its destruction. But once it did, it was as if there were no warnings given at all. She had done her research and knew of the process of calcification taking place in their mother's brain. No matter how much information was gathered, it was hard to reconcile the clinical findings with the reality of what was happening.

In the last couple of months the old woman was more frequently weaving in and out of lucid reality. She would ask of family and friends when they are not there. But when they come to visit, she did not recognize them. At least for now, the old woman still recognized her youngest daughter.

The phone on the kitchen wall rang intrusively and startled the daughter out of her rumination. The eldest sibling was on the other end.

"Hi, how's Mom doing today?"

"Good. Good. She's resting in her favorite chair."

Behind the casual spiel, there were a thousand other things they wanted to say to each other: like their fear of losing their mother, their fear of aging, of being alone, fear of events that will irrevocably change their lives. They hold on to the every day familiar things and every day routine, not wanting to think beyond their real significance.

A long silence followed. There was one topic both were not willing to discuss.

The eldest daughter spoke first. "We have to think about what is best for Mom."

"I know."

"The decisions do not need to be made today. But soon."

"I know. I know."

"Well, give Mom a hug and kiss for me. I'll be over tomorrow."

"Yes, take care. Bye."

Much has to be decided. But for now, in this moment, the old woman will not be uprooted from the home she had built with the man she had loved.

In the sitting room, the old woman began to stir. She heard the calm soothing voice of her youngest daughter as she had talked on the phone. And then, she saw a young man smiling at her. She recognized him and smiled back. He looked as he always did when he teased her. She wanted to ask him where he had been; what had taken him so long; why had he left her so early on in their life. He had been so young, only 47. They were supposed to grow old together. She did not mind the struggle to raise three young children. The sacrifices were inconsequential. But, oh, how she missed him.

The old woman was not sure if what she saw was real. She began to reach out her hand to him. Have you come back for me? she wanted to ask. Then she felt the warmth of his hand encompassing her smaller one. He was leading her to up to the altar. There was a priest waiting. How could she have forgotten it was their wedding day? They made their vows and he kissed her ever so tenderly. Then they walked down the aisle to head out the church door. She sensed that he was walking much faster than she was. She could not keep up. "Sweetheart, wait!" In a flash, he was gone.

The daughter heard her mother cry out. Within seconds she was at her side. She could see her mother almost in a panic. What could have upset her so? She picked up the overthrown blanket and placed it back on her lap. Dusk had settled in and the room was somewhat dark. The daughter turned on the lamp that was on the cherry oak endtable beside her mother. Perhaps the fading light was what had frightened her. She sat on one arm of the chair and gathered the older woman in a tight embrace.

The daughter felt a strength burgeoning from within. She could slay any dragons and monsters that frightened her mother. She held on to the woman who brought her into this world like a lifesaving rock. Security crept in for both. The unknown was indeed frightening. But for now, they had a slight reprieve. It felt like a little slice of heaven and they knew peace.

*Revised version of submitted short story to a Creative Fiction Writing Class 7/05. I had some problems with the point of view aspect of this short story. The original one was confusing which seemingly had three or more conflicting povs. The original intent was simply two...from the mother and the daughter. The feel of an alzheimer patient's drifting in and out of reality was also attempted. Comment if you will, if this style worked. I'd greatly appreciate it...JSF

Old Poems, Same Nostalgia

I'm really not a poet. But there were times when I get emotional and this is the only way I can express them...through broken phrases I dared to call poetry.




1988


When Time Casts Its Shadow

When Time casts its shadow
I hope I'm not
Just passing through your life
A memory hidden
In some place
Forgotten.

--For my highschool friends. Leaving Chicago for the Philippines


1990

Love's Beginning

It happened
In a span of a week.
A handshake followed by
A smile.
An accidental touch
That reached the soul.
A bewildered look
In awe of what is found
In the heart --
Something akin to pain
That must be given a chance
To be.

-- For Gerry. We met on April 19, 1986.


Differences

You say "i love you,"
I reply, "i love you, too."
You see your way
I see mine
Voices grow louder
High pitched and shrill
Clouds of mixed emotions
Of anger and love
Can we not somehow
Reach a compromise?

-- Going steady for 3 or 4 years, it's after the honeymoon stage...(luckily, we were better as a married couple)

1992

The Interrogation of a Filipino American

They ask, what are you doing here?
And I would smile a secret smile.
Aren't you hot? Uncomfortable?
But I would only shake my head, No.
Don't you find it hard to breathe?
I do. I would have to agree. It's suffocating.
Have you met Chaos and Fear?
Yes, I have feared for my life and safety.
Don't you feel dismayed with the circus taking place on UN Avenue?
Yes, it's appalling and I am deeply grieved.
Don't you find it alarming that morals are very low?
It saddens me most dreadfully.
Is it not pitiful that every one is not trustworthy?
Oh, I wouldn't say every single one.
Then look on the roadside, up on the overpass, along elegant Ayala, tell me,
what do you see?
I see a mountain of garbage, an old man begging, and children selling sampaguitas.
Do you still not realize the injustice of it all?
Yes, I see it. I have to say I am disturbed.
Then what are you doing here? Why do you stay?
I smiled a secret knowing smile and replied,
Alongside the City with its bitterness and pain
I watched the glorious sunset turn the sky aflame.
The golden ball of fire sinks down the level horizon
With a promise to rise at the breaking of dawn.
I stood transfixed by its beauty beside the crying city
And with a sigh, I felt resigned.
I am here because I love
I love the country of my birth, and I remain in Hope.

--why go to the Philippines for college?...why not?!

April, 1992

Life's Value

Endless miles I've traveled
Wondrous sights I've seen.
Yet what breath-taking magnificence
Can fill this hollowness
Inside?

It is love's touch that gives meaning,
worth and sense of value.
For what is beauty, or richness
If I am forlorn without you?

--- height of being corny...missing Gerry while on a European trip


Memento

An old photograph
That spoke of life and being
The only trace left
Of someone who once was
Young, vibrant and living
Flesh and blood preserved
Into molecules and waves
Of colors imprinted on paper
Though immortal only in imagery
Memory and love is eternal in the
Heart.

--for Gigi...I felt how much she missed her mother


June, 1995

The Trouble With Goodbye

In my life, I've said it a countless times,
To family, to friends, to a loved one
I never learned how to do it right
The formula for its proper delivery,
The right approach, the suitable words,
They always elude my pained mind.
And so it comes out in a rush of broken
Speech, accompanied by salty crystal drops that
Managed to break my dam of self-control.

I should have learned my lesson by now.
It's a way of life for me. Inevitable.
Still....
The trouble with good-bye is
The degree of pain never quite depreciates
No matter how many times it is said.

---Going back to the US of A

Time Steals

He sits on the rocking chair, old and weary.
A wisp of an old man who had seen many years pass.
His skin clings close to his bones,
A river of veins course through his gentle hands.
The only fire left within him is sparked by his Faith.

He told me last night, he would thank God when he goes.
"I am the only one left of my generation," he said.
I watched his tired form and knew his pain, nary a word of complaint.
He spoke the truth as my mind rebelled against the thought,
Is it really his time to go?

But his words began to sooth, I started to understand.
Comfort became easy to find. Whether he goes or stay,
He is in God's hand either way.

--- my beloved grandfather and I had talked about my leaving for the US. He passed away 5 months later.

Writing As A Calling

I have always wanted to be a writer ever since I could remember. Writing is just as second nature to me as breathing. The down side to that is I thought writing was more like a hobby and a necessary exercise of self expression. It did not occur to me until later on in life that it can be a noble vocation that can actually be a source of livelihood.

Upon entering college, I chose to major in Biology as my pre-medical course. I had toyed with the idea of being an English or History Major, but the practical advices of well-meaning relatives won out. Besides, having an M.D. after your name sounded "cool." And so, I enrolled in the College of Science at the De La Salle University in Manila, Philippines. Discovering a tenacity that surprised even myself, I stuck it out for all the required trimesters and received my diploma within three years. But by the last term, I knew I could not go on to pursue medicine. I had to squarely face the truth that it was the wrong dream to pursue. I had asked for a divine sign. It was given to me in a form of winning first place in an essay contest given by my religion teacher.

Still, I was somehow diverted from writing. It wasn't until ten years later that I recognized my love for writing goes beyond a hobby. My moment of illumination came after a car accident that induced the three-week premature delivery of our second child. If I could whip up an overdue term paper the day right after delivering a baby, it must be what I was meant to do.

If you think about it, there are many options that are available for a person to make a living. There are so many careers to choose from. The only way one can be truly successful is if you do whatever it is that you have a passion for. Be it entrepreneurial or creative in nature, what will occupy you has to be something that you really love to do. There is that increased pulse rate and a feeling of satisfaction upon completion. These are the general symptoms that you have found your calling. Once we heed that calling, the world is suddenly full of all sorts of wonderful possibilities.