Where Words Are

Have you ever had this kind of day when you just have nothing to say?

People call you writer, and today, you don't know how.

You're staring at a blank sheet, the cursor blinking.

Words are lost.

None is coming out.

None.

So you put everything down, and set out to look for words.

You ask your father, pet your dog, and hug your sweetheart.

You take a bath, listen to music, and go for a long walk.

Words in the sky.

Words in the air.

Words in bells ringing.

There are words in Chai tea and Panini.

Of course, there are tons of words in a bookstore.

But nothing seems enough.

You step in the chapel, your shoes tapping.

You walk, listening to dull echoing.

Closer and closer, you come before Him.

Your eyes upon Him, the Source of all words.

You take a bow, your knee touches the ground.

You lift your head unto Him then sit down.

You see how Jesus is bare, wide open.

His arms outstretched, his body bleeding.

But He is there, dying in glory.

He gazes dearly, adoringly.

Oh, He is filled with love, honesty, majesty!

And in its depth, there are words brimming.

Brimming.

Why Do I Write Again?

I had forgotten why.

I ignored the muse many times this month because I could not find time for writing. It was painful. I let my pen and paper be squeezed at the bottom of my workload, and it took me some pulling out, whittling down and sickness before I got to them again. To my surprise, when I finally got hold of them, I felt like I no longer know how to write.

My writing skills seemed to have deteriorated. Every day I would be in a room full of space, and have a desk waiting. There, I would sit and write. But not write at all. Not a single word appealed to me and whenever any did, it won't be of beauty. It was a huge writer's block. In those barren days, I saw my writing skills molting before me. And it was because I neglected it, left it in a corner, and forgot about it for a long time.

Or perhaps, it wasn't really about my writing skills.

The black ink resembled my mood. Empty papers felt familiar. And the drear blinks of the cursor resounded the rhythm of my week. Man, it was me all along. I wanted words, but they weren't coming because I was pulling them out from a void or an empty cavern. I was the one deteriorating, the one molting, the one who was empty.

Why do I write again? was the question.

I turned to God for answers. Then I talked to people. Then I rested. Then read books. And read books. And read more books. Then finally, I remembered what I have forgotten.

I forgot the joy of expressing myself with art, of creating a world and bringing my readers in it, of listening to people and immortalizing their stories in paper.

I forgot love.

The Story Isn't Ready Yet

Is your story ready to be written?

I realized, there are stories that aren't ready to be written yet. This means that the blame shouldn't always be placed upon the writer (or better not to blame anything or anyone at all).

Some writers aren't publishing a book yet not because they're sluggish or undisciplined or uninspired. In fact, they might be regularly sitting on clouds, talking face-to-face with the muse about their dreams. Their fingers are itchy, their body bursting with eagerness to spend hungry afternoons and sleepless nights for writing, and their head - their head brims with beautiful words which occasionally spill out but! The words are rather empty. No form. No sense. A beautiful waste. The thing is, these writers could already be carrying a story in their head - a baby in their womb - and it's not coming out yet because it isn't ready yet. Stories undergo gestation too, and it usually is painful.

After Finding You (chance to plug!), I found myself coming in and out of the messiest folder in my laptop which I named Book, and flicking through the less-than-half- to half-full pages of my MS Word files. In it are snippets, drafts and outlines of book ideas which were once exciting and sparkling, but now look corny and banal. You see, I have been spending time squeezing my brain and creative juices out for a second book only to come up with a useless material. Well, not at all useless. These could be pieces of what's coming.

Actually, the idea of Finding You was formed, bit by bit, through my prior book ideas. I entitled one book as Haven in my Pocket. I intended it to be handy and its words, to have an air of peace. It was supposed to be written for busy men and women in the city, but I failed to convince myself that I could pull it off. Another was a novel about a monastery where when one enters, one cannot leave (creepy, isn't it?). Another was about a man who taught a street child how to read and write, and which eventually led to building a foundation for street children (it's my dream!). Well, I guess all books are like Voltes V, having a head, trunk, and limbs controlled by five different humans with different stories.

So yeah, be patient. Let the desire nest in your heart then live more. Practice more. Stew ideas more! In Ecclesiastes, it was said that there is an appointed time for everything - and it includes your book! But you know what? I believe, it's already there. It's just that...the story isn't ready to be written yet.

Defeating the Writer's Block

Break the silence and crack some words.

Go, put bits of your soul into these pages.

Allow that writer in you squeeze herself out

of your warring heart and mind.

Let her decide what is worth a piece,

for she can say what color comes out

from amalgamated black and white.

No need to take sides 

'cause she can see through gray and define it.

Tell its name and you defeat the writer's block.

Confusion.

Let me start at that.