The Importance of Truth in Writing

In a Place of Truth

I watched this movie entitled Midnight in Paris.

The story's about a writer/novelist who went to Paris with his fiance. One night, he strolled the cobbled streets on his own, and was hailed in a vintage car by revelers - two of them introduced themselves as Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Sayre.

So yeah, the fortunate man was brought back to the old days where famous writers and artists walked like typical people. One of the remarkable lines uttered by the movie's Ernest Hemingway was this:

"No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure."

Truth. How important is truth in writing?

Audie Gemora, a renowned thespian, said that though acting is called "acting," it's one thing actors/actresses shouldn't do. They have to see it, feel it, experience it - make it exist right in front of them! Otherwise, the act won't look real. It'll only look like acting.

It's the same thing with writing. You see, the best pieces are written in a place of truth. If writers want to make the readers fully experience what's happening in the book, they themselves have to be in the experience - they have to know its truth. How does it feel to be here? What would one think when he/she is in this kind of situation? How would this kind of person react in this situation? Otherwise, the story might look dull and superficial.

Note: They say, people learn best from experience. Let your readers have it through your book.

What is Memoir?

I believe, this makes most memoirs genuine, vivid and beautiful. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert is a memoir. Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom is a memoir too, I think. One of the best I've read is the autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux, The Story of a Soul. These books are famous for touching millions of lives.

When I typed memoir on Google, it defined it this way:

A historical account or biography written from personal knowledge or special sources. 

That's the beauty of memoir. The plot is already written by Life for you, and you only have to live the experiences again and write. The memoir's reader then walks into the mind of the author and sees things as the author remembers. I agree that fiction writers have the wildest imagination because they have to distort realities - they themselves plan the plot, build the characters, and everything else in the story - and present their truth in that form.

Your truth is worth telling.

I thought mine was, and it has now reached hundreds of people. If you're aspiring to write a book, why not write about your truth? I believe you have a story worth telling. It could be just a portion of your childhood, your love life or a journey you once ventured. Share your experience generously. Begin with recalling each thought, each tear, each smile. And once you know you're in a place of truth, write.

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.

Swimming in Pajamas

The sun woke up, and the wind was like its big yawn across the sea.
It was the 1st of December, 2013.

My parents had a work in Baybay, and they brought me with them. The humble hostel we stayed in was near the sea, and surrounding it were coconut trees with long branches swaying and slapping each other.

I decided to walk along the shore immediately upon getting up in bed. I was on my pajamas and slippers, my ankles bending sideways as I sauntered over huge, wet, and lopsided stones.

Psssshhhhhhh!

The sea said, as if reminding me to remain quiet and still so I won't wake up whatever it is that was sleeping. I chuckled to myself, thinking it must be still itself. That it must have been what woke the sun up.

Pssshhhh!

I stopped, and turned to it. To the limitless sea. To the endlessness that kissed the unreachable sun. It was beautiful, especially with the strong rippling of water beneath it.

Psssshhhh!

Then it dawned on me that the sea was not telling me to keep quiet. Its sound that grew gentler and gentler in my ear was an invitation. It called me to come, to make it feel me and I, it.

I walked toward it. Closer and closer. Until I felt its sandy wave caressing my feet.

That day, I jumped into the sea with my pajamas and slippers on.

Swimming.

No towel.
No extra clothes.
Nothing.

That day, I saw how it was to answer a 'call'.