It’s been awhile since I’ve put down anything that can even be remotely described as concrete, much less sensible. So, in lieu of the just-barely-so-new year, I’d like to say the following:
Last year was great. Sure, it was also one of the saddest and crappiest years I’ve ever had, but there were good things too, and I’d like to thank God for that.
Sorrows aside, it was a year of finding love again, overnights and New Year’s Eve in Tarlac, meeting families old and new, surprising generosity and the subsequent Mr. Pookums, watching Into The Woods with a good friend, watching Avenue Q with my best friend and favorite person, and smatterings of small good things scattered in-between. It was a year of a lot of good books and (still) trying to write; a year of realizations and lessons learned.
=========
Moving on.
I wish I had something massive to write about. Not love, because I love for me (and her, of course), and it’s nobody else’s business—I think I’m past the stage and age where I like to publicly gush and whine about mushy-mushy stuff (well, not outright at least). Not my job, because it’s crappy, and so are the jobs of a lot of other corporate drones out there who work for bosses who, despite being so amazingly stupid, enjoy the bigger end of the stick because life is unfair that way. I want something important, fun, meaningful, and filled with lots of nice and raw literary, uh, stuff—like awesome sunsets and delectable tasting food—that maybe, just maybe, I can manage to draw some good words from.
Sometimes I do have stories in my head though, good stories, if I may say so myself; stories with murder and magic and angst and love and all the things that are supposed to make a story idea great. Having the idea leap out into paper however—virtual and otherwise—is another matter altogether. The adage ‘An idea is not a story’ is becoming quite worn in my head, and me being me, I always find myself dispossessed of time where I can sit down in peace, organize my thoughts and just (try to) write away.
Still, I try to keep a relatively hopeful outlook without compromising my realization of the possibility that I will always be this trying-hard mediocre.
So much for hopeful. Heh.
Last year was great. Sure, it was also one of the saddest and crappiest years I’ve ever had, but there were good things too, and I’d like to thank God for that.
Sorrows aside, it was a year of finding love again, overnights and New Year’s Eve in Tarlac, meeting families old and new, surprising generosity and the subsequent Mr. Pookums, watching Into The Woods with a good friend, watching Avenue Q with my best friend and favorite person, and smatterings of small good things scattered in-between. It was a year of a lot of good books and (still) trying to write; a year of realizations and lessons learned.
=========
Moving on.
I wish I had something massive to write about. Not love, because I love for me (and her, of course), and it’s nobody else’s business—I think I’m past the stage and age where I like to publicly gush and whine about mushy-mushy stuff (well, not outright at least). Not my job, because it’s crappy, and so are the jobs of a lot of other corporate drones out there who work for bosses who, despite being so amazingly stupid, enjoy the bigger end of the stick because life is unfair that way. I want something important, fun, meaningful, and filled with lots of nice and raw literary, uh, stuff—like awesome sunsets and delectable tasting food—that maybe, just maybe, I can manage to draw some good words from.
Sometimes I do have stories in my head though, good stories, if I may say so myself; stories with murder and magic and angst and love and all the things that are supposed to make a story idea great. Having the idea leap out into paper however—virtual and otherwise—is another matter altogether. The adage ‘An idea is not a story’ is becoming quite worn in my head, and me being me, I always find myself dispossessed of time where I can sit down in peace, organize my thoughts and just (try to) write away.
Still, I try to keep a relatively hopeful outlook without compromising my realization of the possibility that I will always be this trying-hard mediocre.
So much for hopeful. Heh.
Comments