Have You Got Style?

(In which the anatomy of my “writing style” lacks an organ.)

***

Brand this post insignificant or desperate. But be aware, however, that it is of great importance to writer wannabes like me.

A friend gave me Paulo Coelho’s latest novel, “The Winner Stands Alone” as a birthday present in the hopes that I will enjoy it as much as I did with “Veronika Decides To Die” and “Eleven Minutes”. Oh actually, I have only read an approximate of forty pages in the latter. (It still counts, right?) But when I read the first leaves of the world-famous writer’s latest work, I felt that it has lost the ”Coelho factor” that I’ve known and I’ve loved.

I told a new friend about it – as well as my sudden desire to collect books.

“What?”

“I said ‘The Winner Stands Alone’ sounds different from his other novels. And after running an internet search, I found out that I am not the only one who thinks like that. Maybe part of it is because he got a different translator.”

“Is that a factor?”

“Of course it is.”

“You know what? You just don’t understand the writer. Why don’t you just read it again?”

“I understand it.”

“You don’t!”

I was taken aback. As most of you might have guessed, it is freaking hard to keep one’s cool in times like this.

“Look. I am not trying to insult Coelho or anything. I am just saying that there is something strange with this novel because I used the other works that I’ve read as benchmarks.”

“Ah. Okay.”

He called again just when I finished posting my comment on a former co-teacher’s blog.

“I found her.”

“Who?”

“A former co-teacher... and her blog.”

“So?”

“I think she’s such an amazing wordsmith.”

“Why don’t you read her blogs? You might get something useful to help you.”

“I am actually doing it. Hmmm… I know. But of course I want to develop my own style.”

“Style? You know what you lack?” he asked in a manner that made the inquiry sound like “You know what your problem is?”

Again, I was taken aback.

“What?”

“I don’t feel the heart of the writer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your writings are very simple. They’re just like you’re delivering news.”

Was that supposed to be taken as a compliment since I didn’t study to be a news writer yet I write like one? Perhaps. But when you’re trying to write personal essays on mostly personal matters and sound like a news anchor, that’s more than an insult. For a self-proclaimed writer bereft of a heart is equivalent to a struggling artist without any artistic endowment.

“But that’s my style.”

“Really? Well, I read all of your blog posts and they’re all the same. Go ahead. Ask me any question to see if I really did. I don’t feel any heart. Like the one about your anger toward your sister? It’s just mere ranting.”

Thank goodness we have to leave the office by then. Because if Chance is mischievous enough to give me a little bit more time, I don’t know what damage I and my big mouth have caused.

This is not the first time I received that kind of comment – it’s actually the second. The first was from my high school best friend. So far, those were the only “spoken” comments that I have received regarding the mediocrity of my works.

Before I become a writer in my own, personal and highly unprofessional criteria which are only made on the sole basis that my ability to write is beyond the sheer definition of penmanship, I was a reader. And like any other readers, I have my preferences. In the same manner that my college classmates disliked Leon Ma. Guillermo’s “sadistic” style of writing “The First Filipino” as he chose to use highfalutin words like “incarceration” for “jail”, I have a really low tolerance for unabridged Shakespeare and Chaucer.

My unuttered question however, was regarding the definition of the “writer’s heart” since it is somewhat manifested as something relative. If it cannot be felt by a certain reader or readers, then it defines the writer as incompetent. Or it is just another issue of the complexity of the difference in human preferences. Take your pick.

When I was in high school, one of my co-artists told me:

“Look at our paintings. They are very distinct from each other. Flor has her floral, neon and wavy effect on her subject and color combination. Most of the males use Angono-inspired imaginative figurism with a modern twist. Jaypee uses extreme color contrast. Bernz has adopted our teacher’s style while Charles is more of an abstract artist. And you use relatively light colors with a wide array of gradual color developments. I can’t believe we have made our own artistic signatures this way. We can readily point out who did which even if our works are unsigned.”

I chose not to reason out that this is a personal blog containing personal essays and that I don’t always need to write as if I am sending Ate Charo a letter. Besides, we all have our own ways of doing things. Some people appreciate you and feel your heart even at the simplest manifestation of your thoughts. Some know you well enough to identify you in a matter of a palette of colors and a prose or a verse.

As for him, perhaps he just didn’t understand the writer. I suggest he reads again.

Struggles, Patience, Humanity and Sisterhood

(In which everyone has their own version of my narrative.)

***

“It’s six thirty. Wake up.”

I slowly woke up and my eyes wandered around an alien room. Oh yes. I have spent the night in my sister’s dormitory. I remembered how I struggled to get out of Recto to meet my younger sister. I rose from the bed and felt my body ache. I didn’t sleep well.

“Let’s eat our breakfast and go home. Mother must be very worried.”

“Yes. Perhaps they ran out of battery and there isn’t any electricity so they couldn’t reply to our messages. I wonder how they are.”

“Do you think we can get something to take us home?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a clearer view of what this typhoon has done. But I do hope we can get home. Anyway, did they give forecast regarding this?”

“Of course not. They will be releasing news today saying that there has been a strong typhoon yesterday.”

I chuckled. “Asa ka pa sa PAG-ASA.” Translation at this point is futile.

I finished my food and got ready.

“We’re leaving now. Thank you very much.” I bade the dormitory owner goodbye.

We rode a jeepney to Cubao and headed to the LRT station. We saw a lot of people on the streets.

“They must be the ones who didn’t make it home last night.”

When we get to the Santolan station, our eyes widened because of the disastrous picture before us – mud, uprooted trees and plants; vehicles of all sorts stuck on the street and barefooted people walking. My sister told me to start walking to Sta. Lucia East Grand Mall. I looked at her, bewildered. That was too distant for me. I suggested something else.

“It’s better than going to Ortigas through MRT. It’ll be impossible to pass Floodway,” she said with a tone that is both apologetic and overbearing. Then, with a serious face, she said, “Because you see, it’s Flood way. And we’re avoiding flood.” Our serious faces burst into a loud laugh.

We walked. And no matter how much we tried to be careful, we didn’t save our legs from being abstract artworks made of thick mud. I am carrying the heavier bag which contains my sandals and rubber shoes and jacket. She’s carrying my school bag.

We held on to each other especially in times of battling a more slippery and muddy road. I tried to keep my gasps low. She might have noticed and said “Don’t get sick now. I can’t carry you home.”

As we get farther and farther, our slippers become so heavy with mud that we have to wash our feet in ochre water. The only water we see is ochre anyway.

“It’s still mud.” I chortled. “We wash our feet to eliminate mud in mud-filled water. How miserable.”

The feeling of being pathetic augments my fatigue. But my sister has her uniquely cute way of lightening things up.

“Ate, do you enjoy this one-of-a-kind trip with me?”

I smirked and shook my head. Ah. I almost forgot that the longest time I’ve been spending with my sister nowadays is when we share the same bed when we sleep every Saturday at home. We ceased shopping and eating together. We don’t even laugh together more often. However, I don’t find this “make-up bonding time” quite enjoyable. Yet my sister has another punch line to deliver.

“Look. The mud is so thick and creamy it looks like chocolate. If it’s real chocolate, I’ll dive into it.”

“But it’s not chocolate.”

“Aw come on! Don’t be too serious! Just think it’s chocolate so you’ll be happy.” And she hummed a tune while smiling.

We reached the mall and saw a truck full of people passing a can of biscuits to one another and a couple of men taking their pictures. We turned right and saw an ochre river flowing among houses and trees and shops. We saw people clinging on to each other while holding their belongings tightly on top of their heads.

“Wait. I need my medicine.” She unzipped my schoolbag and got a fur pouch. From it I got my inhaler and gave myself some “air”.

“Ate, don’t get sick.” She slid the strap of my schoolbag off her right shoulder and handed it to me. “This is lighter. Give me that.” As we were switching bags, she told me, in a manner that sounded like an encouragement and an order at the same time “You can do it, ha?”

I saw danger. My sister saw a challenge. In her, I saw hope.

We started off our fateful journey on a knee-high flood. The surface felt hot but cold to the feet. As we approach Karangalan, my heart broke at the sight of houses and cars – the former half deluged and the latter completely submerged in water. After an hour, the water started to rise up to my shoulders. We saw traffic enforcer agents wearing life vests and ordering people.
“There is a strong current approaching! Hold on to the rope to your left!”

I looked at the river in front of us and saw people holding tightly to the rope to keep themselves from being carried by the strong water current. A man in his forties, who have been walking with us for an hour, told me to hold on to his shoulder. A pregnant woman, who has also been our companion, sought protection from my sister.

As we approach the deadly road, the current seemed to grow stronger and stronger. People were walking toward us from the other side, making my grips to the rope weaker. We needed to step up to somewhere safer. I held on to the man’s shoulder. He told me to hold on to the rope as I climb. But my left hand is holding the bag on my head and my right hand is gripping his shoulders. I tried to get nearer to the rope but the flow is too strong to battle. When I got a better distance from the rope, I reached it with my right hand. As I did so, someone stepped down from the gutter to catch the rope and the water suddenly flowed towards me. I lost balance and felt the cold, dirty water wash my face. I didn’t know what to do with my hands and feet as the flood started to overwhelm me. I heard people yelling. “Get her! Get her!” the next thing I know was I was embracing my bag with my left hand while my right is gripping the rope.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

I just smiled. And we continued walking. For hours, we walked against high and low water level, held on, talked and laughed with strangers. Some people noticed that my sister has been carrying the heavy bag with the same patience and strength that she had at the start of our journey and comfortably told me to help her.

But she refused. She always refused. At times, she will even insist of carrying my bag for me when she noticed that I am having a hard time, which makes me feel less than an older sister. And she has always been a troublesome imp to me. But now, I seemed to be more of a burden to her.

We reached Junction Cainta and had to walk until Brookside to finally see land. The dry ground under my feet felt queer. Now I understand how sailors feel. When we are finally aboard a jeepney to Binangonan, I felt relieved. However, it feels strange that the area of Taytay is relatively dry compared to Cainta and we have to apologize to people who sit beside us again and again because we were soaking.

When we got to our house, everything was messed up. But it’s definitely better than the ones we saw hours ago. Our parents went downstairs at the sound of our voices.

“We’re home.”

"Heaven is twice heaven only to those who have tasted hell.”
- Angela Manalang-Gloria

Artistic and Human

(In which I dare to expose my tendencies.)

***

As I was aboard a Binangonan-bound jeepney one evening, I saw a really handsome young man get in. With his aura and physique, I guess he’s no older than nineteen. As he sat himself on the ruggedly cushioned seats, he held his phone so delicately I swear he’ll be the first victim if there was a snatcher present among us. Not only that, his vanity oozes out of him like lava in an angry volcano as he sways his head in his very own godly manner. And when the swaying doesn’t get the lovely strands of hair off his lovely face, he will sweep them off with his dainty fingers so fair and soft-looking I think he doesn’t know how rags feel. What makes him more stunning was the way he carries his red and black rain jacket over a white tank top that matches his knee-length khaki pants well. And do I need to mention he’s got really beautiful eyes and lips?

I remembered Teacher Kaye’s analysis of the tremendous and incredible reception of fans for Stephenie Meyer’s series-turned-movie. She told me that Meyer presented Edward as someone god-like and perfect and that people do not want to have someone like him by their side but that they actually want to be him. And she has a point. Look. Wouldn’t it be nice to look awesome and know that people secretly admire you even if they don’t tell? Isn’t it such a blessing to be given a face that can. . . (attempting not to copy from the Greeks) turn heads? Isn’t it perfect to know people are giving you furtive glances and hearts are rejoicing at the mere sight of you?

Then here comes another scenario.

Yesterday, I was browsing the map of Radiusim to look who’s around. Then I saw a profile so unbelievably adorable I almost made her picture my wallpaper. I even showed her face to a couple or three people from the office as if bragging about my latest discovery. And I also told a chat mate about the “discovery” which made me appear questionable.

Me: I found someone cute
Him: Where?
Me: Here. She’s really pretty. She looks like an anime character!
Him: You like girls?
Me: No. I am just an artist who knows how to appreciate beauty – both masculine and feminine. That’s all.
Him: … Really?
Me: I’m not bi.
Him: Peace.
Me: Here. Look.
(I sent him the profile URL.)

Him: She’s cute.
Me: See? I told you.
(Moments of silence.)

Him: Is she online?
Me: I guess so.
Him: I can’t send her a message
Me: I just did.
Him: You did? What did you say?
Me: I told her she’s pretty.
Him: Wow. Anyway, I can’t send her a message. It says “You can’t send Enosh a message because of her privacy settings.” So how can you?
Me: Perhaps she only allowed women to message her? I don't know. You’re interested in her, eh?
Him: No. I am just appreciating the beauty that God has given her.

And this chat mate of mine didn’t go online today. I don’t know why. And now I don’t know if Kaye’s analysis is still applicable. But hey! I would readily accept the chance to look like her!

Remembering his gender-bending question, I was reminded of a situation. Jen, one of the most, if not the most liberal student I had, once told me in a discussion which I don’t know the start of, that “According to the book I’ve read, all people have bisexual tendencies. It’s the social standards that hinder us from becoming an outward bisexual.”

How profound!

P.S You might want a proof so here it is. Too bad I don’t have the guy’s.