I AM STILL ALIVE

Though admittedly it doesn't feel that way because I haven't been writing for a long while. Too long for my standard. Hell I miss writing. I wanted to write about last night's 4-hand piano recital E & I went to, how that Stanley kiddo was up on the stage again doing page-turning for the pianists, how amazingly heart-breaking it was to witness such great talents at show. How miserable I felt for having actually taken years and years of piano lessons and yet not able to actually give a goddamn good performance. How intimidating it was, how depressing, that I almost needed to console myself by looking down to my chest and count my blessing blessings. How the female pianist kept wiping her hands and the keyboards using a hand towel when she had 1 second free time between notes. How good it was to be at a concert after such a long time. How this and how that. But it's been too long since the last time I wrote something, my mind is too bogged down with too many details that I want to put into this blank space.

I won't be able to think straight while trying to sort out these details. And I don't really fancy going into great details anyway.

I just miss writing and I want to make a note of how happy I was last night. And that I forgot something rather important that no matter how many times I look down to my chest, I still feel like kicking myself for being so stupid.

DO YOU THINK THIS IS TRUE?

A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. -- Jane Austen (1775 - 1817)

Pardon me. But I really think what the lady said is correct.

ON WHY MY NAME IS YOURS

The first thing that attracted me to you was the way you would stop working sometimes and just stare at blankness for not more than 10 seconds. Short enough for most people not to notice it: definitely long enough for me to take full notice of it.

You look so serene and peaceful at those times, and I have a soft spot for people with serene looks. I can’t remember how soon after meeting you that I adopted ‘Peaceful’ as my very own name. All I can remember is this: I’ve always been longing for people to call me by that look in your face.

The other thing that attracts me to you is of course the way your sarcasm drive right into my chest. Yours is sarcasm at its best: perfect diction delivered in succulent voice through luscious lips. You told me once that I was dangerously too full of sarcastic remarks, and I wondered whether you were only being sarcastic at that time. Did you know? That comment of yours was the magic word that turned my panty warmly wet.

The first thing, and the only thing, that stops me from putting my heart onto your palm is the realization that your heart is buried too deep inside your developed breasts. I know it will be hard for you to take out your heart and put it onto my palm in return.

Alas, don’t I know that. For my heart is buried deep behind my developed breasts as well, and like they say, it always takes one to know one.

MORE LESBIAN SEX SCENES: ONLY IF YOU DO IT WITH ME

As a birthday gift last month, somebody gave me a book titled: “No Plots? No Problem! A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing A Novel in 30 Days”, written by Chris Baty, the founder of the National Novel Writing Month a.k.a NaNoWriMo.

I had known about NaNoWriMo for quite some time before I got the book, but it wasn’t until I got the book that I actually searched the net for it and found out that NaNoWriMo was quite a well-organized geeky thing. The official website, nanowrimo.org, looks professionally designed, with an active forum and all, and the geek in me slobbers at the geeky “personalized word-count progress bar” they put at the site.

Simply put, to participate in NaNoWriMo you must register yourself in the website, start writing in the 1st of November and stop writing in the 30th, and submit your work to the site where they’ll verify the word-count of your novel. They define the minimum length of the novel as 50,000 words, which at first I thought was massive.

But, but: I was so intrigued to rise up to that challenge. Every single synapse in my brains begs me to sign up for it. I began seeing “signs” of why I should take this challenge. The first one of course, is getting that book for my birthday. Had I not gotten it, I wouldn’t have searched the net for it. Had I not searched the net for it, I wouldn’t have known that I wasn’t too late to sign up for it. In fact, the registration begins in October, a full month from now. I could use the extra days before registration to brush up my deteriorating English, and gather my long-lost Muses.

A quick count on my part reveals that to be able to come up with 50,000 words in a month, I must write down about 1,670 words a day. That would equal about 4 pages of font-12, single-spaced characters, and I suddenly saw the irony of it. When I started blogging more than 2 years ago, at first I always did free-writing exercise. But shortly after that, I began limiting my word-count to 700, because I thought a decent post shouldn’t be too long. Look at me now: I cannot write at length anymore. I am forever busy trying to keep things short. Smarty-pants forgets that she wants to write a novel someday, and to be able to write a novel, one must be able to string more than 25 sentences in one go.

The other sign I remember with fondness was when somebody asked me what gifts I got for my birthday, and I mentioned that book. He quickly said I should begin writing my novel, and before I could come up with my usual lame excuse, he cut me short by saying: “I know exactly what you’re gonna say now. You’re gonna say you can’t write at length or devise a plot and you can’t make a character.” Smarty-pants was instantaneously down on the floor: feeling ashamed at the foolish excuse she always gives to everybody challenging her to write.

Really, how much more foolish can I get? I can’t really say I’m too busy to write, because my job is blissfully one of those heavenly jobs in which I can work at my own pace. And according to Chris Baty, the best time to produce a novel is when you are busy anyway, so that writing becomes your sanctuary instead of a dreadful chore.

So you see, I am really, really tempted to write a novel in November. I know it will be lousy: no good novel is written in 30 days. I know it might be full of lesbian sex-scenes, not because I am one, but because I am not one. I know it might be full of murders because I dream of murders every weekend. I know it will be very, very hard and I might throw my towel midway through it. (To my standard, a 50,000-word essay is HUGE, the longest I’ve written so far is a 28,894-word compilation). But the underachiever in me bawls violently for a chance to achieve something this year.

I know this is something I really want to do, and something I’ll look back in delight ten years down the path. And it might propel me to write a proper novel, which deserves a cover designed by D as he promised.

The problem is, I really don’t think I can bear to travel the long journey alone. That is why I am begging you to come with me. The best thing that you can do for me is of course to sign yourself up for the journey as well, so that I can curse every step of the way with a fellow would-be 30-day novelist. --

-- But I realise that not everybody is a masochist like myself. So I’ll do the driving. You can sit on the passenger seat and DJ my CD player. I just need someone there when I stop every 50 miles to puke. I just need someone there to help me navigate along the woods. I just need a constant companion to share a kiss at the end of the journey, whether it is fully 50,000 or merely 50 words. Knowing me, you know I’d welcome a lesbian or a straight kiss, but here I am secretly hoping for a three-some orgy. Yes, I would like the two of you in my car.

Please get in now. I am begging you.

WAYS TO GET HURT

There are more than one way to get hurt: I suddenly found a new one just by acknowledging your pain. Like all people of all walks of life, I am amazed that you still manage to stand on two feet, still actually go to the office everyday, still find time to play, all the while nursing a gaping wound as big as your own heart. (If I were in your shoes, Dear, I'd have dropped dead two years ago).

There are more than one way to get hurt: I suddenly found another one, when I realized I could do nothing to help you. Standing on the shore and watching you slowly drowning in the sea, pains me so much. So much that I wriggle like you wouldn't believe, because all powers within me cannot convey what I want the most: I want to reach out a hand and yank you out of the sea.

As you slowly mention that my help isn't needed, I slowly realize that I just found out, Dearest, yet another way to get hurt.