a memoir of my craft

In the earliest days of summer, I would go to the sea.

A view from the pier of my hometown.
Photo credit: Casiguran

Yesterday, i had this urge again to continue my novel. On my thoughts, as I ride the bus heading to Bulacan, i remembered the wonderful days of my childhood back in Casiguran, Sorsogon.

This recollection is an epic for me. It produces a light effect on my feet, my breath was catching a soar of gladness. How well i remembered when i started my novel when i was fifteen years old on my study table!

I was stretching for another lapse of practice writing in my ubiquitous diary when an idea came to me. A surge of words uttered like whispers. Started with small beats, then became faster, heavier. Followed by drums, and then a serenade of peace, like a splash of a wave. This imagery is somewhat an approximate of what I felt that moment in a day of summer of 2005. That day Cervantes and I made a conversation.

He just appeared in front of me like an apparition. A silhouette of an idea that is pre-formed, a face that juxtaposes the possibility of making a great novel. And I said to myself, i must write this right away.

My 2005 draft of my novel.

The purpose of fiction is to improve lives, as what my diary back in 2006 would write. The essay was a classic part of my journal. And that time i was proposing fiction as a means of happiness.

My diary would write:

"Fiction is the force of life that everyone must at least experience thrice in our fruitful lives. The first one is the story when we were born,as told by our mothers. The second one is the story when we have fallen in love , often told manically by our best of friends. And the last one would be our deaths posthumously told by our relatives.

There is fiction in these experiences, perhaps the most genuine forms that a mind can conceive. One might question that these experiences are parts of reality , and that fiction, dub as 'unreal', does not conform with such associations. However, our lives would be meaningless without fiction. We would be living less imaginative, less passionate, less sensible lives if the rudimentary forms of imaginative storytelling would be scraped from the tenets our literary expositions.

Without fiction, we cannot tell our great stories, with emotions, with feelings, with verbosity, for such elements are important, essential in our human lives. Human beings are created with empathy. The moment they begin living, they start to 'feel' and use their hearts to pursue the greatest forms such as triumph as well as defeat.

Fiction helps us celebrates these pursuits. It indelibly marks our growth as moral, social beings. We are in ourselves, acquainted with fiction our whole lives, we might not notice it because of it's transcendence, of its elegant form. The beginning of happiness comes from the acceptance that we live such
'fictional lives', lives wherein imagination lifts our hearts and souls and vanquishes our miseries.

Happiness is purely the glow our fruitful, meaningful lives as fictional human beings."

Ciao! Godbless!