NaNoWriMo Crash!
This is a personal update instead of the promised literature one. I just noticed NaNoWriMo officially starts tomorrow, by my country’s time, so I need all the motivation and concentration I can muster. I’ve always loved November, mostly because of Halloween. I’m in love with horror. What else can I say?
Last year, I tried writing a psychological thriller entitled, “Mirrorbound”. It revolved around this girl who has been having nightmares. She thinks it might run her off the deep end so she goes to see this psychiatrist. Little did she know, things were going to end a lot worse than she had expected.
Obviously, I didn’t make it. I wanted to rewrite the novel this year but I had a change of heart. Not to mention that my laptop got reprogrammed and I lost all data on it. This year, though, I plan to write a crime thriller entitled, “Kusanagi: Grass Cutter”. I know. I need to change the title.
Litventures 01: Stainless Sino
Bob Ong's Stainless Longganisa
Last October 20, 2009, Khalleen and I went to Iloilo City to have our first-ever out of town trip as a couple. We left Kalibo at around 7:30 am and returned a few minutes after seven or eight in the evening on the same day.
The whole thing wasn’t planned. The day before our departure, I made a passing comment on our failed plan to spend two days in the city to watch the In My Life movie, which was basically about gay lovers and one of their moms, and Khalleen suggested that we should leave the next day to compensate albeit it’ll just be for a day. The next morning, she arrived late and we missed the air-conditioned bus so we had to make do with the regular one.
Aside from spending a few hours cuddling with my soul mate in the bus, including both trips to and out of Iloilo City, I also bought Bob Ong’s Stainless Longganisa and Kapitan Sino (Captain Who), completing my collection of the author. Two birds with one stone.
A Postmodernist Critique of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
As far as I know, the Latin American writers were the ones who greatly expanded the scope of the novel. Ironically, I can’t remember much of the great novels I’ve read that were written by such writers, if I even had the chance to partake in their genius.
To be honest, I don’t believe that this critique of mine will be as accurate and comprehensive and less than an ignorant insult to the novel. As much as I want to give justice to the literature, I don’t think I will be able to give it a decent analysis, mainly because I wasn’t able to read the whole thing. Taking out facts from excerpts is like sampling a good coffee by its froth – not really essentially anything.
Postmodernists strike me as people who survived the two World Wars, with enough experience to give them the ability to write something that relates to that period in time. Shallow as that may be, it still lingers in the back of my head. That time, when we discussed that certain theory in class, and when I was writing my report on the subject that was actually owned by another classmate, I could only think of The Piano as an example. The Diary of Anne Frank comes to mind as well but mostly because the Holocaust just reads World War II and, as I mentioned beforehand, anything related to the Wars remind me of Postmodernism.
Soundtrack of My Summer
First of all, I’d like to apologize for missing my quota schedule to post an entry every Saturday night. I just had too much work last October 03 and, of course, with too much work comes a lot of stress. My mind wasn’t that productive and I was just simply ranting so forcing myself to write an entry that time would have resulted to something resembling an insult to my dear readers. *winks at Kyle and Chris*
I have been torturing myself with too much work the past few days. Technically, I’m not a part of the college’s student government but I’ve been helping with its programs and projects. The fact that my girl friend is a part of that organization doesn’t help. The fact that I’m a lazy workaholic, I love work but I get lazy every now and then, is just insulting.
Finding time to write is like trying to find a needle in a haystack or a pornstar in the Middle East. It’s atrociously impossible, or near to that if the pornstar is as crafty as a desperate English major. Dragging myself through this self-made mess is insult to injury. I can feel my soul wincing in disappointment.
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