Burned by Farenheit 451

“You’re either in love with what you do, or you’re not in love.”

These were the words that I read in the back of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. And it’s almost as though I cannot escape them. Isn’t this the universal truth about anything that you invest your time and energy into? You either love it or you don’t.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m halfassing my goals because I’m not in love with them. Maybe I’m just in love with the idea and not the action itself … just like those women who love weddings and the idea of love but forget that they have to be in love and in a marriage the next day. Maybe…

After I finished Farenheit 451 I thought to myself, what would happen to us if there weren’t any books? What would happen to us, if we didn’t have a few words on a page to enlighten, to inspire, to sympathize? What if we only had bright lights and sounds to comfort us? Immediately, I thought I’d go insane. Even though I do not read as much as I would like to, the idea of having my face glued to a colorful box 24/7/52 just made me lose it internally. Can you imagine how mushy our brains would become?

But then I thought about the bigger issue … the issue of having a cause to fight for. And I wondered if I was “fighting” hard enough to become what I ultimately want to be. I know that my writing isn’t up to par, and that half the time (well, in the past few months, rather) my thoughts are disjointed … slightly incoherent. But does that mean I should stop all together — or just fight harder?

“They must write you. They must control you,” said Bradbury. “They plot me. I never control. I let them have their lives. ”


“I just let them speak. I don’t control them; I simply give them a podium and let them talk to me. All my good stories are told to me by the characters. I don’t write my stories. They write me.”

I used to just sit and wait. And then all of a sudden, a wave would wash over me. I would just start typing and typing away and next thing you know, there were characters on a page. And they were doing things. And saying things. And loving people. And kissing people. And killing people. The experience was like … a movie playing in the dark recesses of my mind and my hands were trying ever so hard to catch every moment, every detail so that it was out of my mind and onto a medium that everyone else could see. But it seems as though the movie theater is closed. And No matter how hard I try to pry it open, the boards are nailed down tight.

“You have to believe in that self as a writer, or you shouldn’t be doing it.”

Is it that my belief is not as strong … that I lack the appropriate amount of faith? Three unfinished novels, an unfinished novella and an unfinished book of short stories. People say that stories cannot write themselves, but I believe they can.

Maybe my characters have abandoned me until I am ready once again to give them all their much needed attention. Maybe they’re waiting until I fully believe that I am the one to tell their stories.

Something – Entry 7

I want you, the right way…

 My friends and I were looking for a table to sit at and saw a couple empty chairs at a table off to the corner. We were hungry and didn’t want to miss all the mumbo jumbo speeches about the benefits of higher education. Continue reading

Something – Entry 6

All is full of love…

Damn this Bjork song.

Is there such as thing as being addicted to wanting love? I know that there are ‘attention-whores’ but are there ‘love-whores’ out there?

You’ll be given love

For a great deal of my life, I’ve wanted to love and be loved. Being that I was the weird ‘odd-girl-out’ it obviously took a long time to start being noticed for the right reasons. Continue reading

Something – Entry 5

“You look like…a perfect fit…”

I came across his profile online one night, out of sheer boredom. He was a fellow high school alum who was incredibly smart and just as handsome. I think my new found brazen attitude towards meeting people online was getting the best of me. That or I was just trying to battle my loneliness. Either way, I sent him a message and he responded and we corresponded back and forth.

“Excuse me, missy! Now all of a sudden you’re chasing guys?” said one of my girlfriends. Continue reading

Something – Entry 4

“something heavenly led me to you…”

It was actually the internet.  I was bored and wanted to make new friends, however, my not-so-apparent self-loathing kept me from just walking up to people, or stalking cute guys like the girls I hung out with. So, I rummaged through social networking sites and found him. We had gone to the same high school and his face looked vaguely familiar. I figured, “why not?” and messaged him.

And he messaged me back. Continue reading

Something – Entry 2

“First, I don’t make love. I fuck…hard.” – Christian Grey

Christian Grey said this to Anastasia Steele after she came to his place with intentions of making love for the first time. I couldn’t believe it, as I’d been told something similar when I too was a virgin, seeking a companion.

“I really want to fuck you,” he said to me. He was the guy that I thought I was in love with in high school. I was a slave to his somewhat coolness, sleek hair and intoxicating scent. We were off to the side in our lunchroom cafeteria, talking in hushed voices. Continue reading

Something – Entry 1

“But you didn’t have to cut me off…” 

It plays in the background on repeat and I don’t know what I should do. Should I just take it off? Should I add some Sting and Phil Collins to it, to make the sounds reverberating less depressing? The more I think of the words Gotye sings, the more I think of the things we’ve said to each other. And like that, I free fall into a spiral tunnel, lined with my blood-red rage.

“I want space,” he said to me. Space. What the fuck does that mean? He has space. It’s called ‘air.’ SheeshContinue reading

Twas the Night before Christmas — Essay

This was a personal essay, memoir if you will, of a christmas about 3 years ago. As of late my well has run dry and I’ve been editing two stories for the longest. I’ve also been afraid to put up anything as many of my stories have been denied publication. But, I must persevere. Anyway, enjoy….

For the first time in my life, the house was quiet before midnight on the night before Christmas Eve. I wasn’t being asked to clean down the wooden tables with their glass center pieces and my older sisters weren’t busy cleaning the bedrooms and bathrooms. No. My second eldest sister hadn’t been living with us for two Christmas holidays now, and my eldest was upstairs in her apartment watching TV. My mind could do nothing but draw a blank after I had just witnessed my mother’s second real marriage fall to pieces before my very eyes. It had it coming, doomed from the very beginning. I had never seen two people argue so much on a consecutive basis in my life; the sheer idea of their marriage lasting was based on the fickle idea of hope.
My mother had asked her husband to take a shower before she placed her newly sewn curtains on to the metal rods in the bathroom. He told her no, that he’d rather work up all the sweat he’d have to that night and then take a shower when he retired from engaging in our ritualistic Christmas Cleaning. Sooner or later he took a shower after she had decorated the bathroom to its fullest and the suds his shampoo left on the wall stemmed into what I can only describe as the fight to end all fights; the great fight. It went from him “not being able to speak to anyone properly” to her “always wanting things her way” to him “being a liar” to her not “praying to God the right way” to him “not wanting to give the divorce” and her “not wanting to try to work things out” and then finally her saying that he hurt her and she has not “begun to forgive” him for his misdeeds. The argument continued to roar on as neither one of them could be man enough to stop speaking and let the words die as quickly as they were being emitted by the mouths of the other. The mumblings grew into words and then shouts and finally it lead to her asking him to leave because she was not starting 2007 with any of this pain and confusion.

She let it be known to the both of us that she’s been seeking therapy for this so called “tired” feeling that she’s been having toward him and the marriage when really I think it’s because she’s tired of everything that she’s been through period.

Tonight, I thought things could’ve been different. The parang music was playing and the sorrel was boiled and sitting on the stove. The meat was seasoned and waiting to be placed in the fridge and the bread and cakes, baked and wrapped in foil waiting to be devoured by the guests who were to dine with us during this “festive” holiday season. But alas, the true appearance to what I’ve been calling the “counterfeit Christmas” has shed some light on itself. Every Christmas since I turned 14 has gone wrong for me; a guy broke my heart, my father was nearly killed and now my parent’s marriage finds itself creating the tripod to the reason why I shall now never feel a pinch of the Christmas spirit in my heart.

I spoke to him while he sat on the stairs, his denim jeans and sneakers on and a glass of Bacardi and orange juice sitting in his hand, waiting for his brother to call him back. His clothes packed in garbage bags and suitcases at the door. His eyes were red, as though from crying. My sister said he probably was when she came in the house and saw him in our mother’s room collecting his things. It amazed me how all his stuff fit into just one suitcase and two garbage bags; almost as if he was never meant to stay with us. He told me how he never had anything against me and that he respected my mother. I told him that their problem was that they could never talk to each other. My mother lay on the bed in the guestroom as she was accustom to for some months now. She had stopped wearing her wedding ring and slept in the bed next door to where she use to share dreams with her husband. She was on the phone with my god-mother who I could tell was probably saying to her “you’re wrong for doing that.” As if my mother cared. If it’s one thing about that woman, she’ll never admit to when she’s wrong. I think that’s what really did their marriage in. Anyhow, as I stepped back and forth into the house, trying to salvage what was left of the ritualistic cleaning that stopped, she’d call me over, asking me about anything he may have mentioned to her. I hated that the most. I felt like I was twelve years old all over again, snitching on anything that my sisters had said about her after they had a falling out. To her great surprise I told her nothing. In that moment, I felt part of her anger seer through me. Her tone went slightly harsh and cold when I neglected to tell her anything, almost as though she was accusing me of taking his side. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him. I’ve had arguments with her- I know what it feels like to have something thrown back at you and then be called petty if you did the same. To not have the last word. To not have it die right then and there.

I tried to make sense of it all and I just couldn’t. I knew it was inevitable, but yet, I didn’t want it to happen. Not like this anymore. But now, finally my idea of Christmas is gone. In the early morning hours I mopped the kitchen floor, washed the dishes and wiped the wooden center table. I know that there won’t be a smell of baked ham on my mind. There will be no snow, no hot chocolate, and no smiling faces. We didn’t even have a tree. Christmas was doomed to fail this year. I don’t even think it showed up.