This is it!

No, it doesn't include anything serious at all BUT --

No. I'm not posting a story of mine (for now, please, please, let me concentrate on the planning first), but I'm just going to say that:

TO ALL WHO WRITE (OR TO PEOPLE WHO JUST HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO AND WOULD DECIDE TO WRITE):

Go and take the NaNoWriMo's writing program. I can't explain it. THE WHOLE THING PUSHED OFF TWIST (THAT'S HOW I CALL MY INNER EDITOR) FROM MY LAZY BRAIN AND IT IS ACTUALLY FUNCTIONING WELL TO THE POINT THAT I WANTED TO WRITE MORE. Okay. All caps will be gone (it looks weird). But I'm not ranting.

Anyways. Try it. It's the least the Internet can do for poor procrastinating chaps like us.

NaNoWriMo is awesome (it actually stands for National Novel Writing Month. Classy. I like how they mixed the whole thing). Check it out: http://nanowrimo.org/

or if you're still a kid (like me), check this one out: http://ywp.nanowrimo.org/

Specially made for the younger ones. Not bad. (I like the tutorials, very nice, very friendly, very awesome)


Now, I write. Now, you write. Now, we will write. Let go of your inner editor. Capture your inner imagination.

And so...

For the third time, I changed my template. A strange incident has happened: Clarice did this not out of sheer boredom, but with a decent reason! The stars above her head suddenly took another position!

This calls for madness. And oh, how I love to create stories regarding that one (no, I don't hurt people).

Unfortunately, Clarice goes back to normal: she decided to change her template again because she was bored.

And there is one possible chance that she might change it AGAIN.

I just hope that you won't be surprised. But fear not, because I, will work hard just to remain ... unchangeable (in terms of the template, that is).

And good news and apparently bad news: I will be changing my posting style for that reason. (No, no, no, not the time when I will post; it's what I write in those posts)

This is the second post that doesn't have a picture. I hope that fact isn't noticeable.

*Random announcement: I'm planning a novel within my fingers and keys and my lazy brain. Yes, that is both weird and normal. I have Writer's Block and I can't finish a short story (I finished one, but I ain't satisfied. Selfish me). Be brave, dear folks.

To Envision What Lies Beyond My Vision

My surreal drawing -- let there be more surreal drawings to come

To draw is my getaway when my Writer's Block gets a bit too far with its lodgings within me.

Sometimes I wonder when it will pay its bills; heck, it rented the place for 4 years, on and off, but constantly goes back whenever my serious meter is on vacation. Its debts, those freakin' debts. It owed a lot.

And this drawing is actually not a product of my easily-bored nature, but rather through the help of an activity that our teacher gave us during the hazy lazy Wednesday. And I just finished it early in the afternoon, for I was looking forward to what I got. And of course I got that (above) as a result.

Now, I'm off to explain it all. What is drawing all about? What is the drawing for? Why did I draw it in black and white? Was my life that miserable? Was I badly in need of weird-looking glowing balls (yes, they are glowing) hanged above my computer?

Pardon the second-to-last and the last ones, of course. First of all (and this includes the second question), the objective of this activity was to see what we can see of our (most likely) planned future. I know, the drawing isn't very clear with its objectives, but I prefer doing it with surrealism tastes, with weird architecture and a extreme makeover from my original appearance (I doubt if I will be able to comb my hair after 16 years).

And so. Let me envision this to your minds. I write (like an amatuer who just got out of the pen's tip) and I love to do so (W.B. will work hard to carry out its evil plans). I simply can't describe the amazing and unstoppable feeling that I gained once I start to type or write. From my mind, the ideas and weird plans are transported to my restless fingers and the fingers will later transport them to a mechanical device, which I proudly call the computer.

To make a story short, I just wanted to be an author of the published books that I made by myself. I wish to do something different (in a way that I can interact with other people easily, for I am shy).

The colors that the drawing has -- wait, it's only black and white. Black and white. White that comes from the former blank paper, and black that comes from the ink. There was no added color at all (except black).

The dim colors represents something, at least in my own point of view. It symbolizes the doubt and uncertainty as I drew this drawing; this is the future I was going to draw. The future isn't set in stone, it moves around like flatworms in our stomach. And because of that weird feeling of doubt that I have, I decided to remain it as that, because if I will add some color, that means that everything is clear to me, and I don't have anything to worry.

Sometimes I expect a lot. So I will not expect anything, instead I will work like a bee and still not expect anything. Disappointment hits you with Thor's hammer when you expect like a bummer expecting to be discovered by a star-producer. But I force these lazy fingers of mine to work; what can you get from out of thin air?

And I dream a lot (yes, I am an ambitious person, but let it stay within me, it's not a good thing, sometimes). Because dreams can be both predictable and unpredictable. What if your dreams happened but in a reversed way? (That would be both awesome and non-awesome). And it's a really good thing to know what you wanted to be, because you are simply guided.

And I myself am guided (with this drawing). I know what my goal is. And it is to be a writer.

An Experience That I Call: An Experience

It feels funny when your dog suddenly pounced on you after not seeing each other for 2 months.

Yes, I missed the old guy too, and he probably missed me too, but either that or he just wanted to eat some of my leftovers. I humbly chose the latter, of course.

He was an orange-brown mutt, a crossbreed of multinomial genes from different fathers. That is how unique the dogs here in our area are. His mother, proudly named as Inday Rosing, mothered probably a huge group of pups. I'm not even sure myself, but I can remember losing count of the pups that we gave and have. The word 'huge' doesn't do it justice, though.

It was summer, the months where people in the West go basking out in the sun, and where people in the East stay all soggy and groggy within their houses and lazily fanning their hands to give them short-lived pleasure. You don't believe me? We are all bummers. We all do that.

And since it was summer, it was the time where lazy days suddenly gets faster like a cow running after the car that has that oh-so-yummy-green-grass, where days suddenly slows down like a turtle running to get the last Nutella on sale. Both amazing and traumatizing. You simply sit around.

But not with my dog. That dog, who barks like a dog, but he barks like a cow too, for crying out loud. (Sounds familiar? Check out this link that has my What? poem: http://limbaroaclarice.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-dog-that-acts-like-dog.html) He was like a person whom you are talking to and you suddenly find out that he wasn't listening to you, but rather, he was looking at you hungrily. No, not that kind of hungry.

Not the I-want-to-eat-you hungry. Not the I-will-attack-my-owner hungry.

No, it was more of the I-want-to-jump-on-my-owner hungry.

Of all the I-am-hungry categories that he has chosen, he has chosen that one. I shuddered every time I actually remembered. Those claws. A dog's claw is something both fluffy and terrifying. A fluffy patch of cuddly fur compared to a human's perfectly plain and extremely-sensitive skin-oriented hand. And simply one of the most terrifying parts of the complex dog anatomy: the PAW.

It can:
*Scratch your eyes out
*Scratch you with the CLAWS
*Hit you with the POWER

And yet it was one of the best plushy toys that I get to touch once every time he attempted to stand up on his hind legs and I will hold both of his paws to get the feels. The fluffy and puffy feels.

But it never feels the same anymore. Especially when two -- no, wait, four paws of heavy gallons of dog strength was suddenly on me. And the dog was acting like a silly dog who just acts like a dog (you know, there are dogs that doesn't act like a dog. My dog is one of them, in some ways).

While I was staring absentmindedly at the blue, blue, wonderfully blue sky, my dog was chasing his tail around and around and around, until the silly and adorable one was able to catch it with his mouth. And he let go, and the chase started again. And of course, I would try to stop him, because I did that thrice (I don't have a tail, I'm sorry, I don't chase tails), and the results were both remarkable and headache-causing.

All in all, he was the best dog. One of the best experience. The best of the best experience will remain reserved for now.

Book recommendations: Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson

Finally, a Scottish book where I can find Scottish characters and a Scottish setting and a Scottish accent!

Alright. I'm sorry if I was exaggerating. I just love reading things about either the Irish, the Welsh, or the Scottish (I was hoping for a fantasy-driven plot, but oh well, it was enjoyable).

Now. Robert Louis Stevenson. Does that name ring a bell in your head? Yes? No? Alright. Does the title Treasure Island got your attention? (I think there are modern pirate stories that have this title, but yes, you have the one and only Treasure Island) If yes, proceed reading. If no, proceed reading as well.

I think I mentioned something. This is a pirate story -- no, wait, let me get that straight. THIS is an adventure story, set upon the Scottish moors with beer-drinking and lots of chasings with gunshots and beers and --

Anyways, the story is about a young man named David Balfour (how I love that surname!), who was about to inherit a hefty price of money from his deceased father, when his Uncle snooped his nose in and asked some pirates to kidnap the poor lad. He was able to escape, of course. This wasn't purely a pirate story where you can steal (hey, they did steal) and sleep in an inn (stayed in once or twice) and accused of killing somebody (no, just guilty of murder).

There is a ... rivalry -- no, how can I describe this? Mutual dislike for the Scottish who remain, Scottish, against to those Scots who are what Alan called 'Whiggy'. The whole events were mingled with some historical fact, but not accurately correct.

All in all, it was enjoyable, it was not really a boy's novel (at least to me), and the themes were well. Alright. Down to the next book, let me see (it has a sequel, and I want to buy it)...

Book recommendations: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

A heartwarming story where it involves four young girls embarking on their journey to become respectable women. Set in the year-where-I-wasn't-born-yet and in the age where America was still filled with depressing civil wars, it tells with an old-fashioned way of defining every nook and cranny that's happening within every chapter. It makes the story longer, but more enjoyable.

I have no problems with the story, except with some few progresses that bothers me in a confusingly-good-and-bad-way; no spoilers for you, dear readers. The best part will always happen halfway to the end of the book.

And there are the characters with distinctive traits! (And I can easily tell who can end up with whom, though I was confused with Jo's part) Margaret, or Meg, is the eldest. Beautiful, elegant, refined, dainty, but sometimes a bit of choosy when it comes to living matters, but all is well. She is a nice, respectable older sister who looks upon her younger sisters well.

My favorite is Jo, or Josephine, the second eldest. She is rough, playful, stubborn, reckless, optimistic, and a bit tomboyish at times. Best of all, she is an aspiring writer! But although I can say that I like her because of that, her determined stature when faced with a problem is admirable, and she writes wonderful poems and stories as well. She is a sister who can be a brother at some times, but will always prefer to be the tough sister who will look among her sisters for their safety.

Next is Beth, or Elizabeth, the third eldest. She is very sweet, quiet and simple in her ways, and can be fragile. I don't have much to say anything about her, but I do find her adorable, and I agree with the characters in the story. She is a musically-gifted person, she plays the piano, and everybody loves her.

Last but never the least, is Amy. She is a girl who prefers to be a woman already. She is wonderful in her ways, but there is one thing that bothers me about her (her spelling mishaps were funny, though). I have nothing much to say about her, but I can see her as the pink sister who is primmer and more proper than how those two words can describe her.

Though there were some tragedies (oops), and several twists within the story, everything evolves to that of a wonderful family tale that can truly touch the reader's heart.

To Sacrifice or Not To Sacrifice

I did so much thought in it that I literally glanced up at the shining horizon. What should I keep. and what should I sacrifice?

It was believed that to sacrifice one’s self for the sake of others was a selfless act. But what if it comes to a person sacrificing something or someone he/she loves, will that be considered selfless? Or rather, selfish?

How one sees these questions is different from one another. I, too, have my own say, for I have sacrificed something that I adored a lot for the benefits of others around me. The story remains to be a dimly lit memory, and I only have the outline to see. And yet, when it comes to sacrificing, everything that we loved and hated suddenly becomes clearer, in a sense that we involuntarily tensed ourselves to focus on two things: which to sacrifice, and which to keep.

For now, I shall tell a short story that I have made that has something in common to what I'm going to discuss about within this article of mine. It tells on how to act when deciding, for every decision has its different consequences, and we, as simple humans, didn't have the power to see such consequences. It also tells the consequences of letting the important things go and keeping the wrong ones. I hope dear readers, that this is enough to say that you have to know which of those ‘important things’ is the most important of them all.

There was a young man who has a talent in painting, and he maintains a love so strong that he never sells any of his paintings, even if it for a hefty price. He also has a family of three whom he loves and whom loves him back, and he proudly confirmed with himself that he won't let money or any other worldly material to get in the way of him and his family.

One blustery night, the man decided to paint as usual, when his wife came home from work, wearing a glum expression on her face and hands both full, carrying two heavy-looking briefcases. The youngest named Jonas ran quickly to his mother and tugged on the sleeve.

“Mom, I need some help with my homework --” he started, but his mother interrupted him, her eyes focusing on her husband.

“I'm very sorry dear, I need to get back to work as soon as I can,” she heaved a sigh, and gently patted her disappointed son’s head.

Without looking away from his painting, he called out, “Is there trouble in the office?”

“They need additional workers, and I’m afraid I won't be home until morning,” she said hastily, before grabbing a packed lunch and shoving it quickly to her already-full handbag.

“What about dinner?” the eldest, Karen, asked, worried because her mother wasn't eating much during the last few days.

“I’m packing lunch. Don't worry. And oh, Karen, can you please help Jonas with his homework?” She called out as she quickly picked up the briefcases and went to the door, fumbling with her keys.

“Sorry Mom, I have a research coming up.”

“Then let James help him.” She opened the door, and shouted a quick, “I’m off!” And the door was closed.

James overheard what his mother said and frowned. “Can’t have any time at all. I have to rewrite my discussion paper.”

“That’s what happens when you forget your homework,” Karen said disapprovingly.

“Shut up, Karen,” James said and went to his room, slamming the door.

Karen sighed before looking down at her little brother. “If you ever need help, come to my room. Or, you should ask Dad. Right, Dad?” she called out.

No answer.

Shrugging, Jonas faced his sister, “Dad’s painting again. I’ll go to him.”

Karen nodded, and went upstairs to her room. Jonas proceeded to his Dad’s personal painting room, where all his paintings were crammed in one place. He gingerly opened the door, saw that his father was painting solemnly, and he stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him. He wondered why he was nervous of his own father.

“Dad?”

“What is it?” he grunted.

“I need some help with my homework, if that’s okay with you --”

“Son, I’m busy painting. We’ll do that later.”

“But, it’s due tomorrow, and I’m confused --”

“Ask your brother or sister. They can help.”

“But they are busy themselves, and --”

“Damnit, son, go do it yourself!” he shouted.

Jonas started to tear up. His father didn't do that before. “Why did you shout at me, Dad?”

He let his paintbrush go, and his fingers ran through his hair. “Because you are disturbing my work! Just go and do it yourself!”

Now the boy did cry. In his frustration, he shouted back, “You are not even working! Only Mom is working!” He kicked a small box in front of him, and it hit his father’s painting, which fell down on the floor, with several wet paint smeared on it. Jonas swallowed. He nervously stared at his father who was trembling. He didn't mean to.

“Get out.”

“Dad, I'm sorry --”

“I said get out.”

“Dad, I’m --”

“Haven't you heard?! I said get out!”

The door was pushed open, and Karen, with a disgruntled James, came in. Their expression changed when they saw a crying Jonas and their fuming father. Instinctively, Karen picked up her brother and stared at her father, disbelief clouding her vision.

“Dad, what happened?”

“Your brother --” he pointed at Jonas, who shrank away in Karen’s arms, “ruined my painting on purpose!”

“What a pathetic reason to get angry! It’s just a painting,” James said, unable to believe that his father was getting angry over something small.

“Just a painting? It was important! Something that I fervently love! And you ruined it!” He pointed at the painting that was lying down on the floor silently.

Breathing heavily, Jonas said, in a muffled and strained voice “You chose a painting over us! I am erasing you from my 6 most important people in my life list!” With that, he pushed Karen a bit roughly and ran out of the room.

“Jonas!” She ran after him.

James was about to follow, but he glanced back at his father, and said, “Who are you?” He walked out of the room, leaving their father quiet.

He had claimed to himself that he never replace his family even if it was for all the money in the world. But he had never thought that it would to this. It was his painting that made him replace his family. And he had never realized it.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

The next morning, Alice came home with a lot of weight on her back. Aside from the pressure that she had gained from her overbearing boss, her superior handed her a huge stack of papers that needs to be sent after a day only. She also sensed her children’s rising difficulty with their schoolwork, and she suspected a lot was strained between the kids and their father. And to think, she and her husband haven't conversed much.

She walked upstairs to their room, or had been theirs, for it was like they were roommates of different nationalities. Slightly opening the door, she can see that there was a huge breathing lump that was her husband sleeping peacefully. She closed it quickly, and proceeded to her kid’s rooms.

Alice went to Karen’s room first. The lights were still on, and she sighed as she saw lots of notes and printed reports on top of the laptop. Karen was sleeping with an open book on her hand. Lovingly, she took the book from her daughter’s hand and placed it on the bed table. Before glancing at the door, she kissed her daughter on the forehead.

Next, she went to James’ room. As far as she can remember, his room was the dirtiest among all the rooms that she had cleaned. When she opened the door, frowning as she pictured the clutter in her head, she was surprised to see no scene that was similar to what she was thinking.

James had cleaned his room tiredly before sleeping, and there was a piece of paper on top of his head. Carefully, she picked it up, and sighed when she saw that it was his discussion paper. She folded it carefully and placed it on top of his bag before leaving the room.

When she opened the door, there was a person on her son’s desk. Startled, she opened the door widely, and sighed again when she saw that it was Jonas himself sleeping on his desk. He was still holding a pen tightly even when he was sleeping soundly. There was a paper underneath him. Curious, she walked towards him and carefully lifted up her son’s head to get the paper, before placing it back gently on his folded arms.

She felt her eyes tearing up when she started to read the first sentence on the crumpled paper.

My 6 most important things in my life by Jonas Crumpleberry:

1.      My family

Note: Mrs. Juniper, I would like to list the people who are under this number, for everyone is important to me:

Mom, Karen, and James

2.    My family’s love for each other

3.    God

4.    My friends

5.    Everyone

6.    Life

Alice blinked thrice when she realized that something was missing: her husband’s name. She went to the desk, placed the paper on top, and grunted as she carried her son all the way to his bed. Placing the covers on him, she asked herself, “What did happen?”

In the end, after a lot of nudging, Karen told her mother about last night’s incident while she drove her car with her three kids to school. Everyone fell to silence, until their mother said out loud, “I have decided on this.”

***

“What are you talking about, Alice? This is…” he stared at his expressionless wife before he started to breath frantically. He cannot believe it himself. It was all coming too fast.

“I have decided on this,” she repeated in a strong voice, louder than before. “I’m sorry. It can't work out anymore. The kids, everyone, including me, you left us all out.”

Those words struck him, hard. He was still holding onto his paintbrush tightly. He simply can’t believe it himself. He felt his emotions draining him dry. What Alice was deciding on doesn’t sound like the best one she had.

“Alice, that’s not true --”

“Don't make this any harder, Albert.” She looked away, and covered a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry myself, but please don't make this any harder. You paint.” She stared at him with woeful eyes. “You chose your talent over your own family. And that is simply the most ridiculous thing that I've ever heard. And we were that family.”

“Alice, I --”

“Albert. I ask you, one last time.” She breathed in heavily. “Which will you let go?”

“I don’t wish for any of you to go! Please Alice, please.”

“Just choose Albert, the kids are waiting outside. You can't possibly keep any of us waiting for long.”

His thoughts reverted to his family. They were a handful, but life had been a great company. Their wedding, Karen’s birth, James’ first win in baseball, Jonas’ first loose tooth. His happiness was added…when painting came. He wanted both to stay, but he can't let go of painting. “Alice.”

“I paint --”

She broke into a muffled sob and nodded quickly. Picking up her bags, she went to the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Ever since that day, the house had been empty. Practically empty. Albert Crumpleberry had sold his house, his paintings, everything, but it had been too late.

Alice Crumpleberry had permanently moved to Ohio with her three kids, Jonas, James, and Karen. Things weren't working out as they were, but she decided to sacrifice her marriage with Albert for the sake of everyone’s happiness. It was one of the hardest things she has to face. She bit on her lip to keep herself from crying as they moved farther away from what had been their former happy family, now chosen over another ‘important thing’.

Life moved on, with one regretting, and one adjusting to the consequences of what they kept, and sacrificed.

I can't believe that, while writing this story, I cried a lot, and the touching background music that I was listening to added my emotions to pour out as I type. I have a similar ‘important thing’, and that is writing. But I thought over how much my family can make me happy than how writing can, and I don't wish to sacrifice them for the sake of something that I developed.

I have my own 'list of important things in my life', six, to be specific. The list includes: God, my family, my pen, my writing, and my friends. (People stared at me as though my hair had turned green; I can't help it, I just love pens) I haven't thought of the story on my own. It was due to the making of the 'sacrificing activity' (yes, it sounds weird, but that is how I like to call it) that I was able to make this story.

Just as I have mentioned earlier, how one sees an ‘important thing’ of another person (or even your own ‘important thing’) is different from how another person sees it. Let your complete concentration pour on your inner consciousness, and focus on why this is your ‘important thing’ among many others that you also considered as your ‘important thing’. You should know what to keep, and what to sacrifice, for the benefits of yourself, and for the benefits of others.

Thank you so much reading this, dear reader.