getting to know my voice

it hasn't been easy to keep up with writing this memoir because my office work has taken over.  my writing cycle has been inconsistent and i realize that if i just focus on office work and not find a way to balance everything out by continuing to get in touch with my writer's voice, i will lose it.  i am glad that i discovered another resonant voice today in katherine mansfield.  i hope i can discover her more and i hope i'll have enough time to discover more about writing and this journey to find my authentic voice.

speaking of voice, last night i spend almost the whole night in bed trying to drown out the demotivating thoughts of the office place.  verbal scrimmage with a manager has been disheartening.  i cannot engage with her in reason.  so i laid on my bed waiting for my muse to arrive but my mind was too locked up in this place it was hard to pry things open.  what is a good exercise in keeping the creative mind absorbent?  should i scratch some words on my journal everytime i hear about the news of her incessant complaints?  should i etch her name on a post it note and insert it in my prayer book hopefully to symbolize that i am lifting up alms for her troubled soul every minute of the day?

it's troublesome.  it's knock the wind of my chest.  and i need to learn how to counter this at all times because i know i will always face these things.  

anyway, so i was laying in bed and chatting with adrienne.  we had a lively chat about possibilities and visits.  i am almost determined to find my way to europe next year.  i am hungry for experience.  the writer in me feels too locked up.  

i listened to some music and tried to sing along to songs.  almost really making the journey of discovering my voice a real one.  i was literally trying to discover my voice.  on paper.  in sound.  and i sang some songs over and over and never really felt comfortable while i was at it.  i don't know my voice.  it's unfamiliar.  but someday i will.

in touch with the vulnerable

finding my way to the letters of ettie hillesum again.

sometimes my day is crammed full of people and talk and yet i have the feeling of living in utter peace and quiet.  and the tree outside my window, in the evenings is a greater experience than all those people put together.  i sometimes think so many things happen in my life, so many interesting people, so many books, so much talk, it's a pity i can't write it all down for the years to come. 

life may be brimming over with experiences, but somewhere, deep inside, all of us carry a vast and fruitful loneliness wherever we go.  and sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths, or the turning inward in prayer for five short minutes.

it is one of those afternoons where i long to be surrounded by people who, like ettie, are not afraid to be in touch with this vulnerable part of their souls.

i think it is necessary for my writing that i do not lose touch of these feelings but ironically it is detrimental to my spiritual health.  the balance is prayer and pausing.  i cannot afford to be lost in nonsense.  i need to follow through this journey somehow.

dialogues again

ever since the birth of this journey i have been battling with a lot of things that take up my time.  most of it goes to being part of a youth ministry that takes my week nights and my saturdays.  yesterday, i bravely decided to give up hanging out with them because i'm not able to listen to what is going on inside as i continue to pursue this story.  admittedly i felt sad because it felt like some kind of self-alienation which unearthed a lot of old familiar feelings of abandonment, insecurity, rejection.  i tried to brush it away by focusing my mind on reading.  it was a great struggle to unearth words in the middle of these desolate feelings but i kept on trying.  i did not get anywhere really and my draft of the second chunk for chapter one lies unfinished as i kept wading and sorting out how to deal with these feelings that kept gnawing at me all the way till 10pm at night until i decided to lay down and pick up my holy beads to ask for the grace of light that dispels darkness.  working my way through the Hail Marys got me in a lulled rhythm of sleep.

i sit on my desk again this morning and attempt a conversation.  a dialogue.  and i heard her saying, 

love?  what love?  am i loved?  how do i know?  

how do i know if i'm loved when i'm left all by myself dealing with the ugliness of churning emotions that ache to seep out of my skin.  to break through  millimeter of pores and bleed sweat.  when all around me are happy, dancing, drunken conversations that last till 4am and nobody notices how many pencils i have cracked because i'm trying to get the ugly impulse thats eating me alive every ticking minute.  i feel pathetic having to need compassion.  it's a sick wound i wear.  and its desperate for healing.  

these words have  been familiar to me for the past decade or so of my life.  i've encountered them in every phase of relationship, in every waning of dreams, in every dying of passion.  and for most of it, i've clung hard like a leech because i don't want to deal with it by myself.  well, it's time to stop running and now i've accepted the fact that i need to deal with this myself.  

so here's to the memories and the people that need my forgiveness, i'm working on it.

unearthing a song: leading into prayer

now you're talking.  finally mustered this out of me after waiting 9 hours toiling away on my day job.  the words are coming slow on the memoir these past few days.  work has been preoccupying me.  but i suppose the creative side of my mind refuses to be outdone.

this song is called "leading into a prayer".  i don't know how i came up with it nor can i articulate the process of how this song came about.  i've been writing songs since i was 14.  and like poetry, i never know how it arises.  it's usually like this visitor who knocks on my door and asks if she can stay awhile and rest in my living room.  she tells me stories or asks me questions and i'm there to catch her croon.  i like the word croon when i talk about my singing.  my voice almost always slides out of my throat with an effort like a bow being pulled against a violin string.  it creaks at first and finds its way smoothly through.  i never bothered learning how to sing properly because i was too engrossed with learning the song instead of learning how to sing it.  

so this song comes out of me like an eager guest.  telling me like an observer about how she saw my day and reminding me that in the middle of it all, there's a leading into prayer.  the blessed exhale.

the dialogues begin

last night she was telling me

quit running after those who won't budge.  bother yourself with things that move.  it's time you skipped over these puddles that make you stumble at night.  you've always been one who caved in on her own anxieties. don't you think sometimes it's almost self-willed that you find yourself picking and scratching it like a scabbed wound never rejuvenating back into fresh skin?  

i've watched you fall like a victim and rise like a hero.  let go of those knitting needles you keep holding in the dark.

i watch her walk around my room while i restlessly lay in bed waiting for the distraught that blocked the flow from last night's pen and she holds up this mirror at me and talks to me like myself. 

i fix things.  that's what i do.  i mend them whole.  i fill them like a dentist fills up a tooth's cavity.  but there is something about always having to feel like something needs fixing.  it always feels like you have to run a bit faster than the length of your feet because you have to be two steps ahead everybody else.  and your hands without catcher's gloves reaches out to catch breaking glass everytime.  

sometimes i ask myself, what if i just let everything fall apart like a deck of cards in a game of "build a lean tower"?  if i'd run that by my mother she'd hold me in contempt and think i've gone mad.  but really, what if i just let everything fall apart?  

doesn't grace exist in places wherein i let go of control?  i don't always have to "seize peace by force" as ettie would say.  it is still not clear to me so i flipped through the pages of letters she left for me to read and found, 

there are moments in which it is suddenly brought home to me why creative artists take to drink, become dissipated, lose their way, etc.  the artist really needs a very strong character if he is not to go to pieces morally, not to lose his bearings.  after each creative act one has to be sustained by one's strength of character, by a moral sense, by i don't know what, lest one tumble, God knows how far.  and pushed by what dark impulse?  i sense it inside me; even in my most fruitful and most creative inner moments, there are raging demons and self-destructive forces.  still, i feel that i am learning to control myself, even in those moments.  that is when i suddenly have the urge to kneel down in some quiet corner, to rein myself in and make sure that my energies are not wildly dissipated. 

she's always had it figured out but how?  i let myself drown in the truth of her words and it got me to stop struggling against having to hold the reins of others.  there is something about learning how to hold my own reins first.  

she stops and faces me with this knowing look and i fell asleep.

distraught with 317

i was only able to write 317 words tonight.  i'm feeling a little bit disappointed.  but i suppose such are the rhythms of the writing craft.  and i need to get used to it.  

i realized that when i'm emotionally distraught i find it hard to tap into the creative flow.  tonight i'm emotionally distraught because of running after deadlines and people committed to work on them.  i'm distraught because commitments aren't followed through and work becomes so taxing having to run after people to do their job.  a job they committed to do.   yes, not everybody works like me.  but seriously, if you commit to a job, shouldn't you think about actually doing it and not slacking off?  why would you slack off for something you're paid to do?  

i'm venting.  it's been a while since i did that in public spaces such as this.  but i realized part of the reason why i experienced a long writer's block is not being able to admit my feelings freely without fearing judgment.  

someday soon i hope to learn how to navigate through these emotions and learn how to fuel them into creativity.  

the writer's life

many people in walks of life which do not involve creation are completely unaware of the necessity for discipline.  it is not only that few serious artists who live lives of debauchery produce a large body of work, but that few serious artists are able to live lives which are without interruption.  we do not shed all obligations when the children leave home.  i am working on this section of the manuscript while teaching an intensive four and a half hour credit course, and neither may be skimped.  many writers work in the evenings after a nine-to-five job.  and there are letters to be answered, the phone which constantly calls us.  i travel a lot in order to give lectures, teach at writers' conference.  to write consistently, i must seize opportunities.  i write in airports.  i write on planes.  i find airports and planes and hotel rooms excellent places in which to write, because while i am in them i am not responsible for anything except my work.  once i have my seat assignment i can write until the flight is called; when i am on the plane, the pilot is responsible for the flight; i am not; and so i can work on my manuscript.  in a hotel room i do not have to think about the vacuum cleaner; domestic chores are not my responsibility; i am free to write. 

- madeleine l'engle

i needed to devour something like this tonight because i'm in the middle of load of work that just never seems to stop.  as much as i hope to think that this process will be a peaceful one, i suppose it will never truly be creativity without it's tensions or the so called birth pangs.  so like l'engle i must commit to write something about writing this memoir every single day to keep my mind open for the voice of soleil.  

it's frustrating when it gets shut and i'm hoping that she will surface even in the middle of all these things. say something, i kept telling her today.  but she remains watchful for a time when i can pay attention to only her.  i think i need to tell her that if she waits for that time, i might never get around to it.  

pausing.  listening.  looking at the corner of my eye and watching the lamp blur the light infront of me.  feeling the impatience and the anxiety.  waiting.  while waiting more concerns pop up.  a project that i committed my mom to finish on thursday.  a meeting to be set on saturday morning to arrange for freelance design opportunities.  another meeting in the afternoon.  ton's of books by my side hungering to be read.  

fill my mind, it cries.  and then she comes out.  finally.  looking at me and staring at this messy plate of unkempt thought.  

so what should i write about tonight?  

the gift of encouragement

encouragements are always refreshing.  like pouring fuel into an empty gas tank.  like drinking chilled ice tea on a warm day.  like the cozy taste of a caramel macchiatto on a rainy tuesday.  

i've received quite a lot these past two days and i have to remember them here so that i will never forget why i'm doing this.  

from cecile manikan. a professor of mine in business school.

Darling...continue to find your heart...it's aching to come out in all its beauty and fullness...you're such a talented writer!!! There's always the birthpain...bear with it and allow it to take its natural course...do not try, just flow with it. Love!

from rachel kondro. one of the kindred spirits i've met online.

Thank you for inviting me to read along. The idea of giving a character her own "voice" is such an intriguing idea. I've begun to read and savor what you've already written, and cannot wait for more.

from adrienne santos.  a faithful voice. you should also visit her portfolio here. 

always feel something is stirring when your sentences are not what they seem. with more things to say between the punctuation, with whispers dancing around the letters. i wish i could find a character to wake up.  raindrops sounds more gentle than rain. but in "in the middle of ____", rain does suit more. i guess she is ahead of you :)  of course i don't mind. my photos are what have replaced most of my words. i don't have many left and i don't know when they will come back. for now they stay in the middle of spaces, acknowledging their presence. this said, i send the poem in the next message.

from katrise velhagen.  a bright angel. another fellow traveller seeking her voice.

it's so comforting and intriguing at the same time..you speak of a language that artists are drawn to, you know?  a sort of crazy that is real. that most people wish they had..the language of the unseen like.. when you write, you are talking to your soul or other people's soul it's like even if your words are not of the usual, it's understood.

from marie sarabia.  a guardian angel.  i'm waiting for her to start writing again too. 

Wow.  I was teary reading your tumblr. Honest. It's sooooo good. This is you. Your writing has a rhythm, and you know what, it's like the pitter patter of rain. There's something so natural about it. The words fall like raindrops, like there's nothing else it can do but fall on us, whoever is reading. And I liked sitting here, just getting drenched :)  Your tumblr, I felt like sending it to people I know. Keep on writing. I hope this gets published!  Oh and one other word that came to mind when I was reading your writing: raw. The same word I use when I describe Heather King's work.

from kevin mayuga.  a passion igniter.  who has been inspiring me lately with his work.

I really enjoy reading your book.  it's like a couple of new pages everyday. i've been on a "high" for the past 3 weeks you could say it's a youth encounter high or a high in life because I was feeling really good but this week, is my busiest so far and I'm so tired physically and emotionally and that strains my spiritual health it's harder to look up and knowing someone struggling through something similar not necessarily the same thing helps

thank you guys, my heart is filled because of you.  

unearthing chapter one

Last night I'm proud to say that I finished a portion of what I now call CHAPTER 1.   Somewhere in the middle of yesterday while waiting for reports to come in and a call from the president I had decided to look at what I have written so far.  So I cut and paste all my words from the memoir page and put them on a file to save in iWork Pages.  I've written 3,446 words so far and it's been feeling like a good flow.  

I was asked if I had a plot already and I said, "No."  Blatant and outright.  I'm not sure if this is proper writer decorum to not even have a working plot to navigate with but see, I'm waiting for her to tell me where to go.  Soleil, that is.  

She exists in my mind now like a room mate who whispers to me every now and then the words she picked up lying around some absent crevice in the corner of my brain.   She throws them around playfully. Unguarded and in a "matter of fact" way she hands them over and tells me, "Go, write it down."  I have nothing else to do but obey.  Then again, obedience  sounds so subordinate which is not exactly what I'm feeling when I cooperate with my creative muse.  I engage with her and walk into this dance and harmony making conversation which releases a whole lot of pent up energy from 5 years of locked up written silence.  

Now she gives me energy to reflect further on this process of word weaving even after writing a totally heavy 8,000 word, 25 pager, human resource plan for the president.  

Suffice to say, I've been blessed.  It's unreal that I find myself with this capability to tap into a creative reservoir even in the middle of mental and intellectual fatigue from occupational stress.  Heavily conceptual and brain frying, I wonder why God never gives me a job that just allows me to exert efforts in this field instead of stretching my patience with embracing people interactions that drain most people dry.

Oh well, I should just be grateful.  After all, it seems that almost all this tension and stress in areas of my life has led my creative self to an active desperation and therefore giving birth to the one who holds my pen, Soleil.

So, I started writing chapter 1 from business school.  I was thinking thoroughly where she wanted to begin.  Business school seemed apt.  Perhaps it felt like a genesis of sorts in there.  I wonder where she'll take me next.

what is the story about?

realized that i just articulated the form of the message of what this book will be.  is it form? theme? plot? focus? whatever that is.  i just found it in a conversation with kevin this morning.  i had asked him to give me feedback about what i have written so far.  

me: i'm trying to write a book.  well, i'm getting myself to write a book.  a memoir.  yesterday i found the right voice.  it would really help me if you give me feedback. that is when you're not busy.  i'm writing it through a blog.

kevin:  yeah of course! what kind of feedback are you looking for?

me:  maybe generally how you receive it.  does it capture something for you?  does it get your attention?  does it draw something into your mind?  can you identify with it?  are the metaphors too vague?

kevin:  alright.  who is it meant for?

me:  generally, it's meant for people who walk the Catholic faith but have so many questions and struggles.  yet they continue to persevere and eventually embrace the beauty of the mystery and the fullness of truth. 

i'm not sure if it was a good idea to ask for feedback this early in the process.  i'm not sure if most writers would.  but i'll just go with the flow until it changes direction.  i suppose it's not so much the feedback that i'm looking for.  i know some will agree or disagree.  it's the experience of being given feedback.  it's the experience of receiving counsel. and i suppose writers need that.    

so what is the story about?  it's like any other story of faith.  of seeking truth.  i haven't figured out the plot yet because i'm still in the process of capturing what will be in the story.  also in the process of understanding what form it wants to be written.  

so far i am sensing that it wants to be written alongside other stories.  it's started off with the introduction entitled letters.  like journal entries, letters for me have been the most comfortable form i've used to give voice to the thoughts in my head.  i've been told that they sound less uptight and moves with a more natural flow than if i were to write an essay.  inspired by ettie hillesum's diary and other diaries i have been exploring like flannery o'connor's habit of being, virginia woolf, saint faustina, saint augustine, catherine doherty, jack kerouac to name a few.  i've taken them as kindred spirits who i walk with.  all of them touching the mystery of faith and using their giftedness in words to unveil the truth about this faith and how it moves in their lives.  carving them to be authentic.  masterpieces of God.

so what is the story about?  it will probably be just like their stories for we are a communion of believers and my words will probably be one of those woven along with theirs.  and i like that.  i like that it's woven along with other brave holy people out there.  

the other day i wrote heather king on Facebook.  after reading her book entitled Redeemed in 2008, i was delighted to discover she had started to keep up with a blog.  her writing has inspired me a lot as i have communicated with her.

hi heather, 

i've read your book 2 years ago and i've really been inspired by your writing. i know that part of the services you offer is being a writing mentor. i've been thinking about asking you but i'm not sure i'm that ready yet. maybe one day. :) but i just wanted to let you know that i really resonate with your search for truth and authentic faith. the struggles between integrating it with the real world. i like how you put everything in a raw form that is easily palatable to ordinary yet complicated people like me.  

i'm 33. the age of Jesus. and i've been locked in this bottlenecked pursuit of what is true and what is my real destiny. there has been something brave about your journey that i have been really gravitating towards. yet i'm almost often scared out of my wits because stepping out of the boat means stepping into a dark ocean with an unfathomable bottom below. i suppose i just want to write to someone who would understand what trying to figure herself would be about. and maybe ask, how did you find that courage to just step out of your own boat and get yourself to writing your life's testament? did you do it all on your own? did you have anybody with you that "cheered you on"? or do you think most of these things that call for a breakthrough in spirit requires one to walk in faith by herself?  

i know your busy and it's okay if you don't answer but simply writing these words to you in a facebook message has been liberating enough for me. i can't wait to read your new book. i hope it will be out here in my country. if not i hope i can at least buy in kindle for now. 

i suppose this took a lot of guts for me to muster.  but i am desperate.  i needed to feel propelled.  affirmed that i'm not going crazy in this obsession to be able to give voice or string words from thoughts in my head.  she replies.

Thanks so much for writing. As you know if you read Redeemed, you know I went through my own vocational dark night of the soul...In a way, the story I tell in Redeemed IS the story of finding my vocation. And in a way I did have to do it on my own and in another way I had all kinds of people who shored me up and helped me. But I never had a spiritual director or even a friend who was able to tell me: "This burning desire you have to write is the most important thing in the world. It is real, it is from God, you ignore it at your peril, and if you have to live in poverty, be rejected, scorned, ridiculed, betrayed and a failure, you must follow the call. You WANT to follow the call. That is your heart's DESIRE to follow the call"...But I came to all that on my own. I came because God gave me the grace to go against everything my culture, "country," political system, "the world" told me--which is that "happiness" lies in money, power, and success. 

I prayed, I agonized, i went to Mass and Confession, I did discuss my struggle with others. But finally on my own--and maybe we HAVE to come to it on our own, maybe the solitary struggle, with little or no support, is...not a test, but the proof, to US, that we're willing to let go into faith--I realized that if I were on my deathbed and had never had the courage to at least TRY to embark on the writing life, that would be the biggest most tragic, darkest, most sorrowful sin ever, the worst possible missing of the mark, for me. Of course that wouldn't be true for another person, because another person would have a different call, but it would be the case for me. Somehow implicit in that, even though I couldn't or didn't quite articulate it to myself at the time, was that I was loved. 

I have a Dorothy Day quote propped up on my desk: "I always had a sense of being followed, of being desired, a sense of hope and expectation." And looking back, I probably could not have quit my job as a lawyer, nor kept at it, if I had not on some level felt that all along. I have had just enough, and not one iota more, "success" or validation so that I know I wasn't completely crazy. The struggles continue. But I have not for one single second regretted my decision. I would not trade my life for anything on earth. My writing led me to Christ, and Christ has led me to his heart, my own heart and ever more deeply to the heart of the world. And I have been taken care of, even though I'm still often anxious and afraid, every step of the way... 

So just let your desire, whatever it is for, whatever or whomever it is toward, burn hot. Pray like crazy. Go to Mass as often as you can. Sit with Him. Consent to wait. The way will open. He PROMISED the way would open: Seek and ye shall find, ask and ye shall receive, knock and the door shall be opened... 

All peace and all good,

Heather

it's good.  stories take shape through when all these things come together.  i hope i catch it and bring it home. 

getting to know soleil's voice

thinking about soleil's voice and how it must sound like.  certainly a lot deeper than mine.  but she captures the edginess of my thoughts without hesitation.  she's a voice that does not fear to admit the struggle.  a voice that perseveres against the pain.  she's a voice that is learning to understand the sound of hope and yet does not continue to discount the reality of despair.  

she comes out in my defense.  for i have long since kept this voice locked up.  and while i continue to seek for answers through a faithful reflection of the divine, i will only find the capacity for peace by writing the thoughts i would've wanted people to listen to if i had not been so afraid of the sound of this voice.  

it is fearsome because it is sharp and almost unloving.  clearly wounded and scarred.  but i wonder what journeys it will unearth from me through her sharply bent questions and thought provoking sighs.  i'll let her lead as i wait and let the curtain rise and fall.

much of the sound of soleil's voice comes from a phase in my life which is quite evident when i was in college.  an echo of it recurs when i went to graduate school.  but most of them has been subdued when i have started growing in my spiritual life which is the most ironic of it all.  it almost feels that i've regressed and yet i know i have deepened.  it's something that i continuously seek to understand.  this voice that feels so lost.  yet now it comes from an unknown pit mostly triggered by frustration and longing.  frustration from the slow progress of dreams.  longing for a certainty of pleasant change.

i try to come to terms with that side of me and find some integration between the psyches.  hopefully unearthing a fuller story and a fulfilling conclusion.

hypnotized understanding of words

view from my desk, dark at 4:00pm

i have been writing for the passt 5 hours today to just unearth some thoughts that's been waiting to be put into words.  i can never get enough of thinking about that process.  that process of pondering and philosophizing and finally crystallizing it into a structured form through prose or any other kind of text.  i'd like to think i've broken through a half decade's writer's block and there is this calling forth coming from the voice of a person that's waiting to be formed.  

soleil she calls herself.  where did she come from?  from a neglected name.  a finer variation of soledad.  the name of a grandaunt who's name has been bequeathed to me.  laville an inversion of my mother's maiden name villa.  the family of whom i associate all my eccentricities to.  

why does the psyche come up with these things?  is this part of a writer's journey?  i've often read of writers having to "befriend" their characters who are actually fragmented pieces of themselves scattered in the many different memories of their lifetime.  

i start with the most obvious thought plaguing my mind which is the inability to be in touch with my real emotions, my perspectives, my freedom of speech which i had possessed in the past.  imprisoned by some kind of self-containment because of so many different things that i had to adhere, obey, accept, live with.  is this then a act of rebellion?  

no.

it's an act of discovering  peace.  that peace you find which understands that even if things do not make sense all these experiences are part of your life and make you whole.  a peace that embraces you so strong that you do not flinch when you see the grotesque deformation of your skin because the scars in your spirit were too hot like coal.   i write this in the middle of a rainy sunday succumbing to the lull of the raindrops falling down the window.  it's hypnotic.   and i hope i don't stop.

the beginning

for the longest time i've been trying to get myself to admit that i am a writer.  and the longing to write is never going to end until i sit myself down on my desk and find these words that's compelling to be written. here i am trying to start fragments of a memoir.  recalling images.  conversations.  small talk.  deep introspection.  from my life that has been "too fragmented" to weave in words.  

this morning, i've found the courage to discover a writing voice that has always pushed me beyond reason. it's a voice that i've ignored because i cannot name it.  but it's a voice that's been wanting to speak in a different name.  and hence, it calls itself soleil laville.

it revealed itself to me this morning after idly checking my mail and restlessly trying to find more meaning in my Facebook newsfeed but to no avail.  it's been spammed with chatter that does not bring me peace.  so the unearthing of this character that has seen my life through different eyes has brought me to face my fears and dig into the words from a mouth that's been shut for too long.  i am waiting  to be told what to do.  this soleil who comes after me with great force and who seems to know every crack and crevice in my soul.

so i watch as she comes to write the words of a story i've long refused to read for fear it complicated and doomed to be misunderstood.  but she insists.  and i can only surrender for that's what writers do.