I was young when I first realized my love for reading, but it wasn’t until 6th grade that I discovered the joy of novels. I remember dragging my mother to National Bookstore to buy me a copy of Sweet Valley High.
Yes, I’m not embarrassed by it! It was the first book series I ever owned, though sadly, my time with it was short-lived. Once the characters went off to college, I found myself no longer interested in their stories.
In high school, I left my province to study in the Metro and stayed with my uncle in Sta. Rosa, Laguna. My new school was located in a subdivision, and while it was a good school—one where I made some of my best friends—it had a library that didn’t quite meet my expectations. Sure, it had encyclopedias, but most of the books on the shelves were for children, and I longed for novels—stories that could take me away from reality, even if just for a while.
When I moved to college, I enrolled at a large university in Mindanao, flying back to my province and settling in a city near my hometown. Every weekend, I took a three-hour bus ride home to Valencia, Bukidnon. The winding highways, the ranches, and the pineapple plantations reminded me of how it felt to immerse myself in a good novel—like being lost in a dream.
College was a time of rebellion, the most crucial years of my life, full of arguments about everything. I remember sitting on one of the benches outside the chapel with friends, debating the existence of God, life, sexuality—nothing was off-limits.
I lived in a boarding house along Capistrano Street, and one of my roommates, after our late-night conversations, introduced me to Anne Rice. She said that Rice’s books covered many of the topics I was passionate about. She was older, so I imagined she’d read more widely than I had. The next day, she left a book on my table with a note on a yellow post-it:
“Prepare to Dream! Enjoy!”
I chuckled at the irony of the note and eagerly picked up the book—The Queen of the Damned by Anne Rice. For the first time in years, I felt a tingle of excitement holding this book. I knew I was about to embark on a great adventure, so I grabbed my coin purse, tucked the book under my arm, and headed out to the nearest coffee shop.
The afternoon was quiet, as it often is in towns outside the Metro. Even though Cagayan de Oro had long been a city, it still carried the charm of provincial life. The people’s gentleness, the air that hummed with freshness from the mountains of Bukidnon or the ocean on the other side—it all felt timeless.
I hopped into a tricycle, which took me to the coffee shop. I ordered tea and found a corner table near the window with a comfortable couch. I sank into the couch and let myself settle in while my eyes scanned the room. It was still the pre-social media days, so most of the people were unfamiliar faces.
“I’m really in for a treat,” I thought to myself.
The first few pages of The Queen of the Damned immediately hooked me. Anne Rice’s writing was exactly what I had been searching for. Her words belonged to the era of the story, creating a world that felt as real as the one I was escaping from. It was the kind of writing that made me forget everything else and even the present moment. For the first time in a long while, reading felt like dreaming.
Time flies when you’re lost in a good book, especially one about immortal characters. It was dark by the time I decided to head home. I hadn’t finished the book in one sitting, but I considered that a good thing—it meant I could live in that world a little longer. For weeks, I was obsessed with Anne Rice. I read everything I could about her and visited the local library, dreaming that one day I would own all of her books. I wanted a shelf filled with her works.
Ten years later, I have that shelf, in a small room I rented in the Metro. I follow Anne Rice on Facebook, and every time I see her work, I still feel the same excitement I did when I first read her books. Her magic never fades for me, and I will always be a devoted fan.
Looking back at my Goodreads list, it’s hard to believe how many books I’ve read since then. Now, I’m working on writing my own novel.
I have to say, Anne Rice is the reason I wanted to become a writer. While I may never be able to write as well as she did, she is my inspiration. Before I write, I always revisit a few chapters of her work to fuel my imagination and open my creative mind. I’ve finished my novel, and now I’m on the journey of finding an agent to represent my manuscript. Rejections have come, as they always do, and even though I try to remind myself that every successful author was once rejected, it still stings.
But giving up is not an option. I can’t help but wonder—what would Marius, the ancient vampire, say if I gave up on this dream? I don’t want to disappoint those timeless figures.
Xoxo
