Thoughts About Writing MY Novel

It was on my late twenties did I realize that I wanted to write my own novel. Of course a lot of THANKS to a good friend of mine who made me see this possibility. You see, I've always been a dreamer and those dreams were just buried on the pages of my favorite books. Maybe that's the reason why I enjoy reading so much, because reading is the only way for me to dream and have that sweet escape. But the great wheel has been turned when I started entertaining the possibility of becoming a novelist and write my own stories. For days I was consumed with the idea of writing and the more I pondered it the more I realized that this is what I really wanted to do with my life.

Writing feels right for me. The sweet escape, the same satisfaction I get from reading - it feels like dreaming a good dream...

When I started writing my own novel I was skeptical about my skills. I don't have a proper training when it comes to this area. I wasn't even a straight A student in English during my School days. I was afraid that what I got in my pocket wasn't enough for me to finish an entire book. But despite of this dilemma, I continued. My gut was telling me to keep going and focused on the goal and that was to keep the narrative moving forward. I kept telling myself that what makes a writer is to write and studying about writing is a waste of time. I will learn how to write by just simply... WRITE. That was the great Anne Rice said.

So these are the few things I've learned on the process... And sure there are lots more as I go on in life.

* The process of writing a novel or a book is a lonely road to take. This is a consequence that I need to undergo to finish my novel. I realized that this is the only way for me to write my book and that I have to give up something in order for me to focus and buy more time. In this case, I made a choice to give up my social life. It isn't hard for me to do it because I am not an outgoing person in the first place. I'm self confessed home-body - I know, that's a lame excuse for an anti-social behavior. But I have to bear in mind that this is essential because I need all the time in the world to finish a book.

* Stop Dreaming and Start Writing. I realized that nothing will happen if I waste my precious time in dreaming about writing a book. I've been doing just that half of my life and this time, it's time to put all of that into writing. I need to stop dreaming somehow and start writing. I need to learn how to become a goal oriented person.

* I learned how to block the time.  More or less 4 to 5 hours a day. I'd like to think that during these times I totally disappeared on the phase of the earth and all I do is write. Everyday I told myself that writing is a life mission and in order for me to be closer to my goal, I MUST block the time to do it. Since I still have my day job and I don't have all the time in the world, I have to make use of that 4 hours or less and be productive. Though this is the part were I found challenging, because it's hard to put myself in a frame of mind with my characters and I have to set the mood for me to plunge myself into my characters world. I have to admit that I need more practice with this area. 

* I surrounded myself with anything that inspires and motivates me. a.) I listened to a lot of author interviews online. I believed that there is no actual original advice for new writers but big authors have their own ways  to articulately rephrase it differently and rhetorically. So I wrote some of their advice and see what works for me. b.) I am indeed a lover of fantasy fiction but for me to learn more, I need to go out of my nutshell and experience other genres in literature to broaden my demographic. Honestly, I gave up the classic when I was in high school but later as I rediscovered them, I realized that I have the heart for those languid writings of the old world. Those are the writings that will give you a total experience with reading - transcending effect. I remember reading one classic novel that I literally felt like I was hearing music or some sort of a humming in my ear.

c.) I collected EBooks about writings and autobiographies of authors that I love and sometimes you'll find me in a Book-sale bargaining for that one book that I like – Yeah! Shamelessly I am notorious at bargaining books at book sale even if the book is fixed in price.

d.) If I am not writing, I am reading furiously.

Probably that's about it for now. I am not there yet but it's safe to say that even the train is moving slowly, I am sure that I am in the right railway. I already finished TWO novels as of the moment, the one is already at the mercy of my editor and the other one is still the subject of my perusal – I am editing it like c-r-a-z-y. There are friends who supported me in this journey; these are the people who tap me on the shoulder and told me not to give up regardless of the rejections that have been piling on my email. But also you cannot avoid those people who’ll just shrug and roll their eyes when you talk to them about writing. I don’t blame them, besides, they don’t know what I am going through and they have NO idea at all… So I just let them be…

I heard an author said that "You are when you think YOU are!" in which I totally agree because that’s the only way for me to take myself seriously. Everyday I’ve been telling the world that I am a novelist, I do it like a mantra… and no matter how rough the road is, I will took off my shoes and walk barefoot baby step at a time until I get to my destination. It will be hard of course, but my characters will be out there and the world will hear their stories sooner. Let’s carve that in the stone.

Xoxo

STORY: Falling Feathers ( A fallen Angel Story)

I descended from the ladder of the treehouse I had built for myself early that morning. It was nestled high in the tallest oak tree at the heart of this pristine rainforest in the south. Time was of no consequence to me, for I had no concept of how the humans' device, the clock, measured the passing of seconds, minutes, or hours. In the realm where I existed, time drifted as freely as the wind that swept through the trees. It didn't matter—not really. I could glide through time in the blink of an eye, centuries passing as easily as yesterday. Millennia were inconsequential. I could travel back and forth, at will, for as long as I wished. Yet, I had chosen to remain here, in this paradise of solid reality. The idea of existing in just one dimension captivated me, and this decision to stay here, in this beautiful, untamed woodland, was the first true choice of my entire existence. This was my present—this forest, my sanctuary, the perfect representation of the world.

I knew it was early; the forest was still quiet. The birds had yet to hum their tunes, and many of the animals were still in their lairs, sleeping. My feet finally touched the ground, which was covered in dried leaves that had fallen every summer. This tropical land didn't experience a withering season, so the leaves would fall during the summer, when the sun's heat made the trees shed their coat. The earth beneath me was obscured by the blanket of leaves, creating a soft, matted floor that I couldn’t even feel beneath my bare feet.

The forest was shrouded in mist, and the scent of nearby pine trees filled the air like nature's own perfume. It was dim here, for the rays of the sun couldn't fully penetrate the thick canopy of trees that stretched high above. I could hear the soft whistle of the wind as it swirled over the rocks and through the trees. The neighboring hills and mountains were hidden from view, their outlines obscured by the forest's density. Even the peak of the sleeping volcano was nowhere to be seen. With a heightened sense, I knew the villagers of Sugarland were still asleep, except for the few elders who always woke early.

Waking early was inevitable for me. Even if I tried to return to sleep, it was useless. Unlike humans, my body was in perfect harmony with the breaking of dawn. It wasn't just a task I had to perform—it was a privilege, an unbreakable part of my existence. I was built to honor the coming of the light, a ritual we immortals followed without fail.

Whether I wished it or not, I had to acknowledge the rise of the morning sun. Our bodies knew what to do: we would submit to the light’s radiance, for it signified the heavenly fire. It was the only way for us to briefly reconnect with the En Sof, our father—if only for a fleeting moment. This glimpse of home was the only way we knew we still mattered to Him, that He hadn’t forgotten us, despite the mistakes of eons past.

Yes, I was one of the fallen angels, cast out of Heaven’s gates. A terrible mistake, one I regretted deeply. Many of us, the fallen, still resisted the call of the En Sof, refusing to acknowledge the morning light. These were the ones who created the pit—the realm known as Hell. But I was not one of them. I refused to be manipulated by the superior angel who led us astray. For years, I worshipped the morning light patiently, despite my homesickness. I held onto the hope that one day, I would be granted redemption for my defiance—that someday, my prayers of repentance would be heard, and I would be allowed to ascend again.

Standing on the ground, barefoot and clad in a simple white gown of thin, soft fabric, I felt the silence of the forest wrap around me. The giant trees towered over me, their vastness making me feel like I was in the presence of giants. The air was still, save for the soft whispers of the wind and the delicate rustling of leaves. The water from the stream sparkled with a soft sound, but then—silence.

And then it came—the heavenly symphony.

The sound of cherubic voices singing in perfect harmony filled the air. It was a pure, melodic rhythm that consumed me entirely. I could not resist it. My mind was overwhelmed by the music, my reason no longer in control. My body moved on its own, driven by the call of the sacred ritual. I felt the music pulling me, leading me toward the clearing at the base of a hill just outside the misty forest.

The ritual had begun, and the gates to the divine were opening for all of us. I had to reach the top of the hill. My body seemed to glide effortlessly, barely touching the ground with each step. As I ascended, I felt weightless, as though gravity no longer had any hold over me. It was as if I were floating, light as a feather, and with every stride, my heart raced with anticipation.

When I reached the top, I stood on the cliff, gazing at the surrounding landscape—a sea of green pasture beneath a sapphire sky. The sun’s rays bathed me in brilliant light, and I absorbed it like a sponge. The wind howled around me, lifting my hair and the flowing fabric of my gown. My heart swelled with joy, and my eyes closed to savor the moment.

I spread my arms wide, and with a sudden surge, my wings erupted from my back, tearing through the fabric of my dress. They rose higher, glowing with a radiant light, as if they were reflecting the sun’s rays. From afar, I might have looked like a falcon preparing to take flight, but to the human eye, I was just a flickering light on the hill, an enigma beyond comprehension.

My wings were phosphorescent, the very essence of my being. They stretched wide, powerful yet impossibly light, as if they were woven from the fabric of the cosmos itself. I felt small in their presence, yet in their weightlessness, they carried unimaginable strength. They were my connection to Heaven, my link to the divine realm. I was not of this world, for I existed before it, long before the En Sof envisioned creation.

The wind continued to rage around me, but I was numb to its force. In that moment, when all the weight of the world seemed to leave me, when the pull of gravity no longer tethered me to the earth, I took flight. My wings beat in unison with my heart, and with one powerful stroke, I soared higher—higher than I ever thought possible.

As I ascended, the world below disappeared, and I crossed the threshold into the ethereal realm. I could see the heavenly gates in the distance, shimmering like a beacon. My fellow fallen angels emerged from all corners of time, drawn to the boundary, their hearts filled with longing and despair. We could see the gates, but we could not cross. We could only witness the heavenly realm, separated by a divine ring that kept us outcasts forever apart.

This was as close as we could get to redemption, and it was a torment that echoed throughout the cosmos. Yet, in that pain, there was always hope—a promise that one day, we would return home.

All of us, damned and suffering, would find our way back to the light. The promise of the morning light would never fade. There is always hope.

Story By: Ronnan Bangis

BOOK REVIEWS: The Host

I have this book in my eBook-shelf since for-e-v-e-r. I really don't know what took me so long to pick this book and read it. I knew that the movie adaptation will be coming soon but I normally shrugged this off and pass.

Then the first week of February came and I was in a book-sale killing time which I normally call it my ME time during weekends.   I was randomly picking books when a copy of "The Host", came tumbling down and landed on my hand. At first I was skeptical if I should buy it or not since I already got the eBook version of it on my iBook. But still the idea of having the actual book in my hand was too hard to resist. You know, despite of this electronic revolution that we have in this new age, still, nothing can beat reading with a tangible book in your hand. The smell of the paper, the nostalgia, the feeling of flipping the pages, it's just different.

So I ended up purchasing the book in a lower price and went home.

I started reading it. At first, I found it hard to think that this book is actually written by Stephanie Meyer, the author who started the Twilight Mania. Well, I don't really hate that series, I admit that I literally devoured those four books and even watch the movie. But as many readers said - we should not be judging the book by its movie in which I definitely agree. The movie adaptation can be awful, especially when the actor portraying the lead role murder the character that you grow to love but that doesn't mean that the book is equally distasteful.

Now, I don’t normally read post apocalyptic or post-invasion whatever type of genre. The first dystopian world I encountered is that of the Hunger Games and Oh yeah! How can I forget that wonderful book called Warm Bodies? I love that book!

Though there are others that I braved myself reading but I am not going to talk about it right now.

Okay back to The Host. I am intrigue with the premise of the story. A worm like alien with a size of a thumb called the Soul, inserted in a human body (The Host) for it to have access of that body and gain total control. That’s how this little alien succeeded its invasion and won the planet Earth. Humans are in the brink of extinction because The Souls are targeting them to make a Host of their bodies. But just like the old stories of Alien Invasion, Humans will not easily give up without a fight. They will always fight back. Technically, that’s the entire story goes…

But what makes this book tick for me is how the characters are woven together. A lot of reviews online claimed that they are undeveloped, they maybe are but as I always said, I am not a critical reader and as long as the novel entertains then that book served its purpose.

I like those main characters of the alien Wanda and the host Melanie. Though the two of them are trapped in Mel’s body, still, you can easily see the difference between the two. Then there is Jared and Ian and Mel’s uncle Jeb and many more – humans that are part of the resisting colony. Now, Wanda is a Soul, an alien, but the longer she stays with the human the more she become attached to them and even fall in love to one of them. She also realized that she is becoming more of them than being the Soul that she is. She understood the human ways of existing. Wanda’s struggle is very enthralling for me. Her inherent goodness and self sacrificing won her a spot in the human colony. She is genuine and I think her principle is more human than alien. When I finished reading the book, I am still longing to know more about the characters. I am happy to learn that Stephanie Meyer decided to continue writing this book in a series. I will definitely wait for the next installment.

    

Yeah, I've seen the movie too... I dragged my partner to the movie house just to watch it. Well, apparently I ended up explaining almost every sequence to him while watching. I have to say, I enjoyed it and the lead actor Saoirse Ronan who I think looks like a young version of Cate Blanchett did a great job portraying Wanda/Mel, so is that hot dude called Max Irons as Jared (drools).

Xoxo

  

Reading the Classic and To Kill A Mocking Bird

I got into reading classic novel a few months back. At first I was skeptical that I won’t be able to grasp the gravity of its context since I was more accustomed with contemporary books.

 I always thought that classic novels held the most profound conversation dealing with literary diversity. It’s eloquence with words was vivid and transcending. Of course I was right with this assumption.

The dialogues that the author used to narrate the story were precised and smoothly written. The way the words were woven fluidly to convey every character’s emotion was more of a melody to a song. It was beautiful.  

Being a person with trifling vocabulary, I realized that reading classic novel was a challenge and a learning ground to push myself out of my comfort zone. I was introduced to a different kind of experience in reading. With my heroic attempt to penetrate the world of the Sherlockian, the Dickens, the Stoker, the Lumas and many more, I brought to me the experiences not only those immortal phrases that I've been mumbling for awhile to know how it sound if I was the one uttering those lines but also those deeper meaning that the heroes such as The Count Of Monte Cristo induced within me. How many times I was left breathless and enthralled, I didn't know. Every classic novel is divine.     

To keep an open mind is a must!

As I flipped the first page of Harper Lee’s classic To Kill a Mocking Bird, I was incensed with astonishment as to how the author described the fictional town of Maycomb. The culture of the town and the era as to when the novel took place were very enthralling. The characters were brilliantly created; their emotional struggles and sentiments were intense and moving. I could almost hear the distinctive southern accent through their dialogues.

In a nutshell, the novel took place in the time when the racial discrimination in America was at its peak. Negro was the word as a description for bigotry for the black community.  It was painfully executed on the pages that I could almost feel the odd intensity of racism that made me cringed or fume with anger. I've never been into a situation where I am racially discriminated and the anger rising inside me puzzled me even more. I was that affected and I didn't know why.

It was just a relief to think that the world changed all through out the years. Though racial discrimination still existed even today, still it wasn't the same as before. I couldn't imagine living in a world where people still breathed with prejudices in their hearts.  

I think racial discrimination; in any form is a disease that could ruin people’s lives.  It couldn't be eliminated easily but it could be prevented in ways of constant education to the young ones about variances, ethnicity and diversity of human beings in all walks of life.  Someone cannot perceive the world the way he/she wants it to be.

I guess I am blessed that I was born in this age. I was blessed that in my time the world’s mind is ready to accept the nature of the twisted, the deviant and the unique.

To Kill a Mocking Bird is one of my favorite novels. My worn out paperback copy is tucked neatly on my shelf along with the great novels I got in there. One day I will pick the book again and read it. But for now, I want to hear about David Copperfield first.

My Dream Scenario (PART 2)

Continue...

Tolkien couldn’t contain his amazement and he asked Miss Rice about her vampire characters. In calmness she answered his questioning and told him that most of her characters were metaphors for the outcast in all of us and this was rooted on the time when she was living as an atheist. Tolkien’s eyes were huge and his jaw dropped as he listened carefully to Miss Rice. Then the door of the Tavern burst opened and all of them turned to the direction of the door in haste.   

A man wearing glasses entered the room but the drunkards didn’t seem to notice his arrival. He looked like an easygoing person wearing a checkered polo shirt and a cargo short and a pair of flip flop. He was smiling to everyone even if everyone never returned his gesture. But he wasn’t bothered after all; instead he went straight to the bar and ordered a glass of beer. When he turned around to face the crowd and leaned his back to the bar, he saw the most unlikely group of extra ordinary people looking at him. They seemed like studying him, scrutinizing every aspect of his personality. With a glass of beer in his right hand, he sashayed to the huge table and greeted those remarkable people sitting there.

He said HI to everyone and extended his hand to shake theirs. He introduced himself as Rick Riordan. It wasn’t hard to like Rick because he was a charming man who could easily get along well regardless of personality differences. He invited himself and sat next to Tolkien. He told them that he was looking for Mount Olympus but the road led him here. Rowling asked him why he was looking for Olympus. Didn’t he know that Olympus was just a myth? He answered Rowling and told her that he was a writer and he was writing novels about Greek Mythology and lately he was combining Greek and Roman Mythology for his new Series. He thought he almost heard an Ohh’s and Ahh’s from the group and he could see it in their eyes that they were interested. Lewis told him that all of them were writers too and mostly they wrote about fiction novels with parallel world and outrageous cosmology.

Rick was excited to learn this and he said that it was a great honor to meet all of them in person. He told them that everyday was a learning process for him and his decision to quit his day job and focused on his writing was the best decision he ever did in his entire career.

“It’s just feels right” He said.  

And earned a nod of agreement from the group. “Writing feels write of course for writers, just like painting for painters.” Said Rowling.

“Well, as I always tell the aspiring writers who seek my advice, it is important to write the book that you want to read.” Miss Rice said.

“Indeed! Indeed!” Blurted Tolkien.

Rick told them that he was also writing book series about Egypt and he was already on his third book in that series.

Miss Rice looked at him enthralled. She loved Egypt and the long history behind it but she kept her silence and let Rick told his tale. When Rick was done talking, Miss Rice smiled and thought about the adventures she took when she wrote the novel Ramses and Queen of the Damned. That was Egypt for her, Akasha was Egypt for her.

Lewis called her name and asked her if she’s alright. Miss Rice nodded and assured Lewis that she was fine.

There was never a dull moment for fantasy writers got together. The Tavern was full with people and drunkards alike and the place was filled with laughter and cursing all around them but these fiction writers were having the time of their lives. It seemed that they were physically there but their conversation took them somewhere else, somewhere unimaginably awesome that no ordinary human being could follow. They’d talked about history like it happened yesterday, Gods and Goddesses as if they were tangible. Then there was the thrill when the conversation brought them to the topic of MAGIC as if it was real thing. The noise was never a problem for them.

Then the Tavern door swung opened. 

A bulky fat man stumbled from the door cursing. The rain was heavy outside and the fat man’s jacket was wet and his boots were soaked with mud. He was having difficulty getting out of his jacket and so a waiter approached him and offered some help but the fat man sent him away with foul words. The waiter just shook his head smiling, obviously he wasn’t offended by the man’s vulgarity and it seemed like he knew the man very well. Rick called for the waiter and asked him who the fat man was and the waiter told him with dignity and pride that the man was a regular customer of the Tavern and he was the famous writer name George R. R. Martin. Upon mentioning the name, Lewis turned his attention toward his friend Tolkien while Mr. Tolkien returned the gesture and gave Lewis a grim look.

“You didn’t recognize him?” Lewis asked him.

Tolkien shook his head slowly as if he was trying to remember the face of the man from the people he had met from his lifetime.

“I don’t remember meeting him before.” Tolkien finally said.

“He was that boy!” said Lewis.

Tolkien gave Lewis a strange look as if asking him what-he-was-talking-about. Lewis smile and shook his head in disbelief. Obviously his friend Mr. Tolkien didn’t know what was happening around him.

“Look” He said addressing Tolkien. “Haven’t you notice? Not everyone around here is from our time my friend. ”

“Huh?” Tolkien asked bewildered.

“Okay, We just came out from the School in which both of us are members of English Faculty and we came here for a drink and to discuss our works. Then later on, these wonderful people that we just met came out of nowhere.” Lewis addressed the remarkable people surrounding the table.

“So?” Tolkien asked still didn’t know where Lewis leading him.   

“They are not from our time. We,” pointing at Tolkien and himself, “Existed from their past and they belong to our future.” He smiled.

Tolkien looked at him and his attention went through each of the person on the table. Then he asked.

“What year is it in your present time?” He said.

“2013.” The group answered in unison.

“Wow!” He said.

“What year in yours?” Rick asked.

“1930?” Tolkien answered still couldn’t believe.

“We knew who you were gentlemen.” Said Ms. Rice to the both of them. “Both of you are heroes for writers in our time. The world worshiped you.” She said and smiled at them.

“You are two of the finest and most brilliant writers of the 20^th century.” Rowling added.

Tolkien looked at Lewis who was beginning to have teary eyes.

“All was worth it my friend.” He said as he tapped Lewis shoulder with a smile.

 “Well done gentlemen!” Ms. Rice said.

“So, who is this guy again?” Tolkien said breaking the emotion that was building. He was referring to the fat man who was now standing at the bar with his back on them.

“Well, He was that kid who wrote those fancy letters for you. Remember the letters you received every month at the faculty? That was him… your number one fan.” Lewis said.

“You mean our… number one fan?” Tolkien said with a huge grin in his face.

Tolkien stood up and smoothed his trouser and sashayed to the bar and stood beside the fat man who was wearing khaki, a polo shirt with a suspender on it. Rowling leaned forward on the table and watched them while everyone on the table did the same.

Seconds passed while the two men exchanged words on the bar and later on curses were flying all through out the Tavern from the fat man. But it wasn’t a curse of disappointment but instead it was from astonishment and surprise. Georgy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was amazed to know that he was standing in front of the person he aspired to become. Yes, he was the one who wrote those letters to Oxford addressed to Mr. Tolkien when he was a kid. But for him it was just an illusion to cheat him from the truth that Mr. Tolkien might not be able to read it. Never did he know that Mr. Tolkien did read his letters and he read it when he was still in his 30’s. Georgy was laughing feverishly and tears were streaming from his eyes, he was that kid again. Tolkien then wrapped his arms around Georgy’s neck and ushered him towards the table where everybody was waiting for them with a smile on their faces.

Tolkien introduced Georgy to all of them and when he came to Lewis, Georgy was overwhelmed that he finally burst into tears. He couldn’t contain his excitement any longer for what was happening in front of him was too good to be true. Lewis stood and extended his hand to welcome him but Georgy caught Lewis in a bear hug instead. The group erupted with laughter at this touching moment while the women secretly wiped the tears in their eyes.

It was indeed very touching, thought Rick. He couldn’t imagine it for Georgy, meeting his icons who somehow shaped his life or his career. Probably this was applicable to most of us humans; Rick continued musing while the outburst of emotion was still high. Somehow in our lives we met people that helped us realized our destiny, our dreams and those people, regardless if we knew them personally or through their works and passions, they become our icons, someone that we looked up to… We spent days dreaming what would it be like if we have their gift, it would have been marvelous. But they’d helped us do better, strived more and dreamed BIG.

Dreams are not just for sleeping… They do come true… you just have to believe in it and claim it on the stars.

The End