These past few days, I've been trying to finish a short story. And I just couldn't. Or maybe, it could be that I just don't know how to end it.
And I think it is because these past few days, my attempts have been lacking the color, if not the perpetual angst of someone who has been thrown into a great opportunity of witnessing how the most ordinary of our people are battered in endless sh*t. Forgive the language.
When I started this story, I was thinking of having it published in Liwayway that has particular liking to old-school you-and-me against the world love stories, letter-writing and showbiz tsismis. Forgive the morbid attempt but the cash prize isn't something you can easily dismiss when you're in need.
And now, there's a stronger urge of deleting this 10-page short story attempt than let it rot in some hundred kilobyte-space on my flash drive.
It isn't like I'm the kind of writer who dress up her whole short story with eardrum-breaking profanities to give it the spunk of oppression or anything similar to that. It is just that I feel like putting out the brakes on my words and just play it like those physically-aggressive basketball players do when they’re in court – most especially when there are cameras around for them to show off their power, or anything that imitates that. Not that I’m out to hurt anyone, physically or verbally.
When you’re in a time where there’s so much to write, you can only lose your temper. And that’s probably why I can't muster the guts to finish this story; somehow, I feel that it doesn't have the temper of reality; it doesn't have any of those “right in the action, right in the moment” plot.
Ah, I should probably just delete it.