Eleventh Hour...

well..its not really the elevent hour. not yet. but i am getting close to it. and i am still to find the solutions for my problems.

its not a big problem after all. its just about the quality, the intensity of the works that i am submitting for the workshops that is bothering me.

i feel that the works that i have in line are not grown enough, not mature enough to survive longer than i would.

of course, i know other people would say that it is good enough, whether it is in the name of honesty or perhaps a safe answer. i dont know. but i have always believed that though it is the world in general who decides on how good a work is, on how strong it is, i believe that in the very first case, it would be the writer himself who decided, for if he had not, then the work would not have seen the light of day.

yeah, i am being critical about my works this time. and i have been critical for the last 2 or 3 years. and yet i am more so concerned this year. last year was not a very good year for me in terms of output. i wrote less than 50, and somehow less than 10 survived the culling process.

maddening.

and it reminds me about something a good friend told me last year:

"we writers worship a savage god who makes us mad before destroying us"

in my case, it was and still is true.

and last year i failed to make it.

and yet here i am, workshop fellow or not, as long as i live, until i die, until i could write, plowing these barren fields i call my life for seeds to flourish, for ripe fruits to be plucked.

of course, i can always say that the dead masters, one of them my father, did not get to be in the workshop. perhaps there was no need for him. perhaps.

whatever happens..winter..spring, summer or...

...may we writers never let the pen fall.