Tears on the sleeve of a man.
I don't wanna be a boy today.
I heard the eternal footman.
He bought himself a bike to race.
Still I wrote you letters
And burned you CDs.
You were always amazing these past year.
Now hold on to something,
Be strong as you can.
Here's hoping for a pretty good year.

Let there be a bright sandy beach
That will bring you back.
Maybe soon, not so far off,
We're gonna see the world.
Well, let me show you the world.

Here's hoping for a pretty good year.

My heart is crying now.
Well, what's it gonna take
To make my baby alright?

And I'll go on writing letters with my acrostic pen.
Can't you tell it's you I'm missing?
You are so pretty,
The angels agreed.

Still, hoping for a pretty good year.

House Of Meetings by Martin Amis. Bleak, but hauntingly compelling. Nifty.

Read the Complete Review.

McEwan fans need not worry too much. The movie adaptation of Atonement doesn't suck.

The View From Castle Rock: Stories by Alice Munro. She truly is a master of the short story form. Nifty.

A not-so-long time ago, I featured Diablo Cody in They're So Not Paperbag: The Greatest Blogs In Planet Earth (see right side of blog). Now I hear that she's written a screenplay for an upcoming movie called Juno. Further proof that bloggers can make it in Hollywood. Nifty.

Dear Writer,

By now you're probably ready to give up. You're past that first fine furious  rapture when every character and idea is new and entertaining. You're not  yet at the momentous downhill slide to the end, when words and images tumble out of your head sometimes faster than you can get them down on paper. You're in the middle, a little past the half-way point. The glamour has faded, the magic has gone, your back hurts from all the typing, your family, friends and random email acquaintances have gone from being encouraging or at least accepting to now complaining that they never see you any more -- and that even when they do you're preoccupied and no fun. You don't know why you started your novel, you no longer remember why you imagined that anyone would want to read it, and you're pretty sure that even if you finish it it won't have been worth the time or energy and every time you stop long enough to compare it to the thing that you had in your head when you began -- a glittering, brilliant, wonderful novel, in which every word spits fire and burns, a book as good or better than the best book you ever read -- it falls so painfully short that you're pretty sure that it would be a mercy simply to delete the whole thing.

Welcome to the club.

That's how novels get written.

You write. That's the hard bit that nobody sees. You write on the good days and you write on the lousy days. Like a shark, you have to keep moving forward or you die. Writing may or may not be your salvation; it might or might not be your destiny. But that does not matter. What matters right now are the words, one after another. Find the next word. Write it down. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

A dry-stone wall is a lovely thing when you see it bordering a field in the middle of nowhere but becomes more impressive when you realise that it was built without mortar, that the builder needed to choose each interloc king stone and fit it in. Writing is like building a wall. It's a continual search for the word that will fit in the text, in your mind, on the page. Plot and character and metaphor and style, all these become secondary to the words. The wall-builder erects her wall one rock at a time until she reaches the far end of the field. If she doesn't build it it won't be there. So she looks down at her pile of rocks, picks the one that looks like it will best suit her purpose, and puts it in.

The search for the word gets no easier but nobody else is going to write your novel for you.

The last novel I wrote (it was ANANSI BOYS, in case you were wondering) when I got three-quarters of the way through I called my agent.  I told her how stupid I felt writing something no-one would ever want to read, how thin the characters were, how pointless the plot. I strongly suggested that I was ready to abandon this book and write something else instead, or perhaps I cou ld abandon the book and take up a new life as a landscape gardener, bank-robber, short-order cook or marine biologist. And instead of  sympathising or agreeing with me, or blasting me forward with a wave of enthusiasm -- or even arguing with me -- she simply said, suspiciously cheerfully, "Oh, you're at that part of the book, are you?"

I was shocked. "You mean I've done this before?"

"You don't remember?"

"Not really."

"Oh yes," she said. "You do this every time you write a novel. But so do all my other clients."

I didn't even get to feel unique in my despair.

So I put down the phone and drove down to the coffee house in which I was writing the book, filled my pen and carried on writing.

One word after another.

That's the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes in to Chapter Nine, it's the only way to do it.

So keep on keeping on. Write another word and then another.

Pretty soon you'll be on the downward slide, and it's not impossible that soon you'll be at the end. Good luck...

Neil Gaiman

--

Neil Gaiman is the author of the New York Times bestselling children's book Coraline and of the picture books The Wolves in the Walls and The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish. He is also the author of award-winning novels and short stories for adults, as well as the Sandman series of graphic novels. His most recent novels include InterWorld and Anansi Boys. For more info on Neil, visit www.neilgaiman.com.

Message from Franco Reyes, aka the Greatest Cebuano Frontman of all time:

My Band InYo is in the Top Ten Finalists to open at the Next Big Thing 7 show!

Vote for us here! http://97xonline.com/liveweb/surveys/details.html?id=47

You'll have to register to vote, but it only takes a second. After registering, go to your e-mail add and simply confirm and vote on the link provided!!! REMEMBER to Select InYo!!!

Please repost this for your friends as well. We thank you all for the support!!!
VOTING ENDS on November 19th @ 5pm! YOUR TIME IS GREATLY APPRECIATED!!! JAH BLESS!!!

BANDS PLAYING WILL BE:

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Philip Cantila had worked as a janitor in Mactan-Cebu International Airport for almost 18 years. At 46, he was one of the oldest janitors working in MCIA -- second only to Quinito Baad who turned 48 last summer -- and was seriously considering retiring next year to put up his own sari-sari store. Before the airport, Philip used to work as a janitor in a Japanese-owned electronics manufacturing firm in the Mactan Export Processing Zone 1. Unfortunately, the Japanese owners decided that it would be less costly to run the electronics factory somewhere in China. Because of this, the MEPZ 1 branch was heavily downsized with almost half of the workforce laid off. Philip was one of those displaced employees. Luckily for him, a relative got him a job in the airport three months later.

Philip was known to be quite an amiable person with a decidedly easygoing manner. In his 10th year as an airport janitor, he was given special recognition for his outstanding job performance (excellent attendance, rapport with his co-workers, the works, etc) and was considered to be a role model to be emulated by new employees. The only gripe the airport management ever had with regards to him was six years ago when Philip descended into a two-month drinking splurge following the unexpected death of his wife Angela and seven year old daughter Josephine due to a freak vehicular accident in Opon. But Philip recovered and managed to keep his job and stay sober at the same time. While he had remained a friendly presence in the airport terminal, close friends have noticed a slight change in him -- yes, he was still remarkably dependable in his job but he has become increasingly taciturn lately.

That Tuesday was a particularly long day at work for Philip. He looked up at the airport terminal display. The digital clock read 4:21 PM TUE 16 OCT 1997. Time to go home, he thought to himself. Passing by the MCIA gate, he greeted Gary, the 26 year old security guard from Cordova.

“Heading home early, Philip?” Gary asked.

“Yeah, my shift starts early tomorrow,” Philip replied. “Need to get enough sleep.”

“Hey, my cousin Vinny will be coming over later. He’ll be bringing a couple of Red Horse’s and some joots. You wanna join later?”

“I’m too old for that, Gary. Besides, I don’t drink that much anymore. I promised to stay clear from all of that a long time ago.”

“You worry too much, old man. It’s just a couple of drinks and a hit. What’s the worse thing that could happen?”

“Nah, no thanks, I’ll pass this time.”

“Whatever you say. Easy on the road.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Cruising on the coastal road with his second-hand SG100-5 motorcycle, he couldn’t help but admire the orange sky as the sun makes one last futile attempt to provide light to the lazy earth. Shortly before 6 PM, he arrived at his house, located just 25 minutes away from the airport.

He grabbed some bahaw and buwad and sat in front of the TV (raffled during a Christmas Party two years ago) and proceeded to watch TV Patrol. He couldn't find anything interesting in the news so he turned the TV off and decided to smoke in the front yard. The night was hot and the disturbing absence of wind wasn’t helping at all in alleviating his boredom. He decided to call it a night and catch some needed sleep before his next shift begins. By 8:30 PM, he was snoring.

He woke up to the sound of a lady and a girl laughing. He sat up irked -- not at all enjoying his interrupted sleep. He looked at his watch -- 1:13 AM. How could neighbors be this inconsiderately noisy at this hour, he thought. He got out of bed and staggered on the way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He opened the bedroom door and looked out. His kitchen had transformed into an area several times as big as his house. Instead of wooden planks, the floor was neatly furnished with stucco tiles. Instead of stackable stools, the place was filled with airport terminal chairs. His kitchen sink was replaced with a marble counter with smiling ladies behind it and above it, hung an electronic display showing all flight information (destination, ETD, ETA, etc).

He saw a Japanese lady in a brown jacket talking animatedly with a teenage girl in a pink tank top and torn jeans. The girl was laughing uncontrollably while the lady was attempting to stifle her own giggles. Philip looked around and saw various people reading magazines, drinking coffee and even sleeping on their luggage. He heard a calm female voice from the overhead speaker saying, “Flight number PR 434 bound for Narita Airport, Tokyo, Japan, now boarding at Gate 7. Flight number PR 434 bound for Narita Airport, Tokyo, Japan, now boarding at Gate 7. Thank you.” Philip watched as the lady, the teenage girl and everybody else began to stand up and walk towards the gate.

Suddenly, Philip felt a burning sensation all over him. He sat transfixed as flames engulfed everything he just saw. He was standing on the runway now. There was smoke everywhere. He saw the burning wreckage of the airbus a dozen meters away. He could see bloodied passengers trying to free themselves from the debris. Then he saw the Japanese lady. Her left side was burned, she was carrying the teenage girl in her arms. Philip heard her say in a weak voice, “Tasukete … Tasukete … Dozo … Tasukete … ”

He ran towards the lady but she disappeared in thin air. The burning wreckage, the runway, they were all gone. He found himself standing in his front yard. Everything was quiet.

He scuttled back to his house and called the airport guardhouse. No answer. He redialed. Three rings. No answer. Six rings … To be continued ...

AutoTerminal dot com. Go ahead. Click it.

The World Is My Playground

Undulate. These symphonies
Proliferate emotions.

Down on the floor, my knees
Harvest my lithe elations.
Are you mine then not?
Repair me--soon unknowing--
Mercurially forgot.
Allow me this--imploring--

Drown me now, I beg you.
Oceans breathe musical hellos
Wedged deep and always true,
Neither azure nor dying yellow.


The Last Goodbye

Jaded me, I wonder
Even he whose despair
Faintly seen, though under
Fevered dreams, made aware.

Bleeding voices permeate,
Unshed noises recreate
Clues of his own desire.
Kindly now elaborate
Likely how this inchoate
Effused this haunting fire.
Yet mourns the world entire.


Goodnight And Go

In the mist, I listen
Merry Miss, I implore,
Out of this old prison
Grant me this last encore.
Echo then more than ever
Now and when it’s all over.

Hide and seek in my sadness.
Even then, how I shiver.
Amber friend, do remember.
Pray, don’t speak of this madness.


Gently Weeps

Weep me these strings,
Appease my new mourning.
Lend me your wings
Lest I fall, adjourning.
Yonder clouds, he sings
Surrendered notes, returning.

Bend it now, my master,
Lost but now resumed.
Undo these songs of plaster,
Endure this past entombed,
Seduce this soul impugned.


These poems originally appeared in Acrostic Paperbag.