Every Short Story Was A Step Further
From a passion to a profession…
I stepped out of the speech therapist’s office wondering why I absolutely had to learn how to pronounce my Rs. They were supposed to sound like a car engine. Rrrrr. Instead, they sounded like a puppy’s failed attempt at barking. Lrrrr. Lrrrr. My Rs didn’t roll. When I couldn’t count on my puppy bark, I had my loyal Ghhhhs to fall on.
Why was pronunciation such a big deal? I’m not a big talker. I only speak when necessary. Even now, fifteen years after stepping out of that office.
I liked written words more than spoken ones. No one hears when you read out the Rs in your internal voice and no one bothers you when you have your face buried in a book.
Adults get overly excited when they see a child reading as if it were some sort of miracle. They don’t approach the child, they just watch from afar, too afraid to startle them. Maybe if they scare them, they would stop reading.
That’s not how things work. At least, not with me.
I read while eating my breakfast. I stick the book between my plate and a cup to hold the pages. I read on my way to school as my mother would be telling me how she would get carsick if she were me. She would then congratulate me on skipping the carsickness gene and let me read in peace. I read during breaks and on my way back home. I hid a book under my textbooks and read as much as I could while my mother wasn’t looking. I read until I fell asleep.
Then I would wake up and do it all over again.
At some point. I decided that I did a lot of reading. It was time for me to give people something to read. That’s how I started writing.
I’m not sure how old I was but I remember taking A4s out of the printer, a fancy black pen out of my mother’s purse, all the coloring crayons I could find and locking myself in my room. I would write then draw. I felt that people liked illustrations. They make reading easier for them. Apparently, only a few could handle the infinite combinations of the alphabet’s twenty-seven letters.
When I was done, I would look for a colorful piece of cardboard and a stapler. Writing and illustrating a story were one thing. Selling the story was on a whole other level. It had to look like a book and it had to catch your attention.
I made the extra effort for my books. I cut butterflies, letters and so much more even though I was clumsy with scissors. I would glue the shapes on my cover and make them pop out a bit. People liked 3D — even though at that time I didn’t know what 3D was exactly.
I would get my grandparents to read the stories out loud for me. I would wake up my mother in the middle of the night to tell her about an idea I had. I would tell the bookshop lady about them too. I liked her the best because she had the same name as my mother and she always helped me look for good reads.
“Someday, we’re going to add your book to our shelves.”
And that was the plan.
I wrote novels. Or at least, I tried to. I would know what would happen in the first chapter and in the last one. It’s the in-between that got in the way. I had first chapters and a short breath.
I started many things but couldn’t finish them. Piano lessons. Guitar lessons. Drawing classes. Hip hop classes — let’s keep this one a secret.
Maybe I was the problem.
I wanted to make Rrs out of my stories but all I could manage were Lrrs or Ghhs at best.
In February 2010, I took a break from studying for my midterms and grabbed paper instead. I started writing about characters with weird names. I made my friend read the story, bit by bit. She sat next to me in class and I would feed her episodes during math. She wanted to know what happened next. I had to finish the story. For her.
And I did.
That was the first real story I finished writing.
A short story that was nothing short of creative and entertaining.
It turns out that I was cut for short stories. Not novels. I felt disappointed in myself until I realized that if I can’t run the marathon, I can run the 100-meter.
I wrote another short story.
Then another. And another.
By the time I graduated, I had a book contract.
The bookshop lady with my mother’s name was right. My book was finally on their shelves.
The world would be a boring place if we were all marathon runners. It’s okay to run for 100 meters. It’s okay to jog or walk. You can even swim and skateboard. As long as it floats your boat, you’re set to go.
