That time when it was my birthday (and also the end of the year)

December 31st celebrants have a few life perks, which includes:Getting older at the end of the year rather than somewhere in the middlePutting together a celebratory post and a year-end review because this is the last day of the yearFireworks. Lots of fireworks. The world must be very glad to have us around.

I am one proud celebrant, and my birthday has never been quiet or un-busy (Media Noche, anyone, and flurry of running back home after the last service of the year because you don’t want those watusi dancing on your feet? Yes) and so, faced with humbled gratitude and lots and lots of joy (TMI: joy was almost my name until my mom went against it), I fling the door of my blog open to welcome you in, and give you a slice of my cake.

I have been journaling for almost two decades, and I must say actually writing my quiet victories as nightcap kept my life on track. It also helped me feel grateful for what I have, and keep aspiring for what I could. We’re on our way to our second book now. And if this industry would still allow me to keep pestering it for a few more times and help make my books,

I have always wondered why some of my favorite writers won’t release another book. Now I know why. Ideas are great. They’re flashy, shiny things, beckoning for your attention, but a book is not always just an idea. It’s a story. It’s layers and layers of heart. Of characters in a journey constantly developing themselves into someone better. If those aren’t in the cauldron, your cooking must be bland. And nobody wants a bland story. Not especially from a POC writer not from the US.

The Boy, the Mountain, and the Serpent Who Ate the Moon, I promise, has a lot of heart. I may have pulled parts of mine and slammed it on the pages, considering how dark and hopeless it felt during the season I wrote it. Maybe it got most of my heart, because my next attempts at writing sort of lost it. There was an idea. I loved that idea. But writing a story out of that idea that I would love as fiercely as my previous books? We’re not there yet.

But we are, slowly, dragging our feet up that mountain. We’ve got some climbing to do. Time has run out for this year, yet I feel no regrets for not chasing the finish line. Not this time. We’ll have that for 2025.

For now, all we are left is a swelling river of thanks.

Glimpses of light from my window

I took on drafting three manuscripts this year. Two were done, and even though hey were not successful drafts—the kind that would punch me in the face with their heart and plot—I did reach the finish line for those versions. My agent got her notes back to me in time for my revision, and I think these stories will be stirred with bigger stakes the next time I open them up.

There was a big change house-wise, not because I was more alone, but because of the isolation brought about by a year-long flood that covered most of our main roads. Somehow, I missed the feeling of walking around without water slushing underneath me (this said water had its own eco-system now, bearing tiny islands of moss and inhabitants that swim under the muddy liquid). I’d wish these things would be fixed, but our strong-willed, joyful community constantly reminds me that things aren’t as bad as they seem, and with little adjustments, life could still feel normal despite the regularly wet streets.

I only went to one show this year, and it was one of Clara Benin’s tour stops sometime in January/February. We also got to see Barbie Almalbis!

I met interesting people, too! I always try to write their names (or descriptions) at the back of my notebook and mention them in my prayers. We went to a social welfare center sometime in May and talked with a bunch of boys who had been involved with crimes. One young lad has been involved with drugs, a ten or eleven year old with stealing, and another with attempted murder. For many of these kids, the world is a cold, cruel place; most of these deeds are just responses to the harsh conditions they were in. My family and I discussed that quote in Parasite—that one is kind because they are privileged. It’s a dog-eat-dog world for the underprivileged. They’re the ones who are genuinely kind because they get to be generous despite having less.

I met Aling Cita when the jeepney we rode took a different route from the one we we regularly took. She was a mananahi, just like Aling Anita in Marikit and the Ocean of Stars, and we chatted as we walked on a warm Sunday morning. I hope she had a lovely Christmas with her loved ones.

My family and I had a break in June for my brother’s birthday, and it was a short three-day getaway to the seaside with a lovely, spacious hotel room somewhere in Zambales. One funny story is that we drove all the way to the mountainside not knowing that there was a large screw stuck to our wheel. God truly kept us safe and did not make us worry, well, until we got home.

Agiw got spayed in September, but I lost Champoy at the end of October. Champoy has only been with us for a good year, but his goofiness and endearing charm has been a lovely presence in the house. The way he went was a shock, but Death is like that. It never comes with a warning. I am only glad I get to love him and be loved by him when he is here.

I’m glad that I have been journaling. At this stage of life, it feels important to keep track of the little wins and tiny lessons we can glean everyday. I have a cheap, dateless journal where I pour out my thoughts at every end of the day, and it has been my favorite pause before I hit the sack. It’s a nice way to process things; to weed out the mistakes (and find enough grace to forgive yourself), to celebrate tiny victories, and recognize the goodness all around me. I recommend it! You’ll always go to bed feeling happy and grateful.

Some of my favorite photos this year

As you can see, most of these are pictures of home. I haven’t been out and about. It was not my nature. But if there’s anything I feel like doing this 2025, it’s to see things more. Meet people more. You know, just sit inside a packed jeepney and listen to the pasaheros tell their stories. There are many stories. The world is gurgling with them, many wonderful ones still hiding underneath its many coats. You and I could go on a hunt. We could be scribes. We could be recorders of things easily forgotten, and make them permanent so that the world could hear such tales.

Let’s move forward, pen and paper in hand, shall we?