Istoryan Writers

[jootz]

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i see. okay, sige, i'll drop in every now and then.

[pnoize]

i am currently reading a book on scriptwriting by ricardo lee entitled "trip to quiapo". here's an exercise that we could all do. please post your answers here:

create a story that has a beginning, middle and end using the following images in no particular order:

1. an old man crying
2. bloodied diary
3. a man dancing
4. a broken guitar floating in the river
5. a man laughing in the rain
6. a woman looking at a mirror.

also you might want to check out a friend-writers blog:

Dean Alfar - a 7 time Palanca Awardee and an National Book Awardee.
http://deanalfar.blogspot.com

[MrBiddle]

create a story that has a beginning, middle and end using the following images in no particular order:

1. an old man crying
2. bloodied diary
3. a man dancing
4. a broken guitar floating in the river
5. a man laughing in the rain
6. a woman looking at a mirror.

BOJANGLES AND HIS GUITARIST.

An Old Guitarist plays for tap dancer Mr. Bojangles, who dances and loves to write about how he admires the old man's dexterity in playing the guitar. But the Old Guitarist is preoccupied for his tremendous affinity for his vain and much younger socialite of a girlfriend who loves to ogle at herself in the mirror so often.

The Old Man Guitarist tells Bojangles that the two of them can no longer collaborate because his love life isn't very active, and he would like it to be to fill in an empty spot: his old age could no longer permit him to have a good lay......Because of such a long friendship, Bojangles the tap dancer takes his own life with a gun and authorities immediately ascertain he commited suicide and they send his bloodied diary on its merry and legal way to their crime lab.

Upon hearing the news of this, the Old Man is torn apart. The old guitarist starts to cry... he enters to find his wife, as usual staring at the mirror. The old man guitarist suddenly gets very agitated...

Next thing, he is laughing maniacally, in the rain. He continues to laugh hysterically... a grim expression crosses his face. He has gone insane. He begins to cry again and he kneels as he continues to break down, even furiously tugging the hairs on his head as if very remorseful and full of self-loathing.

A broken guitar floating in the river.

THE END.

[blade101]

old lady penelope was considered queer by her peers. she would stare ever so intently at the reflection given off by her favorite sliver hand mirror which by some chance never left her side. She lived in the old foster home in mulberry lane together with a dozen or so oldsters as they would so call themselves. There was old man howard who was crying because his pet goldfish just died. Then there was enrico, who claimed he was a gigolo and a dancer for a bar in las vegas. He would spend most of his day dancing the waltz, his favorite dance of all.

Now these oldsters were going about their usual business one day when their nurse Mrs potts noticed that one of their number was missing. Old man howard was not in his usual seat."where could he be?"nurse potts mused. "we could find him?" offered lady penelope without glancing away from her reflection."well it is a beautiful day outside and we could use the exercise." said their nurse. So one and all, the oldsters of the foster home on mulberry lane stepped out into the glorious sunshine with determined faces and the singular goal of finding old man howard, well at least some of them had the intention of finding mr howard. some of the oldster were complaining, it was too hot, or their favorite show was on. Enrico didn't even want to go because he couldn't dance the waltz on the grounds. but mrs potts would not be dissuaded. and so the search began.An hour into their search one of them found a diary covered in blood. Upon inspection they found out it was mr howard's personal journal. then on closer inspection they found Mr howard's guitar on the river which flowed beside the foster home. It was broken beyond repair and the strings were all cut.but no one, not even the police and all the dogs in the world could find mr howard's body. stories began to surface. some say aliens took the body. another old fellow said that a giant goldfish came and took it away.

to this day, no one ever found out what really happened to old man howard, but it is rumored that on rainy days you could see a man dancing and jumping by the river with a goldfish bowl in his hand......And that my little friend is the story of old man howard and his goldfish.

hehehehe! wa lang lingaw po

[AVriLRockZ!!!]

okay so far on my list:
> blongkoy
> reggiebuang
> thisbe.ara
> blade101
> d'monyita
> carlo borromeo
> crashburn
> avrilrockz (for layouting and writing)

gahuwat nga magsulod:
> tikboy
> giver_bert
>hehehe.. a whole lot more.. daghan pa kaayo ta..

this is the first time i got to read these posts..just now..

by the way..
i'm not really into writing..but when my mood is good..sometimes, i write things..
when i was younger, i thought my field would be on feature writing, well, that was at first when we had a little training from my teacher..but i excel more on photo journalism a few years later.. in which i was able to go to the nationals...but that was a one time experience..but it was good..

i think my talent on the paper and stuff is lost..only the lay-out thing remained..i'm not good in using high-sounding words..i dont even understand them..hehehhe i don't read that much...maybe that is the reason i don't use hard whatever they call words..

but in our school paper, i copy read it..just helping our moderator in doing it..and of course, putting the facts, because sometimes some writers just write and forgetting a lot of things and even putting things not related or not good for the paper, i mean for the people to read..in other words.. it makes the paper stink!

i just help in doing things..but i don't actually be the main thing..
but i wanna be, but it just can't be me because i'm not really good at it..

the way i'm writing, it's all over the place...even this post is..hehehhe
but, if i get to read it again, and rewrite it, maybe, it would be in place.."maybe"

OT:Blongx: dad said thanks for the thing you did..the 'skang ngilngiga thing and the other one...hehehhe i really laughed at it, well it's really makes readers want to read why..hehehhee

[thisbe.ara]

OT@pnoize2k4: nice idea. i will try to come up with something.
OT@sir blongkoy: got the news. you know what it is. and it's not true..ahehe.. i would still love the offer, though. and yes, definitely you will be invited.. can you wait for 10 years? hehehe
OT@reggiebuang: so when's the next full moon?
OT@avrilrockz: and what's the why?? hehehe.. curiousity killed the cat. tsk.


once you have the passion in writing, it never dies. it might take a rest but it never dies. i firmly believe in that.
this group do not acclaim expertise either. we are here to learn. i am still learning..

[Blongkoy]

AvrilRockZ,

All published writers --- and by "all" I mean ALL --- do not write alone. They have editors to deal with.

The most important thing in writing --- just shortly before the editors get to touch your copy --- is the idea. You can leave the structure, syntax, even grammar to the editors.

And if you are into non-fiction writing, the other most important thing is your referrence or source document. Get this referencing thing in order and your editors will love you forever. Miss that out and your editors will find the nearest bin (if your submission is in hard copy).

The last book I wrote for the United States Agency for International Development (cf.: DrBGeorge) --- "Democratization of Power" which is non-fiction and a study of many despotic governments, four editors were breathing fire on my neck. But this is all they can do to make your life a little more miserable than usual --- breath fire into your neck!

Continue writing. Bring out the idea. Forget all those you call big words. And write as simply as possible.

PM me for some true-to-life tips on writing. Ask questions and I will answer them if I know.

[AVriLRockZ!!!]

OT@thisbe.. meow! i'm the cat..wahehehehe

Blongkoy,

i will ask things..later on..hehhe haven't got the mood..
maybe when i feel like doing writing stuff, i'll try to get some of your tips..
i know it would be useful..

[huslabiatch]

hmm yeah im no good writer alright but yeah i love writing coz its d only way I cud express what I feel and what's on my mind..like what I'm thinking..what I feel..what I went thru..what i really want...all my frustrations..heartaches..happiness..etc.. basta i love writing..it's one of my favorite past times actually..and esp at night when I cant sleep..I just write and write..

[splendid moonlight]

Nancy was a small woman. and it had been known all over town that she had a tender heart no matter how strong she tried to appear. once she saw an old man crying and she couldn't help but cry too. such was Nancy.

one day as she was on her way home, she saw a man moving on the street in a peculiar way. the man was drunk, dancing what seemed to be the remainder of his heart under a pale lamp that hardly illuminated the street. for indeed it looked like the poor man's heart was broken. her heart reached out to him and she wished she could've touched him to soothe him. but alas, she figured she only had the heart to cry; and whatever sort of heart she must have to take away pain from others, she didn't own. she took her eyes off the man, who was now starting to laugh as it was beginning to rain, and turned on a dark alleyway.

the alley stinked of cat droppings, but that wasn't the worst. the worst was the smell of darkness closing in combined with the smell that was being produced when rain hit the ground. that and the fact that the ground was full of droppings added to what was to her one of the most sickening smell there ever was. she looked back where she came from, she could still see a little light from there; she wanted to go back. spending time just looking at that man was better than walking the sidestreet alone. she glanced at her watch, squinting her eyes, and decided it was already too late in the night to be worrying about getting home early, so she turned her back and walked towards the other direction.

the man was still there, and it was now obvious from anyone near enough to see that he was dancing. he seemed to be holding something in his right hand; a bloodied diary perhaps, thought Nancy. She threw him a couple of glances and headed towards the nearest inn feeling sorry for the man.

there were a few people inside the inn. and on one corner sat three, old men with their instruments. the tables were lit with candles; she took one table near the window. after a couple of minutes, the three old men began playing music. from three tables away sat three ladies giggling and whispering to each other. so alive and happy compared to the somber expressions of the old men. she faced the glass window for a time, looking at the old men's reflections sadly. why do people have to grow old? she asked herself. she looked at her own reflection; she seemed like a ghost in the middle of the other things that were reflected there. the old man singing suddenly seemed to scream in anguish, he was clearly at the peak of his song. Nancy remembered the man she saw awhile ago and turned her attention past the reflections in the window, past the droplets of rain suspended there, towards the poorly lit street outside. the man was gone. Nancy died that night. at least a part of her did.

Greg was a man who sometimes talked a lot and sometimes not at all. he always brought a notebook with him everywhere, scribbling words there that nobody reads. he got drunk one night, in a town he hardly knew, and saw a lady gazing out the window of an inn called The Broken Guitar. he didn't get drunk in there, the inn reminded him so much of a time in his life. he was nineteen that time, without a dream, without a want to ever become anything. he was quarreling with his mom one night. he took his guitar away and threw it into the river near where they lived. he made certain his mom was going to know about it. he wanted his mom to feel guilty about scolding him; she knew how well he loved his guitar. he was incredibly childish then. on the night he got drunk - a stranger in a town - he went inside The Broken Guitar and died. a part of him did.

the owner of the inn in front of The Broken Guitar was red with jealousy. his inn was so much better, everyone knew that. newlyweds sometimes don't know any better.