Daydreams of a Writer Wannabee
I look at my ringless fingers and imagine a big, glittering diamond ring on my left ring finger, creating prisms across the room's walls whenever touched by the the light. I couldn't resist and drew a band around the finger with my violet colored pen, adding a one-peso coin sized diamond as its decoration. My seatmate looked at me with curiosity. I snatched my hand away from his view and gave him my best imitation of Lady Gaga's poker face. Mind your own business, buddy.
I pretended to focus on what the speaker was saying; something about rich media banner ads being the next best thing to TV ads. The speaker wore thick red-rimmed glasses, her hair in a tight ponytail, and her eyebrows arched to perfection making her look like the wicked queen in Snow White. Her hands were moving in cadence with her voice to emphasize the point she was making. I couldn't help but notice that she had two rings, each on one hand. On the right was a cocktail ring - one of those fashionable big fancy rings that usually meant nothing - while on the left was a silver band. If there was a stud there, I wouldn't know. It was hard for me to see it from where I was sitting.
What was wrong with me? I signed up for the seminar to have a better appreciation of how advertising can work in the Internet. Somehow, I find myself conjuring images of my dream wedding proposal, 20 minutes after the presentation began. Maybe it's the speaker's fault. Her demeanor lacked warmth; she seems detached like she's alone in the room without ten pairs of eyes looking at her. Or maybe it was the tone of her voice. It has that machine gun quality, intrusive and hard on the ears. Or maybe it's really me. My lack of interest, my pretentious attempt to become enthusiastic over something I don't give a shit about.Ā
The smell of brewed coffee fills the room. It was a small room with full blast air-conditioning that reminds me of Mt. Pulag. I'd rather be anywhere but here. I look around and see the same look of boredom in the other attendees' faces and realize I might as well be looking at myself in a mirror. I absently tap my pen on my wooden desk, eliciting dirty looks from the speaker and from other participants. I raised a hand up in apology.
What I really want to do is to write, to invent stories. I imagine myself completing my first short story collection, a novella filled with stories of love, of war, of simple epiphanies that shape one's life. Or maybe a story about myself: of my quest to find my own "bramasole" and how I found my place under the sun - whether Tuscan or not. Jonathan Safran Foer will visit me and we'll exchange story ideas over espresso in an Italian piazza. I envision myself winning the Nobel for Literature and delivering my speech on how this book, this collection, is my legacy to mankind.
The speaker delivers one of her machine gun monologues and the only word I was able to capture was 'catapult'. Catapult, to jumpstart. I sigh at my choice of synonym. How can I catapult my writing career when my time is eaten by my 9-5 job? I cannot afford to write full-time. What with no time, no house to call my own (I'm not homeless, I mean I'm renting), no savings fund to lean on, writing needs to take a backseat and I have to continue this pretense of paying attention to the seminar if I want to move up the corporate ladder and keep the lifestyle I'm living now.
I pull my jacket closer to me as the air-conditioning bites into my skin, as if it was someone's hand, reaching out to pinch me awake from my daydreams. Someday, I will write that collection. That someday will come and I will have my day. But for now, I'd have to be content with writing concise ad copies and attending seminars to fill up my days.