Here’s the thing: I have neither the patience nor the time to blow-dry my hair, so yeah, it doesn’t look like that anymore. The wavy locks came back with a vengeance. Meh. I’ll stick with the 50’s pin-up girl look. Maybe I should buy some red lipstick.
Okay, stupid hand.
Yep, that should do it.
So many micro-minis my sexuality got confused. (Ehem.)
Left my decent-er camera back home, so nothing here folks but shitty 3.2 megapixel cell phone photos. Ngar. I did put my name in the glass bowl marked “Samsung 12.1 MP digital camera” during the Pick-A-Prize raffle (Pick a prize!) but of course I didn’t win. (Pick a prize!)
Hmpft.
Thanks to Jake for coming over. To quote Kate, Ang malas sa raffle, swerte sa –
Charot. ♥
More pictures here.
Back in October I sent an entry to the Pinoy Story Writing Contest, backed by the National Book Development Board (NBDB) and the Filipinas Heritage Library (FHL).
I remember pestering a friend about which MRT station I should get off on to get to the NBDB building (“Eto ‘yung pink na building di ba? Sa may Q Ave?“). In the end I decided I was too lazy to walk and just sent the entire thing via courier. A little more than a hundred pages, this tome called Lower Myths: Two Stories. I wished it luck and bid it adieu.
Near the end of November I heard that an awarding had been held in Greenbelt. Strangely enough, the NBDB website still didn’t carry the complete list of winners.
I looked at my manuscript (soft copy) again and wondered, So okay. You didn’t win. What the fuck am I going to do with you now?
* * *
Yesterday I received a text from Ms Dianne of NBDB, saying I should call the NBDB office.
Apparently I won.
Horror/Crime, Suspense category.
WHAT.
* * *
I’ve contacted Ms Anne of FHL. Let’s see what happens next. Publication? I don’t know.
Howee. ♥
Ohai sparkles!
I think that cauldron-like thingy is supposed to symbolize knowledge (or something), but it just looks sinister. Ergo, cool.
(This, on the other hand, is sinister and not cool.)
Friday was dinner and then Quezon Hall to view the lights, Saturday was dinner and a short visit to Sarah’s. There was a man there at another table; I was pretty sure he was a writer and that I saw him at the Palanca Awards, but fuck me if I can remember. I’m so bad with names. (I can’t even recall the names of the people we were drinking with.) (Oh, I remember Bai – did I spell that right? – and Melai – did I spell that right?) (Melai worked in the media too and knew my Journ friends at GMA so that’s cool.)
Somewhere between Friday and Saturday was a marathon of True Blood and Sex and the City and a quiet break with The Beauty Myth and Holidays on Ice and a gazillion notes on three stories (one in-progress) and a poem. So, so, so many notes. Now if I can only string them fragments together.
BUT I’ve heard that Jaykie’s sister left a bag of chocolates with my name on it, because you know if you like it then you should definitely put your name on it, so life is good. Thank you.
The genius of Ira Levin’s fiction is that his prose is so lucid, so simple and straightforward and true, that you can never imagine anything evil happening to any of his (read: ordinary) characters.
And then halfway through you’ll get slapped by a line like, Rosemary found herself chewing on a raw and dripping chicken heart in the kitchen one morning at four-fifteen.
Like I said, genius.
Photo from fantasticfiction.co.uk
Eliza Victoria 
