IT IS a sunny afternoon on March 20 last month that a roomful of writers sit with Wilfredo Pascual to be writers writing in a workshop.
We are given an exercise to jot down snippets of scenes we remember from the past two weeks. Fifteen of them. We jot away. Then we share what we have written with others. We do this exercise twice, I think, and then are guided into isolating five snippets into a story of sorts.
I doze off somewhere along the plenary sharing, and thus share my isolated five snippets here.
Kublai playing with the dogs in the sunshine and feeding them. I love this scene.
The retreat buffet smelled good, like really good food.
Coffee and our new lavender curtains against which that lovely lilac orchid blooms. Great coffee with balikutcha.
With cousins laughing over lunch: Pat, Lei, Beny. On a nice, open patio.
More cousin shots, this one at home, eating.
So I think, how is this a story? I look the snippets over, and…
One fine morning, my son Kublai is feeding the dogs and playing with them when my cousins arrive for lunch. From the yard, we smell the buffet, and it smells good, like really good food. When we have eaten, we have coffee, and all notice the new lavender curtains and that their color matches the lilac orchid on the table. We have food for the body and food for the eyes. It is a good meal.
The next day, the cousins meet again on a nice, open patio. More laughter, more food.
This is the life.
And that is my story formed from snippets jotted down during an afternoon of writers writing.