The Storyteller

“Lord, do words matter? Do stories even mean anything at all?”

She looked at her almost finished book, eyes wistful, heart falling in disdain. Would anyone even read those simple tales? In the world of instant information, would anyone even stop to linger inside the magical world of stories, of deep and lengthy fiction?

“Nobody really reads anymore,” she whispered sadly as she let the precious pages flutter away into the midnight air.

Off they drifted. The storyteller retreated quietly into her heart, deciding to hide herself from her love of words. She’d bask in loneliness and solitude forever. She preferred this to the torment and agony brought about by the frustrations of her passion.

“In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God and the Word was God.” John 1:1.

“Then He spoke a parable to them, that men always ought to pray and not lose heart.” Luke 18:1.

“Then He told them many things in parables saying…” Matthew 13:3a.

He spoke to them in many parables.

A tiny flame flickered in the storyteller’s heart. It was true. The Great Creator was the Master Wielder when it came to words. He chose to reveal Himself throughout the ages through writings in parchments, in old Jewish scrolls. And He turned to stories whenever He spoke of the Kingdom.

He turned to stories.

Slowly, the flame grew large enough to warm the girl’s almost frozen heart.

A lonely piece of paper sailed through the darkness before her. She saw it because it gave off a somewhat radiant light. It landed right next to her feet and, carefully, she bent down to pick it up.

It was a page from her story. It was stained with doodles and tears, but they weren’t hers. It was accented by distinct fingerprints, but they looked like they belonged to different people. Scribbled at the end of her story were words of thanks, written in varying handwriting, in varying languages.

The flame began to overtake the storyteller and she knew she had to write again.

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Through the Looking-Glass

Yesterday, I caught myself wondering if literature made any sense. Don’t get me wrong — I adore literature. Especially children’s lit. My favorite books include Winnie The Pooh, Just So Stories, The Chronicles of Narnia, and — though I am just a quarter into reading Lewis Carrol’s Through the Looking-Glass — I will shamelessly admit that I am quickly falling in love with Alice in Wonderland‘s sequel too.

“I’m sure I’ll take you with pleasure!’ the Queen said. ‘Twopence a week, and jam every other day.’

Alice couldn’t help laughing, as she said, ‘I don’t want you to hire ME—and I don’t care for jam.’

‘It’s very good jam,’ said the Queen.

‘Well, I don’t want any TO-DAY, at any rate.’

‘You couldn’t have it if you DID want it,’ the Queen said. ‘The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday—but never jam to-day.’

‘It MUST come sometimes to “jam to-day,”‘ Alice objected.

‘No, it can’t,’ said the Queen. ‘It’s jam every OTHER day: to-day isn’t any OTHER day, you know.”

Excerpt From: Carroll, Lewis. “Through the Looking-Glass.”

The book is full of logical nonsense but I love it. I’m not too sure whether it would be everyone’s cup of tea though.

A couple of months ago, some people caught me reading Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. It’s one of those books I could read over and over again, Best Beloved, no matter how nonsensical the stories get. I was currently lost in the tale of how the whale got its throat (he swallowed a man who in turn lodged a raft in his mouth pipe using suspenders — which you mustn’t forget — so that he won’t be able to eat normal-sized creatures in the future) and proceeded to relay to them that narrative when they asked what my e-book was about.

Imagine how low my heart dropped when they just laughed and said that it was — excuse my French — bs. I should read more — what was their term? “Sensible books”, I think.

Well, who said Rudyard Kipling was sensible? What about Roald Dahl? C.S. Lewis? Tolkien? J.K. Rowling? Who calls humans muggles anyway?

But what kind of world would we live in if all people read were sensible books? True, I devour inspirational and motivational books with a passion. And I owned several copies of Sir E.A. Albacea’s computer science series, too. But a world without Wonderland, without Narnia, without Middle Earth, without the Hundred Acre Woods, without Neverland… I can not even —

Come on, we all have to look at the world with childlike wonder from time to time, right?

Besides, there’s power in great literature. Just look at Jose Rizal’s Noli me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. Who knows how much longer we would have stayed under Spain’s regime if those books were never written.

And what about Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame? Tell me if these book didn’t affect society or alter history in one way or another.

So ends my literary rant. I will continue to read on. I will continue to write on too, though some say literature is a dying art.

Because we all need to go to that world of pure imagination. And words can still make a difference. Mine will. I am believing they truly, truly will.

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Back to Art

Took the time to “draw seriously” again. I have been going back to “writing seriously” and “reading seriously” so… It’s time to get back to art. :)

I drew the four Pevensies from The Chronicles of Narnia. And Aslan too. I like Narnia. Scratch that. I love Narnia. Reading the books is a long overdue thing for a reader like me, but – better late than never, right? Still on to The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I want to read the whole thing out loud. With an English accent. And all the sound effects. Haha.

Anyway.

What to draw next?