WHILE POKING AROUND a collection of piled newspapers, bags full of unknown things, empty carton boxes, hamper full of dirty clothes, these and among other stuff that compose the collection of what I call personal property, I realized the increase in the number of books I’ve been keeping in my storage. If these are piled up on top of each other, it could stand to level the height of a 1997 Honda Civic.
The books are mostly comprised of novels but a few serious paperbacks have partly consumed its space. One of them, Trip to Quiapo authored by Ricky Lee that I stashed from a certain library, has landed on my fingertips while dusting off the place on a summer hot day in November. The book teaches about script writing for movies. And as far as I remember, I read that book about seven or eight years ago. Up until now, I haven’t finished the book nor started to read it again.
Surprisingly, a single sheet of yellow paper is kept somewhere in between the pages. For years, it was untouched and its original yellow color has been stained and appeared rusty and washed. But the writing on the paper suddenly dodged me back to the day I tried to write a script after being indulged with the learnings and teachings of the book.
The story was made in one sitting. I don’t have a computer at that time and never got back to pen the stories’ ending.