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Original Works

Candle | Craft | Colour

They said that if you truly believed—owning a faith so unmovable—you would find it. They said that if you trusted in its existence, despite the echoing doubts, you could tear through the very fabric of space and time. But what they didn’t say was that it wasn’t as simple as believing. For if it was a matter of belief, many would have glimpsed this realm of magic—I, myself, would have traversed its land with my credence since birth. Alas, I lacked… the one thing that would’ve unlocked its doors. I lacked the one thing I had all along—I lacked courage.

Oh, how envious was I at the claims of those who had gone before me. They spoke of a spellbinding universe, overflowing with enchanting colours no human mind could ever conceive. They recounted the shimmering lights—a descending of the stars of the universe—that surrounded their very being, of which weren’t merely a sight to behold but a gift of overwhelming wonder and peace. Those who had journeyed beyond the boundaries of this world had an experience that was uniquely theirs, yet coherent with this gifted faction of society. And despite all that, they claimed to be ordinary. Despite their very own odyssey in such a sentient space, they believed it was a place for all.

Still, none of them made mention of courage. In my desire to leave this world behind, their only advice was faith—faith I thought I already had. Alas, I had to recognise what true belief was… on my own. For only when my present cloaked me in a veil of hopelessness—when darkness was all I could see—I had to retrieve my candle. I had to find the only remaining light—the light within—to lead me forward. And with that flickering yet undying flame, I wielded the courage to carry through. I found my belief in my craft.

True belief isn’t a notion—it isn’t merely the possibility of a great future but the reality of which I wanted to escape from. True belief is the courage to do, even if what I did wasn’t grand or magnificent. True belief is magic—the only door that opened to a realm so breathtaking, it can only be explained with colours and light. I am but a neophyte in this cosmos of curiosity and imagination but should one ask for a map to this universe, my answer would be the same as my predecessors—believe, truly believe. And once you do, the keys to this realm would be forever yours.


Candle, craft, and colour were words given by Emily Tong.

I wrote this short piece of fiction with a dash of reality in mind—a message I hope many would read in moments when they are afraid to step out. Believing isn’t just a good idea. If we truly believe, we’ll find the courage that has been within us all along.

Now, it’s your turn! Write a story of your own with the three words given. Don’t be afraid to try. Start believing in your craft today!

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3 Words, 1 Story © 2019 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

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Writing Journey

The Reality Of Fiction

Last Thursday was the 1st year publication anniversary of The Slave Prince. It marked the sixth year of my relationship with Thom. And… looking back at Thom’s life, I realised that some stories will never truly be over.

Prior to the publication of the book, I wrote a ‘farewell’ letter to Thom. Though I knew our relationship had ended, it wasn’t really goodbye. Thom will always be there—somewhere, out there—even while I work with other characters. After all, our history together has shaped my present—there is no way that he could ever disappear from my life.

Funnily enough, I’m not sentimental with all of my characters. It is only the ones I’ve known for years who tend to linger on. And, as I embark on a newer adventure with Robb and Myra—of which their tale might go on for far longer than I had previously envision—I have an inkling that they too will join Thom when it’s all over. Which… makes me glad—thankful they are here to stay even when the work is done.

Truthfully, writing isn’t always fun. And my relationship with my characters is one of the factors that make writing their stories meaningful—it is they who make the experience memorable. Because, let’s be honest… I’ve spent more time with these fictional people than with the friends of my reality. They—Thad, Thom, and Robb—have molded my life just as much as I have molded theirs. They have helped me to understand myself better—to grow in trying seasons—carrying parts of me in their personas. Despite their different stories and identities, I trust them to bear the unfiltered and tangible version of me. Despite their fictional disposition, they are real.

‘Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?’

Ask any author and I’m sure they can name a character that is far more real than reality itself. These characters break the barriers of imagination—the reason why Thom’s story feels like a personal experience, why I sometimes find Robb to be annoying, and why Thad will never be forgotten. But… it doesn’t stop there. At the end of my own story, I hope that these people wouldn’t merely be a part of me—that they wouldn’t die with their creator but will live in you.

I hope their lives will be an encouragement in your difficult times. I hope their stories will be a light in your darkness moments. I hope they linger on because they have become a part of you—as real as they can be… in what we call ‘this reality’.

Original Works

Lady Chivalry [12 Genre Months]

Since her birth, Bella had been taught the ways of grace and sophistication. She acquired a mastery in early Renaissance art at the age of five and was fluent in Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and German before she turned seven. Her remarkability modelled finesse, of which only a lady from a powerful household could ever procure. But Bella was no damsel, let alone in distress.

There came a time when Bella Fortunia refused to play by the rules of society. What was the meaning of life if all she ever did was don burgundy velvet dresses and feign bashfulness in the presence of men? No, she was going to wield a sword in a quest for honour and justice. And what finer way to begin her heroic and valiant adventure than with the rescue of her betrothed, Ziennaticus Vera.

It had been a week since Ziennaticus Vera went missing. He was last spotted at the Temple of the High Society, pounding on the oak double doors in request for entry he was seemingly denied. The High Society was an organization for the noblests of nobles—Bella’s father would attend its weekly meetings whenever it was required of him. And though she had heard of the exclusivity and prestige of the High Society, Bella knew little of what went on beneath the ribbed dome roof—never was a lady invited and never will a lady be. Alas, to the High Society’s dismay, Bella was about to kick its doors in the name of love.

Since it wasn’t ladylike, Bella had acquired a fine level of swordsmanship from a retired musketeer—excusing herself every alternate afternoon in the name of literary pursuits. And, because she knew of no one else who would be in possession of suitable garb, Bella paid her teacher an unexpected visit—at his cluttered room above his favourite tavern—on the morning of her quest. After an intoxicated night, the middle-aged man stood fuddled as Bella swiped a deep crimson doublet with golden laces, a black cape, and the retiree’s polished rapier. Promising to return the attire, she slipped into the swordmaster’s former persona and wasted not a second more—storming toward the Temple of the High Society.

What was Bella’s grand plan? Surely, the chivalrous young lady had it well thought out. And she did, without any need for theatrics. Standing at the heavy double doors of the High Society, Bella demanded for her lover—whom she strongly believed to have been kidnapped by the coterie of elitists—to be released.

“Do not make me swing my blade,” Bella threatened. “Release Sir Vera this instant and I shall be on my way.”

“We have not heard of this Ziennaticus Vera. So be on your way, woman,” a voice replied from behind the doors.

“I am no woman,” Bella stated, in abhorrence of the foul appellation. “I am a lady and I am here for my knight in distress.”

“We do not have your knight. So be gone!”

Oh, how the stranger regretted his words. Instead of a futile argument, Bella responded with a forceful kick at the door. The sudden impact—despite failing to send the door crashing down—led to an oof as if the doorkeeper had fallen on his back.

“Have you caught the plague?” the man yelled—outrage present in the resonance of his voice.

“My knight or I’ll send you the plague!” Bella raised her own in competition.

Bella hesitated for a moment—in contemplation of offering the stranger a chance to concede—but the thought of her beloved locked in a cage, hanging high above treacherous spikes, sparked her to action. Bella raised her knee high, ready for another kick, when-

“What the devil is going on in here?” Lady Fortunia asked, failing to hide the horror that had swept across her face the second she walked through the reading room door.

“We’re… just playing,” Bella replied, promptly tossing the wooden sword onto the floral hand-woven carpet.

“Is this how a lady behaves?” Lady Fortunia questioned. Ziennaticus, who had placed an armchair between him and Bella as the imaginary door, lowered himself from view.

“No,” Bella replied, dropping her gaze as she did. Instantly, she knew her fate had been sealed—additional hours pouring over manuscripts with her aging tutor and the arduous task of embroidering the entire garden with her nursemaid.

“Ziennaticus,” Lady Fortunia ordered forward.

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Ziennaticus muttered, daring not to raise his head.

“Tell Lady Vera that you’ll be too ill for anymore visits this month.”

“No,” Bella interjected. Reading and needlework was acceptable, but prohibiting the only time she could be herself was cruel.

“Not another word from you, young lady.” Lady Fortunia snapped. “Now off you go, Ziennaticus. I don’t want to see you until the month is over.”

If there was a time Bella Fortunia needed to wield her sharpened rapier, that was the time. Alas, some rules of society couldn’t be broken. Even if Bella Fortunia refused to play along, her mother would see to it that she did. After all, Bella was a damsel… but one in distress? No, never—at the very least, that decision was hers and hers alone.


12 Genre Months © 2019 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for the list of stories in this writing challenge.)

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Original Works

Hat | Handkerchief | Car

His name was Jasonian Arventus—the kind of name you wouldn’t forget because it had pretentious written all over it. Jasonian Arventus—who had always insisted I used his entire moniker, as he couldn’t accept the shortening of his name to that of a commoner—never once left his house without his silk, peach-coloured handkerchief. Routinely, he had it snugged in the front left pocket of his expensive grey-checkered, double-breasted wool coat, before taking a foot past the front door. The plain and glossy piece of fabric was akin to a child’s security blanket, for Jasonian Arventus—whose name I’m bound to misspell in the near future—believed it brought him good luck.

Jasonian Arventus had a myriad of possessions but none as precious as his rabbit’s foot of a mouchoir. He lived in a Victorian mansion the size of a Slovenian castle, and had not one but fifteen automobiles that would awake your inner green-eyed monster. He also had a private collection of historical armaments from the Crusades and ancient scrolls from the age of pharaohs. And, if you ever had the patience to hold a conversation with him, he would boast of the ungodly amount of jewellery he owned that rivalled the royal museum. Yet, you would find that Jasonian Arventus would give it all up for his handkerchief—except for that one night, when he was offered a hat in exchange.

The felt hat arrived at his doorstep in a box. It wasn’t a package he had ordered nor was there a delivery man requesting for his fanciful signature. When Jasonian Arventus attended to the chime of the doorbell—he didn’t believe in squandering his wealth on a doorkeeper—he found a note attached to the parcel. The scribble of a letter read, ‘Exchange the kerchief for the bowler and you’ll receive your greatest desire.’

Some days, I wonder if I am to blame for what happened to Jasonian Arventus. However, it was a blessing in disguise. As I was, unsurprisingly, the only person who cared enough, Jasonian Arventus rang me over. He sent his chauffeur to my humble abode, ensuring that I couldn’t decline his seemingly urgent request—made a few hours shy of midnight.

“You have to help me, Beasty,” Jasonian Arventus hollered, just as I exited from the daylight robbery he called his favourite car. “I don’t know what to do.”

My name is not Beasty—lest you believe my parents would actually pen such an atrocity on my birth certificate. Jasonian Arventus never saw the importance of learning my name as I did his. Thus, he called me Beasty—short for Aarion Beastanol.

“What is the matter, Jasonian?” I asked, questioning my kindhearted nature for attending to his almost always childish beck and call.

Jasonian Arventus, Beasty,” Jasonian Arventus corrected.

“What is the matter, Jasonian Arventus?” I repeated.

“I received this.” Jasonian Arventus slammed the letter on my chest—forcefully enough to knock all the air out from my last breath. “And that,” Jasonian Arventus added, pointing to the box on the marble front porch.

“Hmm,” I said, after reading the hastily written words. “Exchange the kerchief for the bowler.”

“You think I should?” Jasonian Arventus asked. His eyes widened as though he had already decided but needed further affirmation.

“You want to, don’t you?”

“But you know how important silkie is to me,” Jasonian Arventus said.

“The letter didn’t say what to do after the exchange—there’s no return address. Once you make the trade, I’ll take silkie out and keep it for you,” I offered. All I so desired, as my eyelids weighed heavily in the need of rest, was to end the conversation.

“Good idea, Beasty,” Jasonian Arventus said. He took my proposal as encouragement and shuffled to the package. Ripping the box open in unrepressed excitement, he swapped his prized possession for a promise. Then waving me over, he prompted, “Take silkie.”

Withholding a sigh, I did what Jasonian Arventus asked once more. If it meant that he would send me home, I was more than happy to abide. Little did I know, that was the last time I did anything for Jasonian Arventus. In fact, it was the last time I ever saw him or uttered his name. For the following morning, as I returned to Jasonian Arventus’ mansion, I found only the bowler.

Some Wednesdays, while I sipped on earl grey tea in my cluttered office, I would wonder about Jasonian Arventus’ greatest desire. What was it that he had secretly coveted—that made him, his entire household, and every paraphernalia that moulded his persona, disappear overnight? Other days, I would imagine a different scenario, of which I didn’t suggest he trade his handkerchief for the bowler—would he still be boasting his grand and lavish lifestyle? Fortunately, on most days including the weekends, I left my inquisitive thoughts at the back of my mind. After all, if it wasn’t for Jasonian Arventus’ vanishing, I wouldn’t have learned about my sickly aunt in Chenonceaux, France.

Who knew that I—an ordinary man of no stature—could be someone of great importance. Who knew that society would someday say my name—the entire moniker, Aarion Beastanol, that should not and could not be shortened to the likes of a commoner. Perhaps, Jasonian Arventus was right about the handkerchief—luck was now on my side. And should I be offered a hat in exchange, I would be less of a madman to make the same mistake.


Hat, handkerchief, and car were words given by Manua De Cia.

I wrote this with Discombobulate, from the Sherlock Holmes film soundtrack, on repeat. It may or may not have anything to do with the tone and setting of this story. Also, the names were given by a friend—an inside joke that could have, possibly, inspired the characters themselves.

Now, it’s your turn! Write a story of your own with the three words given. And while you’re at it, feel free to challenge me with 3 MORE WORDS in the comment section below!

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3 Words, 1 Story © 2019 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

Writing Journey

I Don’t Believe In Talent

If I believed in talent, I wouldn’t be writing. If I believed in talent, I wouldn’t be making videos. If I believed in talent, there will be no blog posts and no stories—not a single creative expression finding completion. I wouldn’t have undergone arduous months campaigning for my novels. I wouldn’t have encountered countless rejections and experienced amazing opportunities. If I believed in talent, I wouldn’t be here today. Thus why I don’t believe in talent. Instead, I believe in doing what matters.

Over the years, I’ve come to realise that talent isn’t a strong ‘currency’ in life. Sure, having talent is a great capital for when you want to start pursuing your dreams. But soon enough, you’ll discover that there are others who are richer than you—others who are far more gifted than you will ever be. You’ll start to notice young bloods surpassing you in your craft—geniuses that leave you stumbling in the dust. And when that happens, what do you do? Do you throw in the towel—refuse to fight for your dreams because you’re not talented enough? Do you wish for more talent—fantasize about the day you will be discovered for your brilliance? Here’s the thing: if you’re running on talent alone, you are bound to fail. And if that is true, you’re probably wondering… is success possible—can you actually succeed without talent?

Success is self-defined—we define success through the things that matter to us. And what matters to us includes the reason why we pursue our dreams. Personally, I do what I do because I want to be a source of encouragement. I do what I do because I want others to believe in their dreams. I do what I do because I want to make a difference—no matter how small the impact may be—in the lives of those around me. And that… is all that matters to me.

Now, why does your passion matter to you? Why is your dream important to you? Once you know why it matters, you don’t need talent. Yes! You. Don’t. Need. Talent! You don’t need talent to do what matters. You don’t need to be a creative genius to do something of value. You don’t need to have an impressive IQ to live a meaningful life. After all, when something matters to you, you will do it anyway—you’ll find a way to achieve success, overcoming every obstacle, unfazed by the world of talent around you.

So… if you’re in a stage of life where you’re questioning whether you have what it takes—if you are gifted enough to pursue your dreams—start looking past talent. Don’t limit yourself to your physical abilities but look within you to find the reason for your ambitions. Ask yourself why what you’re doing matters to you, and stop living on the currency of talent. Make a decision… to start running on purpose instead.

Writing Journey

The Realm Of Many Faces

The tunnels of Dunkel winded, sloped, and forked without any signs of where each turn led. Yet, Spion knew. Left, left, down, right, left— he appeared to have memorised the map of the universe. But that notion itself was quite a stretch. You would have to visit Dunkel more than once to understand how the realm was built. There was a higher probability Spion moved by instinct.

“Are we going in the right direction?” Robb asked, as they ascended a tunnel.

It had been a good hour since they bought the hooded cloak for Robb’s disguise. His calves now ached from the underground hiking as sweat trailed down his back in the stale and humid air.

“It seems we’re going further away from the ground,” Robb added.

“There’s no grid with these tunnels. I have to go by gut,” Spion confirmed.

“I thought so.” Robb hesitated on offering to take the lead, but it seemed silly since he was generally bad with direction. So he asked, “You have no idea where we are then?”

“I’ve been here before. You don’t have to worry. We’re not lost,” Spion assured.

“Right, I trust you. I always trust you.”

After three descents and six corners—close to another hour later— they reached the bottom. With a maze-like route, Robb had no idea how they arrived to the right of the city square. In fact, it was a miracle they made it altogether.

“There should be an inn nearby,” Spion confidently stated.

Stepping into a crowded street, Spion gestured forward and Robb tailed along. Just like the tunnels, getting lost was plausible. The buildings around the city square were unorganised. Some alleys tapered, some pathways widened, some structures tilted, and many walkways led to dead ends. It was as though a giant hand scattered the mud-made buildings and let them take root. There was no city planning involved, and the only landmark for Robb to gain his bearings was the city square.

Keeping Spion in sight, Robb stole quick glances at his surroundings. And in that collection of people, he discovered Dunkel’s unique trait. No, it wasn’t the brown, blockish architecture—to his surprise, it was the people. The citizens of the realm were the ideal definition of diversity. And their differences were impossible to disregard when they came together.

Most of the realms Robb had travelled to homed citizens with similar genetic traits. But Dunkel was the first he’d traversed with a thorough mix, spurring a great many tongues. Despite having learned the universal language, a multitude of dialects filled the air. It only reinforced his theory that the ancestors of the current generation originated from other realms. They might’ve migrated from neighbouring worlds, or they could’ve lost their way during the Sorxcistos’ reign. Robb didn’t see the allure of Dunkel and how it could’ve drawn diverse populations. So the latter sounded more rational in explaining the heterogeneity.

“Interesting,” Robb muttered to himself.

“What is?”

“Nothing. Where’s the inn?” Robb asked, as they turned into the main street.

The street was the widest space by far, with the exception of the city square. But ‘widest’ was an overstatement, as it could only fit five people shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Up ahead,” Spion replied.

With no distinction between the buildings, and not a single one sporting a sign, Robb was about to ask Spion to be specific. But before he could, he heard a voice. It interrupted his train of thought. And aside from what it said, it sounded close—too close for that matter.

“You don’t want to go there,” the voice whispered.

Turning around, Robb expected to see a grimy face. But in the absence of the source was the common crowd shuffling about their businesses. Did he imagine the voice? No, why would he? Unfortunately, with a street packed like a can of sardine, there was no guessing who had spoken.

Tugging Spion to a halt, Robb asked, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Spion replied. His eyes instantly narrowed.

Then, to prove Robb wasn’t crazy, the voice returned. In its coarse whisper, it added, “They know. They know you’re here, Your Majesty.”


I know, I know, I’ve left yet another seemingly half-baked tale for you. But just like The Realm Of Plum Blossom, this is an excerpt from my newest young adult fantasy series, Whispers Of The Wind

If this snippet has intrigued you, I have good news. The full manuscript of Whispers Of The Wind can be read on Swoon Reads for FREE! You don’t have to pay a single cent to travel through the magical realms with Robb! But why Swoon Reads?

Swoon Reads is a platform where readers decide which book gets published by Feiwel & Friends. By putting Whispers Of The Wind on Swoon Reads, I stand a chance at receiving a publishing deal. And, because it’s May, Swoon Reads will be making their next selection of books within this month itself! So if you’ve yet to check the book out, please, please, please do so. If you’re still reading it, please do leave a comment and a rating at your earliest convenience. Your assistance will increase my chances of being noticed by the editors—increasing the odds of not just publishing deal but perhaps a life-changing deal.

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Original Works

Crown Prince Philius [12 Genre Months]

Once upon a time, there was a crown prince named Philius. Philius stood at thirty-eight inches tall, with feet the size of his oval head and arms that stopped short of his waist. He was a splitting image of his father the king—an actuality his mother often declared in pride.

As the firstborn of the royal bloodline, Philius was to inherit all of Aeter—every flowering crop, fertile soil, bountiful harvest, and living creature. But when his father left for the underworld, Philius learned that he would only receive half of what was promised to him.

It was on a rainy day when Philius and his envoy of lions set out for Shec. Shec was a prosperous city in Aeter—a place where many amphibians and reptiles gathered for their extravagant celebrations. However, on that un-fine day, all the inhabitants of Aeter assembled for one reason and one reason only: Philius’ coronation.

Despite the gloom, the ceremony was nothing less than festive. The multifarious crowd cheered, glorious steamed beetles were served, expensive gifts in the shapes of square and rectangle were stacked two-storeys high, and Philius was pleased. He was in a boisterous mood, until an unexpected guest arrived.

Thorad, an official in the former king’s court, invited himself to the party—the one who had once engendered a rebellion and fled when his crimes were uncovered. With a plain golden chest in his hands, Thorad said, “I have come to congratulate you, Your Majesty. Here is a gift I have brought from my travels in the land of Yellow and Blue.”

“Thank you. It has been a while,” Philius replied, contemplating if he should summon his baboons to escort the traitor out.

“Is has been a while indeed, Your Majesty. You have grown.”

Philius nodded in reply—he had grown nearly five centimetres since Thorad’s insurgence.

“Your Majesty, if I may add,” Thorad continued.

“You seek a favour?” Philius asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Your father has put a yoke on me and my birds. Now that you are king, I wish for you to lift this burden from us. With your kindness, we will surely serve you wholeheartedly,” Thorad said, with a seemingly forceful smile.

“My father has indeed put a heavy yoke on you,” Philius replied. “But as my father’s favourite child, it is only right if I make your yoke heavier.”

“I beg your pardon?” Thorad asked, with disbelief glazing his hawkish mien.

“My father sequestered you for your betrayal, but I shall banish you instead,” Philius said.

“Your Majesty, are we not your citizens? Don’t we have a share of this land? To banish us is cruel,” Thorad challenged.

“If I am cruel, your shoulder would be missing a head and your birds their wings,” Philius threatened.

Thorad lowered his head. “Very well, Your Majesty. Your wish is my command,” Thorad resigned. And with that, Thorad and his birds departed.

One would think that King Philius could rest well that night. Alas, Philius was afraid that Thorad might rebel again—the avian king had an army of wilful aves that would attack on his command. So to keep a watchful eye on the betrayer, Philius sent a three-eyed deer after Thorad. Unfortunately, before the deer could be of any use to the king, it became the rebel’s dinner. And with that one meal came a series of events that led to the destruction of half the land—the end of half of Aeter.

Instigated by the actions of the king, Thorad ordered his birds to incite the citizens against the ruling family. And in response to the threat, Philius sent his army of eighty thousand baboons to Thorad’s camp. Philius hoped to capture Thorad, and reclaim the land Thorad had attained through mutiny. But on the night before the battle, the Star bestowed Philius a message.

The Star instructed Philius to abandon the war and send another three-eyed deer instead. The Star could foretell the future, so Philius did as he was told. When the birds saw Philius’ deer, they directed the creature with their flattering wings and deafening squawks toward their leader. And when Thorad caught the mammal, he butchered it for dinner. However, unlike his previous carnivorous meal, Thorad shared the cuts of venison with his allies—a pinch of meat each to unify their forces. And, a pinch was all it took.

When the sun rose at the break of dawn, those who had consumed the three-eyed deer didn’t wake from their slumber. Half of Aeter—who had sided with whom they hoped would be their new king—had died. And with that, Philius won the fight against the anarchist. Alas, he also lost half of what was promised to him—destroying his own inheritance, with a deer that would’ve been his own dinner the same night before.


12 Genre Months © 2019 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for the list of stories in this writing challenge.)

Writing Journey

Your Alternate Ending

Our life is like a book except that the ending is constantly changing. With every decision we make—from what we eat for lunch to the time we go to bed—our future is being revised over and over again. It is an alteration we do not see, perhaps in belief that certain actions are too small to account for anything. But once we start paying attention—noticing even the minute details—we’ll begin to see the ripple of our every action and thought. We’ll realise that with every breath, we are rewriting the epilogue of our story.

To some, grasping the notion that ‘every action has an equal and opposite reaction’ is terrifying. And indeed, it is a scary thought—what will happen with every success and failure? Will we end up with a bad final chapter? What if our decisions change our entire book? Unfortunately, that is how life is. But it’s not all that bad when we start to see the possibilities that come with change.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve come to realise that change is good. Change has broadened my perspective of the world and the opportunities it has to offer. Change has forced me out of my comfort zone—to try new things and embark on different adventures. Change has led me down roads I never thought I would traverse, changing my ending repeatedly—the same unpredictable future from the start now as unpredictable as before, but… much brighter and more exciting than yesterday. Change, if I dare say, is a gift.

Now, of course, there was a time I was afraid of change—a time I feared that it would alter my dreams, divert my goals, and lead me astray from the grand plans I had for myself. But, not any longer. I’ve learned to adapt to change. And with every adaptation, I’m writing a better story for myself. With every trial and error—every uncomfortable moment—I’m shifting my perspective for the better. And so, I challenge you to embrace change too.

I challenge you to create an alternate ending for yourself. You do not have to give up on your dreams. You do not have to drop any of your plans. I, myself, didn’t stop being an author when I started doing Facebook videos. I didn’t stop writing stories while I explored other platforms to share my ideas and experiences. In fact, when I challenged my status quo, my dream expanded. So I’m glad—I’m glad that I’m no longer afraid of change. I’m glad that my ending isn’t what it used to be. And I cannot wait to uncover the alternate end to my story because I know… it can only get better from here.