Here is the letter I wrote and sent via e-mail to the editor. Come on, read it, you will like it.
The mother of the sensational boxer Manny Pacquiao must be a boxer too (only a metaphor) and may even be tougher, considering the extraordinary hardships she had while raising the champion-hero and his other siblings. Dionisia must be given a Super Mother Award, if there is any.
Modesty aside (what a cliché), most of my letters are published. Search through the Internet if you think I’m conceited.
I don’t think I can bully the editors by writing long, boring letters. Editors love to cut and when they see a piece that is already shortened or trimmed (in other words, edited by the writer himself), they would publish it. Take my word.
I had a five-minute walk on the treadmill this afternoon. This exercise gets the sluggishness off me. Now that I feel alive I still have to think of something to do after this entry. But I cannot even think of what to write. Looking out the window, all I can see are ordinary houses, ordinary people, some trees, and a damn-looking tower—a cell site, I suppose. Describe, describe. What for? They don’t mean anything to me.