From the archives: the saved Telegram messages that became “Hot Nights, Cold Shoulders”
From my writer’s desk
On zero drafts, notes to self, and paranoia-induced file-saving techniques
“Let writing interrupt your life.” That is the creed by which I live and die. This means that, no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, if an idea comes to me, I drop everything and write it down.
I’ve forced myself up from bed when ideas come. I’ve paused mid-shower to take notes. Usually I’ll jot them down in one of my many notebooks, but when I don’t have them with me, I default to my Saved Messages chat on Telegram. It allows me to switch seamlessly from my phone to my laptop, where I do most of my writing on Scrivener, so in between grocery lists and links to articles I mean to read at a later date, you’ll get brain dumps of story or characters ideas, zero drafts, and other writerly notes-to-self.
Below is one such example. It’s interesting to see how much has changed since this zero draft. I wrote this all on my phone, the same way I would compose messages to friends, and would only stop to send the message—because I’m paranoid about losing all my progress. Yes, I do hit command + s on every document at least a hundred times in random intervals, and again before I close the document (and send myself copies as back up)—how did you know? 😆
So much has changed about HOT NIGHTS, COLD SHOULDERS since these messages, but you can still see traces of this zero draft in the final manuscript. Fans of the book might enjoy playing a game of Spot the Difference. I know I did!
I’m very superstitious about my writing (I believe that stories exist whole outside of me and my job as a writer is to tune in and ‘transcribe’ the muse as it dictates itself to me) so it’s always interesting to look back and see what I “got right” the first go-around, and what ultimately had to be changed.
I hope you enjoy this peek behind the curtain! I send writing tips, updates, and other behind-the-scenes looks to my newsletter, so if you’d like to receive more content like this in your inbox, you can sign up below. Happy reading! ⭐️
Nina, [10/29/24 1:59 AM]
she got overstimulated and went for a walk and peered into a gallery opening/exhibit opening night. it's slowing down, and then she comes across the painting of herself and is shocked. he catches a glimpse of her and breaks from the ppl hes talking to and is shocked by the sight of her
Nina, [10/30/24 8:02 AM]
the night of my brother's birthday, my life was changed. i used to think such a drastic transformation would require a cataclysmic event, an intense upheaval that picks me up and drops me right down onto the other side, into the after. but it was nothing like that. all that had happened was i stepped out for a breather. it had been, as it always was in manila, a humid night, the air thick with smog and sticky on my skin. when the glass doors shut behind me, the party was safely ensconced from the outside world, the thumping music replaced by engines, horns, and mechanical buzzing as if the celebrants were dancing to the beat of the city itself. i'd had enough of dancing. i had more alcohol in my system than was usual—several sips of sangria was enough to loosen me, as i never got into the habit of drinking, nor acquired the taste of alcohol itself. it was getting to that time of night when the music was too loud, the people too drunk, and i, still learning to live in my life after a formal autistic diagnosis, was feeling irritable, a direct result of my overstimulation. i walked in circles within full view of the security guard standing by the door. his presence kept my mother's anxious warnings at bay. isabel, it's late. don't go out alone. then my circles started getting wider and wider, and me, braver and braver. i crossed over to the edge of the bar, where its building connected with the next high-rise. then back, and then farther again, crossing the high-rise onto the next one. before i knew it, i was turning the corner, led by nothing than instinct, alcohol, and unadulterated whim. with one foot after the other, headed nowhere in particular, i carried on that way, never crossing the street, sticking to my side of the sidewalk, drenched in the tangerine light of a lamp post one second and then back into the darkness next. a few joggers passed by me, and then maids walking their owners' dogs. i love the city at night. i love the contrast of illuminated lobbies through glass doors against the dark. i wonder, for a good minute, the kind of person i'd be if i lived in this building or that.
Nina, [10/30/24 8:08 AM]
more importantly, i imagined how it would feel to be that person who lived there. i must be very grown up and cosmopolitan, to live in a high-rise in salcedo village, and maybe i'd go for jogs and have a go-to neighborhood cafe and go to the salcedo market on saturdays. i'd indulged in this fantasy, this game of make believe i've been playing for my whole life where i try on new identities like a shopaholic tries on new clothes, when a group of eclectically dressed people come into view. they're milling outside on the front steps of a building, trying to take hits of their vapes incognito. i forgot, and then am swiftly reminded, about the new law about smoking in public spaces.
i faltered. i considered, very briefly, crossing the road so as not to run into them. but the closer i got, the more curious i became until it was too late, i was crossing right in front of them, they're saying things to each other like what a talent, really, he's the next big thing, i don't know about the one with the girl in the mirror, isn't it a little cliche? i reach the end of the street and circle back. i want to see this talent, this next big thing, decide for myself whether the girl in the mirror is cliche or not.
Nina, [10/30/24 8:14 AM]
i worry, the whole thirty second walk back, that the people will recognize me as the girl who just walked past and think i'm weird and then realize i'd eavesdropped. but when i return they were all gone, and in their place, an easel with a sintra board displaying the details of the exhibit opening. if i lived in a high-rise in salcedo village, i would go to galleries, yes. it was part of being cosmopolitan. cultured. i would be in the art scene. i would have opinions. yes, he's one-in-a-million, no, the girl in the mirror isn't cliche. i scan the display and, certain it isn't a private event, ascend the steps and enter the gallery.
Nina, [10/30/24 8:37 AM]
soft jazz music greets me. white walls are adorned with paintings of different sizes. people are in their evening wear, laughing, chatting, admiring. there are cocktail tables and waiters serving finger food. there is an open bar and wine.
i took several fine arts classes in college, so i had a rudimentary grasp on what lay before me. the first painting, sold judging from the pink circular sticker above the title card, is of a person swimming, mid-inhale, at sunset. each brush stroke is a ripple in the water. there's an ache in me, as if i'm there in the water, drawing in the deepest of breaths with the subject. it's summer, and i am seeing them swim with my own two eyes. i'm transported. it's real. what a talent, he's the next big thing.
i move on to the next painting, two middle-aged women sitting on a sloping hill. more sunlight. more ache.
this talent, this next big thing, loves to play with light and shadow in his art. it seems to be a recurring theme in his work, all scenes of idle individuals, as if he'd pulled the vision out of his mind and spread it out on the canvas.
then i saw it. the girl in the mirror. she has her back turned to the viewer, one arm lifted as she brushes her hair. she has a gentle smile on her face, and she stares directly back through her reflection, the only painting to have broken the fourth wall.
i stare at her, and she stares back at me. it should be impossible, and yet there i am, on the canvas, brushing my hair, smiling back at myself.
she has my hair: straight and dark. she has my eyes: uninspiring brown. she has my full lips, my nose, which is really my mother's, and then my mother's mother. i blink, half expecting the portrait to change faces. it's the alcohol, i'm seeing things. but i continue to smile back at myself. i continue to brush my hair.
"there you are." i'm ripped out of my reverie by a warm, large hand wrapping around my arm. iñigo. he's dating one of my best friends. has been for at least six years. he's become something like a brother to me, which means i'm immediately annoyed by his presence. i jerk my arm away.
"gwen and rocio are looking for you," he says, grabbing hold of my arm again. "come on."
i want to stay. i want to keep looking at myself looking back at me. but iñigo's phone rings, and i know it's gwen because he's telling her he found me, yes, i'll meet you outside, and the moment is over.
i steal one last look at myself and let iñigo lead me away. he's telling me how worried gwen is, how i can't just disappear without telling anyone where i'm going. before iñigo was gwen's boyfriend, he was my brother, jaime's friend. he'd inherited jaime's protectiveness.
i tune him out. i think of myself, depicted on the canvas in startling clarity. it was the farthest thing from cliche i could have ever imagined.
Nina, [10/30/24 8:48 AM]
i was the baby of the group, and with my diagnosis, everyone treated me much more gently than they used to. it was infuriating, but i hadn't yet figured out how to express this without upsetting them. i appreciated the consideration and the kindness, of course; i just didn't want to be treated like a child. when we met up with gwen and rocio halfway to the bar where jaime's party is at, i prepared myself for the inevitable interrogation and lecture. where were you you can't just go off like that we were calling you why weren't you answering your phone. gwen could really talk my ear off. rocio said nothing, because rocio never says anything and lets gwen do all the talking even though judging from the look on her face she agrees. i'm a lightweight and they know it, and mama had asked them to keep me safe. they took that responsibility seriously.
they never let me out of their sight for the rest of the night so that by the time i got home and crawled into bed, i felt like that person in the painting, desperate for a breath. my body buzzed with energy so that i couldn't sleep. i tossed and i turned, but ultimately i got on my phone and retraced my steps through google streetview so i could look up the gallery and find more details about the artist. did he see my face online? there were hardly any pictures of me; mama was strict about our privacy and hated social media. but what other explanation was there?
the gallery was called blue moon. its logo was in serif, a tilted crescent moon in place of the letter U. it hosts workshops year-round, some for children, others for adults wanting to dabble in art. there are residency programs, competitive and highly coveted by artists local and worldwide. its latest exhibit, aptly named light & shadow, is by a debut artist named kieran o'connor. my heart races. my body burns with the thrill of knowing something of my portrait's maker in return. kieran o'connor, kieran o'connor, kieran o'connor. i google the name, but there are no photos of him. there's a website, his portfolio and a biography that tells me he's twenty-six and works primarily with oil paint on canvas. but that was it.
it's hardly fair that he can know me well enough to depict me so accurately and all i have to go by is his name, age, and medium. he could be anyone. look like anything. i wasn't so much in the habit of caring how other people looked, but i needed to see his face, to picture it staring into my oil painted eyes as he rendered me in color.
there is a contact form on his website, but i don't know how long it'll take him to reply. it seems like the obvious solution, to ask him about the portrait, but i don't want our first words to be exchanged online. i want to see for myself first, that i hadn't hallucinated things, and then to have him recognize the resemblance without my having to say it. it seems rather full of myself to barge into his inbox and say, hey, is that me in your painting?
what are the odds that he'll still be there tomorrow were i to visit? the gallery is open from 9 to 5 by appointment. i schedule a visit and begin working on my excuse: i'm a budding art connoisseur, i'd like a conversational piece to hang in my living room for when i host guests in my one bedroom condo in salcedo village. when i come across my portrait, i'll gasp, as if seeing it for the first time, and ask for more details. maybe they'll call the artist if he's not there, having noticed my resemblance to the portrait, and introduce us. if not, i'll ask if there's a way to better reach him other than his website. i'll take a photo, or a brochure of the exhibit if they won't let me, and ask for more time to think about it. depending on the price, i might buy it then and there. i've saved up enough over the years. i think it'll be worth it. mama can't know, of course; i'll say it's a gift. she already gives me enough shit about how much i spend on books and stationery, no matter how many online guides i send her to autistic special interests or hyperfixations.
i confirm my appointment for 10am the next day, saturday. ◆
