The Struggle to Get some Writerly Sense

I will write this essay slow with short breaks to read the text of Krip Yuson’s 1991 book Confessions of a Q.C. House-husband and other Privacies. Yes, of course the music background will be those new wave singles I have downloaded from Ares. Let the jumble thoughts or if there ever were force themselves into order so this essay will have some sense. Of course, there’s Lil Feather doing the laundry and egging me to write and work asking for my attention to see the developments in her task. During these times when my brain and mind lack any stamina to form a composition longer than a sentence, I would need to call for heaven’s help, call Kerouac (or curse him for the influence for the impatient haphazard type-writing yakking that would need the kick of one liter Red Horse to do), summon the souls of Hemingway and Joyce and guide me to go to Mexico to kill Ignacio Padilla heir to the throne of Latin-American magical fiction writers like Gabo. This is back to basics; the only difference now is that I’m dreadfully writing on a laptop and seeing the white pages of Word to be filled not the way when I started to write when I was younger, writing with ballpen and a piece of cross-wised-folded paper on the second landing of the apartment we used to rent back in the 90’s. The struggle is still the same: force myself not to succumb to the gravitational pull of the bed and just continue to write, yes yak, flex that writerly writer in me… (Intro: Leave me Alone of New Order… ever notes proves to be a tingling urging sensation in my legs… from my head to my toes I see a vision that would bring me luck… I just smile).

Vexation to the Writing Spirit

There was a time when I write about the advantages of having a career as an online writer. I have probably written a dozen of those ready-made articles proselytizing the benefits of writing and working in the comfort of your home. Though there is no doubt that there is a long list that can be included why one is better to work at home than struggling to get out of your bed every morning and travel an average of four hours a day going and back from office, the pang of reality that there are too some challenges working from home is still real.

First and foremost, working as a home-based writer or whatever field you are in (given that your work is possible to be done at home) is an alien idea or practice that can not be easily understood by common folks that do the daily grind of working in the traditional way. Nevertheless, that is not an issue that you have to contend with what if you are already fattening your wallet and bank account with wiretransfer and paypal paycheck (just don’t ask me where are my dough now –smirking).

The first challenge or obstacle, if you can call it that, is the distraction created by daily domestic chores presented by your very home, the comfort of your home as I have said. I remember once when my late father told me that the nature and utility of home is basically and purely for a place where you can sleep and that was it. Home is not your working place. Yup, very traditional. And yes, when my good mother said while I roamed the house looking for some kind of inspirational miracle so that I can write: who will pay you for your work. There is basically no boss or even an accounting department to hand you that dough present in the house: a phantom employer she probably was thinking. The notion of wire transfer and online payment was still vague as a muddy water for her.

As I have mentioned, the first obstacle you are going hurdle is the daily domestic chores, especially the surprise activities. When was that time when I was beating a deadline and my good mother suddenly started moving the dining table and other appliances in the house for what she saw as a need for a new arrangement of furniture in the house. The poor me, split apart and vexed all the way to the core of my writing spirit, could not do but leave my seat and the blinking cursor on my monitor to help out with her obsessive-compulsive behavior to give the interior of the house a new look.

Oh, drat! Before I blabber further let’s cut the story and the so-called vexation to the writing spirit short by saving enough for a pad (now, where’s my dough, shrug).

The Pyramid and Putting Somebody Down to be Somebody

There are a thousand reasons why an individual wants to be a writer. But most probably, either consciously or unconsciously – which is rare – he wants to be a literary writer. There is no other way around to explain why a person would want to stay in his room and plod on writing if he had not been inspired or disillusioned by the books that he had read and concluded in himself that he could also write like that. Save for some, this may not be true. But generally, most of the writers one way or another started their effort to learn how to write with this goal in mind.

When I was younger, I imagined already a pyramid representing the number of writers in a generation who would start up below eager to win their college literary writing contest, bag the national literary awards and finally the Nobel Prize for Literature. But as the year would pass by, this number of wannabe writers will decrease. Some would lose interest all in all in writing. Some will find that they don’t have it. Others will find job and face the reality of life that they have to work and drop the stupid idea that they held as sacred before (which happens most of the time). As that generation gets older, only a number would remain and probably a group or an individual will emerge as the most talented among his contemporaries. So the pyramid figure.

My antidote to that is to stay slugging it out until your last breath. You may not get on top, but probably you must have reached the middle part of the pyramid, at least.

Now, talking about this bunch of writers is an interesting topic to discuss. These writers who are inspired/ disillusioned themselves growing old to write that great literary book can be seen as already strutting like a bigshot even while they are still writing for the school papers. Like a bunch of wannabe rockstars, their ego is already bloated to the hilt. They know the importance and power of the written word and this they use to create image that they are better than anybody else. Let them win an award here or there and they are already yakking like hell about the seemed-shortcomings of the people they think they are at par talent-wise.

But, as I recall what an already established local writer said: this inflated ego is somehow harmless. I dare say we can call it merely as boosting one’s confidence.

While it’s true, I am just appalled sometimes when I stumble on blogs by known struggling contemporary writers. It’s good that they are still writing and still slugging it out and honing their writing skills through their blogs. But when I read their entries – knowing beforehand that they have won several literary competitions – and they try to put somebody down so that they can portray an image that they are already somebody and they kick ass, I’m just disappointed.

What do they want? Be Jessica Zafra? Zafra has been known for kicking ass and she’s the best in that league. What’s the point of emulating her? Can’t you offer something else? You think putting somebody down through crafty writing would do you or your reader good?

Nah! Forget it!

Silence and Writing

Since the beginning of this year, I rarely post an entry in this blog. And prior to that, I’ve mentioned my thoughts about the attractiveness of creative writing waning already for me as a goal that I must pursue. I added that I see no sense in writing another conflict through literature to be read by conflict-plagued people. There is basically no sense adding to the chaos of life.

And during those self-imposed reclusive online life, I unconsciously made a resolution to be silent. Act no more. Think no more. Write no more. If there ever were times that I write those efforts were all related to my work as a freelance writer. I even dropped the idea of reading more books to accumulate more information and knowledge. Probably, I have said to myself that I’ve already had enough dose of reading.

When I mentioned to Lil Feather that I no longer want to pursue writing, the real writing that I defined from the moment I decided that I wanted to be a writer, all she could say to me was she supports me on anything that I want in this life. But, she added, if she only had the talent that I have she would have chosen to use it.

What can I say to that? Am I being lead to a misinterpretation of all the studies that I have been involved during this past year? Another question that played on my mind was do I really get the right lessons of all of my readings and practice?

Somehow, there is a doubt in my head that I surely don’t get the lessons being imparted on me by my studies. The spectrum of the experiential knowledge and wisdom of my study is so vast and can take me eons to fully understand and skillfully practice that I am left almost stupefied on what to do with the trickle of mindfulness that I’m observing.

Nevertheless, there is something good that happened during the times that I stopped yakking about my intention to write or become a ‘real’ writer. I noticed in my silence that this dream of becoming a writer will never happen because I’m caught by the bad habit of merely talking and complaining about it. Since the start of my journey and learning to become a writer, all I wrote were all complains and woes about writing this story etc. In my silence and resolution to stop writing for a while, I somehow stopped the vicious cycle of merely a dreamer than a doer. I stopped the record in my head that has been playing over and over again that I wanted to be a writer, clouding my mind to think creatively of a story and wasting my energy that should be used for the writing proper.

The silence has become a portal for me to see my self in the mirror while being detached at the same time to fully evaluate myself, particularly my pursuit for writing. The silence for a year also gave me a respite to recharge myself, stop for a moment and see the potential that is being wasted because of the bad habit that I developed.

Probably, when I said to Lil Feather that I no longer want to pursue writing, I should have said that I was only taking a respite, cleaning myself from the bad habit of talking more of writing than doing the writing proper.

As the silence grows deeper, the clarity of mind to see and discern stories gets stronger.

Flexing Some Muscles a la Farina

I wish I can write this in one let go like I used to do; tipsy with sleepy eyes, bottles of strong beer scattered on the floor, the industrial electric fan whirring beside me in a never ending cycle and the speaker of my headset singing in anguish about a lost father. Mind has been sharpened a little bit by correct practice and body posture yet still feeling the debilitating effect of some bad habit. Nevertheless, will strut and grin a la Farina, looking around in a sly look on how the world has moved without this crut noticing it. Oh, yes, satori in Cavite for a very long period of time. But who’s gonna believe it anyway. Kerouac knew the dharma but died drunk in some musky room somewhere far from the Big Sur. Yes, the Big Sur; a very long time ago. The moment I lay my hands on it, I voraciously read it inside the bus, glancing from time to time at the couple of passenger across my seat anticipating whether the guy would swallow his girlfriend while they kiss and make out as what I read somewhere Zapra wrote in her column. Dharma Bums. Where the hell is that book? Oh, forgot. Just read it in two sittings in Powerbooks in its old location along Arnaiz Ave. Read a hell of a lot of books there. Discovered also Calvino during that time while several of the domesticated poseurs ran their trade to get the attention of specialized people. (Drat! A whole gang would curse and slam my face straight against the concrete wall for using the term – I will never finish my thesis but I’m trying to learn how to read and write again so be there when Infinite Worlds, or what the hell the book will be named, will be launched or just see me at my deathbed please.) So where am I now? Sonofabitch! It really took a toll on me. No more Kerouac yakking here like a mad dog but a slowed down (mental slow down?) trying to catch the spirit of the humid air pervading inside my room. Two cigarettes with far-in-between puffs just to get my head focus and get this practice going like a good riff!!! Okay, okay. I’m already hallucinating. I just saw a flicker of light went off at my right side as I balance myself on my seat. Lil Feather is already here. (Finished or not finished, pass your failed papers. :-D)

Monologue sa YM

roger mexico: ang dami ko ng buzz sa yo kanina, tapos umalis ako sa upuan ko para makipagkwentuhan kay shie, tulog ka pa siguro nun. bka one pa magigcing. so upo muna ako dun, usap kay shie. tapos, mdyo pagod din kasi si shie sa gala, pumunta ko sa harap ng pc. nabigla kasi me buzz ka. isa lang. wala na.
roger mexico: so ginawa ko nagbuzz din ako. baka gcing ka na, me ginagawa lang. pero di ka sumagot. wala. nakakabibinging katahimikan. tapos ginawa ko buzz ko ulit. madami. e kaso kada isang buzz magiintay ka ata ng sampung segundo. bale mga fifteen minutes or more, buzz ng buzz ako. yung interval nun sinasabayan ko ng pagsindi ng sigarilyo at pagtunga sa libreng red horse ko. maraming beses na ganun.
roger mexico: minsan sa kaiintay ko na pwede na magbuzz, pindot ng pindot ako ng mouse. parang walang katapusan. basta pipindot na pipindot lang. tapos un nga bigla na lang mag bubuzz. ayun, napuno ko na buong window ng ym kakabuzz di ka pa rin nagrereply. nagbuzz ka lang isa pero ako sandamukal na ata. mula siguro kaninang alas diyes naka trenta ata ako. pero tulog ka pa rin. di ko alam. basta un. wala pa ring reply.
roger mexico: eto sisindi na naman ako ng yosi.
roger mexico: naubos ko na ata tong isang kaha.
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
roger mexico: parang tula pala ko magsulat sa tagalog. parang college writer. ung nangangapa ng istilo ng pagsusulat. iba nga ang pagsusulat sa english kesa sa tagalog/pilipino. pero sabi nila mas maeexpress mo daw ang sarili mo sa tagalog. pero ewan ko rin. sanay na ko sa english e. di na nga lang nagsusulat nitong mga nakalipas na taon. puros pera lang ang iniisip para magsulat. nasabi ko ata sa blog ko yun na bilib ako sa mga kumikita sa pagsusulat pero iba ung gusto ko e. pero nitong mga nakaraang buwan mdyo nagbago na rin pagtingin ko sa hinahabol kong istilo ng pagsusulat. parang wala ng saysay sa kin ang magsulat. kaya nga nasabi ko na siguro kailangan ko burahin yung mga natutunan ko dati. na di rin naman talaga mahalaga sa malalim na pag intindi kung maging successful writer ako. wala na ring
roger mexico: silbi ang mga alam ko at natutunan sa buhay. oo sasabay pa rin ako, pero di na siguro katulad noon. siguro magsusulat pa rin ako. pero alam ko na na balang araw nawawalang saysay din ang mga iyon. kasi paulit ulit rin naman kasi. kasi ano ba ang tinatalakay ng mga kwento, di ba dapat me conflict? e kaso di na ko medyo naniniwala sa kahalagahan ng conflict e. sabi ko nga mga drama lang sa buhay yun. yoko na nga magdrama e, tapos magsusulat pa ko ng mga drama ng buhay na di naman talaga makakatulong sa mga magbabasa ng isusulat ko. kasi me blema na nga sila, aaliwin ko pa sila ng panibagong blema.
roger mexico: parang ano yun e usapan ng mga college students kung me diyos o wala, o kung totoo bang me diyos o wala. pero sa dulo rin naman wala naman maitutulong o mababago sa kanila sa paguusap o pag dedebate ng kung meron ngang diyos. magiging mabuting tao ba sila kung me diyos o magiging masama kung wala. kasi pwede naman wlang diyos o di pinaguusapan ang diyos pero mabuting tao. meron naman naniniwala sa diyos pero sobrang itim naman ng budhi. pero etong mga sinasabi ko parang wala na ring saysay e. kasi iba na nakikita ko e.
roger mexico: sa pag aaral ko rin tinitibag yung mga paniniwala ko nun. alam ko me ibang dimesion. sabi nga ng mga physicist merong 11 dimensions, pero tayo apat lang alam natin. tatlong nga lang talga kung tutuusin kasi yung pang-apat yung time-space dimension na sinabi ni einstein di pa rin maintindihan ng nakararami. sa bale nasa three dimesions palang alam natin. e me eleven nga, so kung baga marami pa tayong di alam o di kayang ipaliwanag. pero unti unti na rin nakukuhang idefine ng mga scientist yun.
roger mexico: pero eto ang nakakamangha, yung mga di maipaliwanag ng mga scientist ngayon o yung ngayon lang nila nakayang ipaliwanag naipaliwanag na at na-map-out na noon pang nakalipas na 2500 years ago. kakaelibs. pati mind structure alam, pati mind fields, galing.
roger mexico: e 2500 years ago pa un, pano nila nalaman un. ung ang tanong. galing e
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!

“Your friends already thought you are dead.”

Not a long time ago, my father would arrive home from his night-shift work to find me by the window on the second landing of our rented apartment hunched over the iron-board doing my practice writing. When he woke up early in the night to prepare to go to work, he would be startled to find me still writing by the window. He then would tell me as he dressed up that I should go out because my friends already thought me as dead. From then on, whenever he would find it to his comfort and alarm at the same time, he would tell me:

“Your friends already thought you are dead.”

Memory as to when the exact time when I firmly decided to become a writer already fails me. But I remember during my sophomore year, coming home from the campus clutching James Joyce’s Dubliner’s that I would spend the entire night that time and the succeeding days after that intent on learning the craft of writing. It was during the time after we had just moved to another street which I considered the beginning of the severance with my ties with my true home. The 1992 Presidential Election campaign was on full force and I had copies of several major broadsheets reading the barrage of attacks on candidate Miriam Defensor’s state of sanity. (On the day of the election I would participate in the process serving as a PPCRV watcher but wishing I could have participated as Defensor’s watch man instead.) It was also during that time when The Inquirer launched its new section Young Blood. Now, this section was the first target of my writerly endeavor. But I just started to hold a pen to write then. I never knew how to write. It would take me the literally the whole day just trying to compose a decent sentence, much more a paragraph.

When my father would say to me “Your friends already thought you are dead” I knew I had discarded the old lackadaisical life that I had. It used to be that there was nothing for me to do then in the house. What I was used to do was to spend the time at the entrance of the alley in our street engaging in a never-ending senseless yakking with young guys like me. We barely engaged in any activities then. The time was spent purely to kill and bid time because we thought when we grew up all the time that we would have will be spent working. So what we did before that time comes was to embrace time as if we had so much of it.

And then I decided to become a writer. And I also decided to read. It would take several years more before I could finally construct straight from my head a good sentence and a decent essay too good to be true for me that I could pull off. When my writing buddies read somewhere that Nick Joaquin’s reply to the question whether he thinks in Pilipino first before he writes it in English was that he thinks in English, we considered it as pure braggadocio coming from a literary genius. It would only dawn on me when I myself was already starting to pound on my keyboard as I write that it is indeed true that one thinks in English when you write in that language.

Now, almost halfway done with my language learning, my friends think more that I’m alive when I’m at home and can bring them, from time to time, a couple of cases of Red Horse to celebrate and share life.

5 AM Routine

It took me an hour or more visiting familiar sites online and reading a couple of blogsites before I finally come to my senses that I need to post something here. I used to wake up five in the morning and would start pounding on the keyboard after a dose of nicotine and caffeine but the thought of doing it now seems strange if not almost alien to me. Writing in the morning used to be a routine I learned a long time ago. Now, it is as if I’m starting to learn how to write again. (I could not even hold the subject matter of this post in my head like I suddenly incurred a disorder like short attention span.)

Oh, what is it again that I’m harping in here? (Got to do a re-reading of the first paragraph.)

Oh, yes, something like posting an entry for this blog.

Anyway, going to a subject matter that is of importance, I almost experienced a sudden non-existence as my internet connection went bonkers for eight excruciating days. During the days when I was still not connected online, my computer looked complete. Everything that I need was there – a word processor – and that was it. I could go on using the computer completely showered with bliss as I hear the din of a pounded keyboard.

But when my internet connection suddenly was severed because of a malfunctioning modem/router, I could not stand (or rather sit) using my computer without it. It was as if my computer were not complete and the digital electronic experience of basking under the benefits of Information Technology is no where in sight. Things were not the same as before.

Without the usual routine of checking my email, the online sites that I write for, and just the plain experience of knowing that you are online, I felt my oxygen supply was cut off and I was heaving heavily to get some online-experience-dosed air for life.

Nevertheless, the eight excruciating days are already over. I’m back online.

And on the sideline, back again sipping coffee and puffing cigarette as I pound on the keyboard early in the morning.

Purpose of Writing and Murdering Ignacio Padilla

It has been a long time since I write something for myself. I don’t want to sound melodramatic here, but the thing that I’m pointing at is the time that I write not for money but towards the idealistic vision of perfecting the language which at the same time will be a sort of training ground for me to write finally a story.

This time is different. As I discover multitude of writing opportunities which will make me several hundred dollars richer, what I’m doing right now is bastardizing what I cherish most: that is to write without any financial consideration thus writing for the sake of writing itself.

I used to say that the goal of this blog is to let me find a virtual place on the Internet where I can hone my writing skills, where I can express the most difficult ideas that would pop out from my head, where the foundation of my writing skills will be laid down and perfected. But as another year has come and almost reaching halfway its journey around the sun to complete a full cycle, I noticed that I have been neglecting writing for this special place of mine on the internet.

Right now, I can already feel the burden of writing for bucks. The true and beautiful vision and goal that I have set for myself (and also the purpose why I started writing in the first place) is slowly being eroded by practical obligations to earn and put something in my stomach (and also to set myself abreast with writers who are into monetary considerations.)

Honestly speaking, I don’t harbor any feeling of animosity with these young and old writers who put their precious time and effort just to get by from the practical demands of everyday living. No, no there is nothing of that sort lingering in my mind. The truth is that I even admire them since what they are trying to achieve, through the use of their writing skills, is admirable. They are the practical believers that there is money in writing and from it they will try to squeeze ever cent to get a portion of this financial benefit.

My own rants are solely on my own which sit on my belief that I am here to write something that is more important according to my own standard of what is writing is all about.

Since I have mentioned already (did I?) that as years progresses, my posts in this blog are getting fewer and fewer, the goal that I have set for myself in terms of true writing is beginning to be a failure and a factor in the inevitable realization that I am getting lost in my true purpose. The practice of writing for money, without the compensating or balancing act of writing for the growth of my creative soul, is beginning to be felt already. I recall that when I used to write then, when the only purpose why I am into the process was to prepare myself for the big fight with my worthy opponent, everything was fine and good. The feeling that it brought me after sparring with my own capacity to write was nothing but pure and honest joy; a triumphant flexing of one’s imagination.

What can I say now? I barely read. I barely write an essay. I barely attempt to finish all the collected unfinished short stories that have piled up in my room (and several of them have already been lost in oblivion because I can hardly remember where did I put them for keeping.)

A lonely, arduous battle to win. The challenges are almost insurmountable. If Hemingway was not able to kill me during the first years of my venture into writing, right now, what is killing me is the obligation to keep a good look at the healthiness of my pocket.

Nevertheless, the fight is not yet over. It still has to come. The only problem is that I am running out of time. I also still haven’t bought that ticket to go to Mexico (or Spain) to kill Ignacio Padilla since he is the man I’m planning to murder.

Now, back to reality.

The Fall to Fly

After downing several cups of strong black coffee with the intent to warm up my stomach and wake up my slumbering brain which totally could not think of anything, the goal right now is to speed-type, pound on the keyboard with all my might and mental prowess to keep abreast with the velocity of caffeine-induced thinking.

Ending a short stint in a writing job that I consider to be a corruption of my philosophy of what writing should be, I am left with a blank, sluggish mind that could not think of anything but my inability to write. Coupled with frustration and realization of the permanence of change, the only option available to me is to vent, in this short moment of lucidity, my energy on writing what I in the first place set as the reason and the cause as to why I put myself in this journey and lifetime of romance with the language.

Failure is not an option. It could never be. On the second thought, this strong statement is nothing but a show of useless chest-thumping. Failure it will be if I don’t start at this very moment.

So let go of the rock that support me and let me fall; for it is the only way that I can fly.

Here we go…

Stones Along the Path of My Journey

I know already where the story will end. Or how shall I put it, where the dream will end. I have heard, seen and read countless of the same fate that same dreamers have suffered. All of them had to face the first barrier set along their path and they all succumbed to raise their hands and call it quits. Some accepted the fate of their dreams as nothing as the passing fancy of an adolescent fling with the language and call it not for them to pursue to the hilt. While some, as they go on with their lives defeated by the call of reason to be practical in their actions, still think from time to time as the winds of inspiration touch their skin how would they have fared if they continued dreaming and continued in spite of the practical challenges. Yet, a few with the stomach of steel and guts of stone, persisted; though some of these few proved to be mediocre, a handful have survived the litmus test and able to realize their visions they have seen when they were younger.

These thoughts entered my mind while I dug my head in the effort to fulfill the responsibilities called by my job. I know the importance of having a job. What comes along with it is the easy life of being able to fulfill the necessities to live a practical, decent existence. You have the chance to eat out, go anywhere you please and have the opportunity, ironically, the books that you need to grow as a dreamer.

Yet, reluctance starts to gnaw in my guts and stomach, experiencing a queasy, dreadful feeling that I am straying from the purpose as to the reason why I started trying to learn how to write at all as I perform the duties of my work.

This case is simple so it seems. But definitely, the answer is already firmly etched in my soul. I forgot that this thing have been anticipated well ahead before I ventured in my writerly journey.