this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on June 3, 1999.
When I was a child, I dreamed of becoming a lawyer. But shortly before I graduated from high school, my mother warned me that pursuing law could make me a spinster for life. Now I think she was just scared that I might not have the patience to finish such a long course. Sure I had the spirit to engage in heated debates and I loved to bewilder the opposition with big words, but then I would get easily peeved whenever someone contradicted me. Fortunately, I came to my senses and decided to pursue journalism. English was my forte in grade school and high school.
Rather naively I thought that a mastery of the English language was all it took to transform myself into a distinguished writer. Imagine my chagrin as I sat beside my classmates at the University of the Philippines and found out that my articles paled in comparison to theirs in terms of depth and style. Still caught up in my illusion that I had what it took to become a good writer, I finished my course and sought to make a career out of writing. Because I have a degree in journalism, I was repeatedly asked to write various articles for the company I am now employed in.
While I enjoyed the time spent in front of the computer typing out my thoughts and ideas, I would inevitably feel disappointed with the outcome, for my articles came out dull and feeble. I often found myself searching and groping for words and coaxing them to become one whole article. The thesaurus and the dictionary became my best friends, or rather my ammunition in a gun that had no power to begin with. I would often invoke ”writer’s block” to explain why half a day had passed and I only had a few sentences to show for my effort. Sitting in front of the computer screen, I willed the computer to type out the words for me, hoping that by some magic, my hands would move of its volition and churn out articles that would impress my superiors.
Fishing for compliments
After laboring for God knows how many hours, I would finally turn my article in. I heard no flattering comments about how great my compositions were. Instead, all I’d hear was, ”It’s okay.” If only they could hear the resounding thud as my ego fell on the tip of my toes, maybe they would have told me patronizingly, ”This is great!” or ”Wow! How did you ever come up with such a fascinating article?” I guess there is nothing more disheartening for an ”artist” than to be hailed or appreciated by no one but herself. I would eagerly fish for compliments and praises, but unfortunately, none came save from my close friends and family.
At my best, I could produce beautiful love letters to my husband and birthday cards for my friends and family. But love letters and birthday wishes weren’t exactly something I could print out and show to the whole world to prove that I was indeed a prolific writer. Midway into my career, I realized that writing would not get me anywhere. There was a truckload of other employees in my office who could easily dish out delightful articles with nary a sweat. At the rate I was going, new graduates would be easily jumping over me and I would be deemed a has-been at the early age of 25. My pride wouldn’t allow it, so I opted instead to organize events and PR-related functions for the company.
It would be a lie if I said I didn’t enjoy my newfound responsibilities. But deep inside, I still yearned to be recognized as a writer. No, not just a writer, but an extremely good one. When I first heard about Youngblood, I could hardly contain my excitement at the prospect of finally having at least one of my articles published. My arrogance and illusion resurfaced once more. I believed that I could easily out-do the twentysomething crowd who I was sure lacked the experience and depth of my 27 years. But as I read one article after another, I found myself retreating once more into my protective shell. There were kids out there who were only half my age, some of them still in school, turning out articles that seemed to have come out from the laptops of creative novelists.
Writing from the heart
Then it dawned on me that it was not just skill that mattered. These people were writing from their hearts, from the very recesses of their souls. They wrote such inspiring stories because they were living out those stories. I immediately tried to search my life for something I could write about. It had to be something inspiring and touching, one that would move the readers to tears. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I had nothing depressing to write about. My life was as perfect as perfect can be, although I had my own dilemmas (I could find a better job that would pay me more handsomely, for one thing). I wracked my brains and even begged my husband and officemates to suggest topics I could write about, but a really good one continued to elude me. I thought of writing about how fortunate I was to have a happy marriage amid all the rocky marriages.
But then I was afraid I might offend some people close to me whose marriages were on the brink of breaking up. So I scrapped that one. Then I thought of writing about my insecurities. But that would make me vulnerable in front of the very people I have struggled to hide my weaknesses from. Truth to tell, I have many topics which I could pour my heart into. But to do so would probably mean offending or hurting someone dear to me. I could get away with it by using a pen name. But that would rob me of my day in the sun, my glorious moment of finally having something published. It just wasn’t enough for me to have my article printed in a leading newspaper.
The whole world has to know about it too. Simply put, I wanted to write an article that would earn me rave reviews and prompt our whole clan to hail me as a celebrated writer. Call me egocentric if you will, but I wanted people to call me, page me and even text me saying they read my article in the newspaper. And I already had a ready answer: ”Oh, that was nothing. I just did that during one of those days when I had nothing better to do.”
Still searching
Alas, two years later and more than 1,000 words into this article, I continue to fail. I have spent 10 more minutes shampooing my hair in the bathroom every day hoping I would come up with a worthwhile topic. Sometimes I even lay awake at night or shake off my drowsiness just so I could think of a subject I could finally write about. I have even thought of buying myself a laptop on the off chance that a brilliant topic would come to me while I’m drinking coffee in Greenbelt or while I’m in the car battling the nerve-wracking traffic along Edsa.
Sometimes, I even find myself drifting off in mid-conversation and trying to piece ideas together. To make matters worse, I am also running out of time. In five months I will be turning 30 and that would completely destroy my chances of ever having an article published. Some people would call me a frustrated writer. But then again, maybe I’m just not a writer after all. Hmmm . . . is it too late to take up law? I wonder.
