We have stories to tell (Part 1)
The tale of how I fell in love with writing
Write in white heat, edit in cold blood. Write from the heart. Write, revise, write. Don’t end sentences with a preposition. Write as if you’re talking to a TV or radio audience. Writing should be a conversation. Such were the advice I heard and read from writing experts. I suppose they stuck because I can still recite them back, as if it was told to me yesterday.
The last time I have picked up a book on writing was more than 10 years ago. Perhaps, even more. Much of what I know today and what I do in writing every day are based on trial and error (read: writing and lots of editing) plus a lot of practice. It pays that you’re also in the habit of reading a lot. As one wise friend told me, reading is writing and writing is reading. So I read anything I can get my hands on. Today, that’s your mobile phone with endless stream of content.
They say writing is an art. But we all have to start with knowing our English grammar and proper usage. In my case, I understood the fundamentals of writing from that little book known as Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style. My dad had this in his mini-library at home. Struggling to piece together words for a paper the one day, I saw this worn-out copy next to books on theology next to Time magazines. In its coffee-stained pages, I started reading these snappy rules:
Omit needless words.
Avoid fancy words.
Use the active voice.
Do not break sentences in two.
What are needless words? Or even fancy words? What is an active voice and how is it different from the passive voice. What makes a perfect sentence? These questions puzzled me, as I skimmed this style guide.
I grew up surrounded by Americans and Filipinos who spoke in English. Anywhere I went, English was the language, especially in school and in Church. Living in a place where an American “base” was located, English was a means to communicate with these tall and sometimes intimidating foreigners who wore branded clothes, owned cool video game consoles, and ate pizzas and huge hotdog sandwiches (corndogs).
During the decade that I was born, the government at that time forced on us literature that told the story of Pepe and Pilar and their dog “Bantay.” This book was common in all public schools. There were several versions taught throughout my elementary years. I still remember some lines:
“See Bantay run!”
When I hit high school, English became the official language. Yes, we were required to speak in English and discouraged to speak in our own language for fear of being “terminated” by our strict director. He stressed that we, special students of this science high school, must learn to speak English fluently. Why? It is the language of progress. At least, that was how I remembered it. We also wore neckties everyday.
Shakespeare and the language of love
It was in high school that I started learning the language of love and that of Shakespeare. In fact, I did Richard II’s soliloquy. It went:
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world:
And for because the world is populous
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I’ll hammer it out...
We also studied Shakespeare’s sonnets where I manage to get a grade that was beyond my expectation. And this was thanks to my dad’s book on Shakespeare’s sonnets that came with annotations and notes from a known scholar.
By the time I got into college, I decided to take up journalism (not my first choice) because I was afraid of flunking math. Here, I learned writing news based on bulleted facts or details of a crime, an event, or whatever the professor had in mind at that time. I struggled. But I passed the news writing courses with satisfactory grades. Sadly, journalism didn’t pique my interest in writing. So I enrolled in a creative writing elective, hoping to make sense of my writing (and to see if I was capable of writing — really).
That subject turned out to be a turning point. Required to keep a journal in class, I started documenting each reading assignment. We were asked to review books, to read magazines, and finally, to reflect on lessons.
One day, my professor approached me. She said, “You have the potential of being great writer!” (Or something close to that). Her words stuck like a stain on a white t-shirt. It gave me hope and some validation that I wasn’t a bad writer after all. But she also said one more thing: Read more!
And read I did.
So after some “soul-searching” (and a few pointers from friends at school) I picked up copies of a fascinating science fiction tale of robots and a Foundation founded by intelligent human beings who were about to put a dent on the universe. I was hooked on science fiction. I turned to fiction written by Isaac Asimov and other known sci-fi writers, all thanks to my Physics major friends who supplied me with titles found at our college library. From there, I dabbled on science magazines like Discover and Popular Science. (Note: Some classmates thought I was going to the library to study. I was actually looking for the next science fiction book to borrow).
Book sales and the hunt for rare magazines and the Utne Reader
I went on to graduate as a Bachelor in Arts, majoring in Journalism. I was ready to face the world!
Well, not yet. It took me a while to find a job related to my course. So I started jumping into obscure jobs. I became a cook at a well-known and now popular Chinese fastfood restaurant. I then ventured into being a field researcher for a huge United Nations-funded project, a data encoder and later a validator of the same research data we encoded. The last few gigs paid well. I was happy.
But my interest in writing waned. My love for music (I played guitar, and still am practicing to this day) intensified after some friends started inviting me to play and watch local gigs. Then, news came in the form of a typewritten letter from my father. He has given me an ultimatum. I must go back home and find a cushy government job in my little hometown if I don’t find a decent job in the next three months. That pushed me into a job hunting frenzy.
Every Sunday, I bought the thickest newspaper with the most number of classified ads (yes, kids, there was NO online classifieds during that time). Armed with a scissor or a paper cutter, I clipped all the “writing” jobs I could find. Majority of the ads described the job as “copywriting.” I had no idea what that meant, so I went on to do some research at a local bookstore and found a copywriting book, and bought it. I studied it well.
Months passed and several interviews later, I got a call — two in fact. One came from a little ad that had specific requirements and a preference for students who graduated in the university where I finished; the other was an ad that was looking for copywriters that had no experience at all (fresh graduates). Guess which job I took.
Fast-forward: I landed a job as a staff writer in a magazine for doctors written by non-doctors but funded by the pharmaceutical industry. I was promised a fair salary (read: desperate), and a job starting on Monday (immediately)!
So that was my first, legit writing gig. There, I met my future mentors, and my love for book hunting started, including those rare science magazines I loved to read back in College.
Then, I stumbled upon the Utne Reader and Wired magazine.
(To be continued)
