... and then, there’s Alvin.


There is something fascinating about Alvin’s essays and fiction. The words flow so smoothly that the reader is not conscious that he is being swept up in the moment, in the telling of the tale.

Alvin, despite his adamant, and rather pointless, denial, is a writer. He lives in the ‘moment’: of the event, of the imagery, of the experience. And like a photographer, Alvin has this uncanny ability to capture that moment onto paper. Immortalizing the moment in such detail; be it a Sinulog dancer swaying back and forth in rhythm or two dogs fucking on driveway, by the side of the street. Alvin asserts that he writes for no one but himself (and perhaps idle readers and graveyard shift junkies who stumble upon his blog).

Hey, that could be the trick... Maybe... you see, I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. Well.... not a writer, in the purest sense, maybe an aspiring writer. When I was in kindergarten, I wanted to be a businessman. But Mama wouldn’t give me money for capital --- Who would want to give a five-year old chubby-faced chocolate addict, asking for fifty pesos to start an “ice candy for sale” business, di ba? I mean, come on, really, and this was in 1982, when the damned peso currency was higher. Would you? I know I wouldn’t.

So, instead of money, Mama laid down a piece of blank short bond paper and a Mongol 2 pencil in front of me, and said, “Why do you want to be a businessman? Let’s try writing your reasons down.” That did it for me. I began writing and never looked back. My handwriting hasn’t really developed since, but nevertheless, a writer was all I wanted to be.

I fancied myself a writer, or a novelist, even. I fancied myself having a column in a local magazine where I can harangue other people with just about anything, and say what I wanted to say about... er, anything. The only thing I hated about myself was that I was insecure and awfully unsure of myself(of my special mutant ability to.... write. Hehehe! Psyched!). I mean, who wouldn’t flip out: I have an older brother who used alternate from protective hero (Heeee-Man!) to stark raving lunatic, in two seconds flat(He’s more responsible --- read: I’m using his computer right now.), a sister who could turn from bitchy spoiled brat to spoiled bitchy brat in no time at all, and my youngest bro who grew taller than me and makes more sense that I do (Did you know, that he won, I don’t know, maybe several awards, in high school for student writing or journalism something.... that lucky @$&#$*%&&***! I’m such a bad kuya. Syet.).

So I became self-conscious easily. Whenever I sat down to begin writing anything it was like: What if nobody likes what I’m writing? What if they hate it, and tell the next twenty people they meet how much I suck at writing? What if they came to my house and threw molotov cocktails in (Ayaw intawon...)? What if my mama realizes that, in truth, I’m following in her footsteps to gain control over the lucrative education industry and become a dean in a certain local university and take payments from college students to excuse them for not wearing their uniforms. Even worse, what if they don’t read any of my stuff? That would be the death of me.

... and then, there’s Alvin. It was Alvin who got me introduced to Blogger. We were on a cigarette break when I asked him if there are any websites where we can publish anything readable for free. He asked me to check out a site that published written literature for free. It was called Blogspot, or Blogger --- I forgot. So, I did and I became interested. And the interest was as natural as it was a need: I desperately wanted to see my own work out on print --- or anywhere that would have me, I really didn’t care. What I didn’t like in the writing process are snotty editors who are not beyond cutting and slashing your piece (short of rewriting it themselves). I mean, what writer does? But then again, it could just be me.

I’ve always dreaded the feeling of passing my work to an editor, whether it’s the editor of the section of the local daily that I write for, or the news editor of the school publication, or worse, my mama. I dread that very moment when they begin scrutinizing my work right in front of me. And although all my past editors have contributed greatly to sharpening my craft, the experience can never be washed away by countless nights of drinking and masturbation (whoops!).

In one of my majors classes in Mass Communications, we were taught that once your story reaches the editor, it is no longer yours. Rather, it is now a product. A thing that is processed and refined, given a certain sheen so that when it gets to the reader, it’s good and orderly. I guess that got drilled into my head. Pretty soon, I became numb, and so did my writing.

I used to hate it when editors cut up my work, leaving nothing that looks or sounds like me. My worst and, quite naturally, favorite critic is my mama. I could not understand why my “perfect” piece prose returned to me, bloodied and slashed red. I got so frustrated that the mere thought of writing was laborious. Then she’d say something that would get me going again. Mothers... You can never beat them in anything. And that’s what’s great about them... I guess. I love my mama.

... and then, there’s Alvin. When I began working with Alvin, and to an extent, some of the finest young writers that in the office such as Ronald, Freya, Julie, Joe, Louie and Geda, to name a few, I began to feel more confident about writing again. The inspiration to write returned. It was like I was seeing color for the first time: It was bewildering, yet, ecstatic. I never allowed myself that much liberty. I criticized myself to quickly, and thus, ending the life of a half-poem, or a nearly-made-it idea. But now, my “Muse” was back, and she was in a tight, black, micro miniskirt.

Before I started working with these young writers, I was a features writer for the three different local papers (at different points in time) and then, a hack writer. I wrote material anything I was familiar with: I wrote for brochures; for private individuals and groups; I also did writing and editing work for company profiles, for portfolios. I wrote whatever they wanted me to write. Just give me the material, tell me in what format would you want it written, and I’ll do it. Heck, I even wrote the occasional school thesis for a friend or two. I was writing for the money. It was always for the money. I never wrote anything for myself.

And it had to be that way, or else, I wouldn’t have been able to help my mama with my tuition. I left the seminary six years ago, came home and found myself down on my luck, and no money for tuition and personal expenses. Luckily, the editor of Sun.Star Weekend Magazine took me under her wing and taught me to write. More importantly, she helped me rediscover writing, and how not to let it slip through my fingers. Parallel to professional writing, she nurtured the lost love I had for writing. Soon, the old murmurs came back. I was seduced again into writing. And then, I had to pay for my tuition.

Writing for my bread wasn’t easy, but it was my way of life for the five years. There were times when I didn’t want to write anymore. That I wanted to give in, get another job doing something else.

... and then, came Alvin. I had forgotten what it felt writing for one’s own pleasure (It feels almost blatant --- me creating this blog for myself --- and the occasional drifter who happens along and reads this...). And he’s good. Even if Alvin does say that he writes for his own pleasure, it’s fun and enjoyable to read his pieces. Forget what that selfish creative idiot says, go read his pieces! It’s at smokemyganja.blogspot.com. When I first read some of his pieces, I thought, ‘This guy’s good. How come I haven’t seen any of his work in the local papers?’ Why? Well, two things: The creative idiot doesn’t like to write for the papers, and Mama subscribes to one local daily only. Pfft! Hooooo-boy! Now, I’ve learned two new excuses. It can’t hurt to learn a new thing everyday.

I love writing. Heck, I even took up MA Lit, just so I could listen in on people talk about literature. I love it when people do that. It inspires me. It urges me to write. Writng is all that’s on my mind. I know I have a pretty long way to go before I become a writer. Especially in terms of honing my craft, perfecting my grammar, writing my first novel, finally figuring the difference between a gerund and a phrase, and writing the sequel to Titanic, but hey --- if there’s hope in the fact that the Filipino people would wake up and smell FPJ’s cologne and not vote for him, if suddenly Kenny G would change music genres and switch to disco, then, there’s hope for me! By the way, what does FPJ’s forefinger-pointed-upward stand for? Don’t tell me he’s planning to change the Boy Scout’s handsign?! Aaaaargh!

Although, there is one hitch I realized when I began writing for my own pure and unadulterated pleasure: I take myself too seriously. Oh well, like it says: “Roses are red/Violets are blue/Sugar is sweet/But only God can make a tree.” --- thanks for this idiom, Diko. I owe you one. You too, Alvin.

Let’s face it, Alvin: We are charter members of the Mutual Admiration Society – Cannon Creek Asia, Inc. Chapter. Toink!



[ideas, whatnot and helpful suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com