Ad Hoc Signo Scribit

Check the structure. Dropt it. Transpose it. Pull that dictionary off the shelf. That’s it. Well, no, delete it.

It hurts. But that’s writing.

June 13. Makati. Jenny on my mind.

Who’s Jenny? That’s my Bagbag’s sister in crime. A big gay guy I call Jenny for being as sweet as the name Jennifer. Only he’s just pa-sweet.

Jenny’s been an avid fan of my blog and had quite some flattering adulation from him. Gave me that pat on the back for continuing to write with dept without pay. More than just an encouragement, it made me think as to whether writing is really such a feat. Whether coming up with a blog is such an achievement. Whether writing can influence the rise and fall of the country’s GNP. But that’s a matter of divination if the economy is concerned.

Well, who said writing is fun? Lounging in the beach is fun. Being in Malate on Saturday night is fun. Dating Victor Krum is fun. So why do we write? I don’t know with you but for me writing is work. Once it occurred to me the doubtful significance of blogging since I seem to be giving away my craft for free. And so does Ryo who would freely hand prescription to friends. I have yet to hear of an engineer lending his algebraic opinion to someone attempting to build a bridge. Or an urban planner to solve Manila’s filthy streets. But that’s just probably the absence of the Metro Aids (where are they).

When I was still starting to learn how to write, I was already lifting weights with quite some results. That was way back my Abbey of Out Lady of Montserrat days. 21^st century monks don’t just sit around doodling translations of Marcus Aurelius or Bahya Ibn Pakuda. Once I came up with an essay and I laways tend to compare it with the writings of Ambeth Ocampo (that’s his real name) who happens to be a monk in the same monastery (because he is). Like Jenny, I get so verbal about how I admire his prose. And Jessica Z’s. And Danton's. His piece of advise: coming up with good lines is just as the same as coming up with sinuous arms, powerful pecs, bulging shoulders… o, stop!

Yes. Writing takes so much effort and overwrought excruciation. We writers don’t just sit around to wait for words to simply drop on our pad. Even John the Evangelist who, just like the rest of her sister evangelists, may have the inspiration to write down his version of the Gospel yet needs to hallucinate to come up with metaphors worth divine. I wonder how much hashish he has to take to come up with the Revelation.

When I was still taking my graduate courses in La Salle, people would get the wrong impression that I was a fines arts major. The degree, Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. Yes, because writing is a fine art. Like sculpture, photography, painting, and embroidery (o sorry, that last one is home economics). You write a line. You add some more. And a little more. Then you read it. You weight the stress. Rewrite it. Balance the statements. Add a dash of words to where it is needed; drop some off from where it is not. And like some French artist with a bad temper, you crumple the pages with unbridled distraught when you just don’t seem to see the art in it. You start again with infuriated countenance.

This is how I first made Ninghao get frustrated about writing. He was trying some luck at copywriting way back our agency days and he was attempting to do what I was doing so I gave him some lines to develop. He did some luck with the first two or three lines but somehow got stuck with the fourth. I told him to rewrite the first two to three lines so he could ultimately come up with that elusive fourth. He protested. According to him, he almost fucked the guard in the bathroom just to come up with those first lines. And now I’m telling him to rewrite these lines just to arrive at the fourth line?! He was frothing furious.

I sonorously laid my hands on his shoulders with feigned concern and said, ”Honey-Dearie, the first lines are just mere preamble. The fourth is essential. I guess you need to go fuck the driver in the parking lot.”

He didn’t write again.

The lesson of the story was, never get in-love with your lines. You write it, you find it bad, you wipe it off. Simple. A writer should be like a Machiavellian lover. If he doesn’t like his relationship, he dumps it. He lets go… and moves on. But then again, writers are not known for being unscrupulous when it comes to their relationships. Ows?

Most of the time some people would get to be inspired after reading a good one. It’s the same feeling one gets when, upon seeing an object d’art beyond his appreciation, exclaims, “What's with the thing? I can do that.” One has to consider the issue of talent. Either we have it, or we don’t. Or we could just pretend to have one. That reminds me of the new guy in the agency hired as a writer under me. Upon submitting some copywriting requirements the results don’t make sense, and I was not one to be gentle about it. He gave me a lengthy account on the history of how his copy came into being. I simply asked, “Have you been once, in this life, your previous not included, been a copywriter?” His quick reply, “Opo.”

I stooped down and whispered, “You don’t have it.” I swear I wasn’t belittling him. I can be solicitous enough to advise him to try medicine.

I had my dry spells too. You know, writer’s block. What’s bad about writing is that it requires the emotion to get involved in its process. Thus, one sees so much about somebody in his writing. The dept and the voice of the piece depends heavily on the writer’s passion. One could read something so dry, an arid land pales in comparison. Or read something so moist, you could feel yourself dripping.

It’s not enough for one to get inspired in order to write. That’s forgivably the excuse of those who write love letters. Or by some bloggers who end up writing, ahm, funny lines. It’s not even enough that one could write. Nah, much could be debated about that statement, though.

So how do we write? Or maybe, how could one start to write?

The driver…