One year of writing and blogging—and beyond

(Here's the result of following Forrester's advice. I'm not sure if I pulled it off well, so you be judge.)

It all started with a deceptively simple question, this passion for writing.

“Why do you want to be a teacher?” our professor in Principles of Teaching asked us at the first meeting of the class. We were turn in the essay, she told us, by next meeting. It meant, of course, that we only had one day to write what we think was the reason why we enrolled in Education.

The question got me thinking. Indeed, what is it that compelled me to want to be a teacher? For a while I thought of many reasons. Money? Definitely not. Fame? Only few teachers became famous. Some, who lived an epic life, died unsung. Prestige? Other professions such as medicine and law are far more prestigious than teaching.

After mulling over the question, I was able to fashion out a fairly decent essay. As I was about to read it in front of my classmates, I felt anxious. Would they like it? Would I be able to deliver it without stammering? But my anxieties turned out to be worse than the result. After I read my work, my classmates applauded me. My professor thought it was inspiring. “If Arvin’s essay did not inspire you,” she said, “I don’t know what will.”

However faint that praise was, an idea struck me. If this essay were inspiring, I thought, why not send it to Youngblood, a section in the Philippine Daily Inquirer where young people can send their essays. If the essay’s good enough, it will be published. I’ve been meaning to send to Youngblood, but never did attempt to do so. Or was it because I didn’t have some sensible things to say? But now, bolstered by my professor’s comment, I’ve finally mustered the courage to try to send an essay, hoping that it would inspire others the way it inspired my classmates.

Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday—the days when Youngblood appear—I always turned directly to the Opinion page of the Inquirer. Every time I see that it is other people’s essay, not mine, is printed there, I recoiled in disappointment and envy. After three months of looking for my essay, but looking for it in vain, I’d said to myself, “Perhaps it would never see print.”

Maybe it’s not that good as my professor said it is. Maybe it’s dim-witted. Maybe writing is not my forte. For months, I tried to rationalize and took comfort from the thought that I am not alone. Surely there are countless people before me who have experienced the same rejection.

Yet I continue to long for the day when my essay will be published. I still wait on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturdays, although I was no longer as expectant as before.

But some of the things that you want most in life really come when you least expect them.



One fine morning of June 3, Tuesday, I grabbed a copy of the Inquirer and went straight to the Opinion section, as is my wont. I was shivering when I saw my name. I looked at the title. A part of me didn’t want to believe that the essay was mine because it had a different title. But a part of me also did want to believe that the essay was mine because it had my name and it had a brief description at the bottom of the essay. It took me a few seconds to realize that indeed it was mine.

I read the first few lines, but I was so excited to share the good news that I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t contain myself. I wanted to celebrate because I had conquered Youngblood. It was a victory for me. It may be a small victory, but it’s a victory nonetheless.

I rushed to one of my colleagues in the library where I’m a working student to tell her about the news. Then I told my other colleagues and our librarian. For posterity’s sake, the librarian asked the periodicals in-charge to photocopy it.

It didn’t take long for the news to spread. I was not the only one who was happy about it. Everyone I knew who heard about it was. There were some of them who took the trouble to ask me what particular date was my essay published, so that they could read it themselves. There was even one teacher who didn’t return anymore the library’s copy, the original copy. It somehow irked the librarian. But it hardly mattered to me. With or without the original copy, what mattered to me was the fact that my essay was published. I got published.

When I told my parents about it, they were equally happy. They asked for the original, but I managed to give only the photocopy. My father read it first. Although he was remarkably proud of me, he complained. “I don’t understand some of your words,” my father, he of modest education, said. But, I guess, it didn’t matter to my parents whether they understood it. What mattered to them, perhaps, was the fact that their son’s essay was published. Their son got published. And it was a feat worth celebrating because not all sons got published.

The publication of my essay was my only claim to fame. Because of that, however, I began to seriously think of learning to write well. The problem is that I have no one to turn to. I had already taken up English 2 (Writing in the Discipline), the only subject that I thought could help me. My major, Social Studies, wasn’t of much help either.

Then I turned to the Internet. As I was surfing the net, I stumbled upon an advice from a certain economist slash blogger named Gregory Mankiw. I didn’t know Mankiw then, until we used his textbook for our economics. In one of his posts, he said that if one were to learn to write well, one must read Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style or William Zinsser’s On Writing Well. I took note of the titles of the books. I inquired about them in the library, and was told that only Zinsser’s On Writing Well is available. I loaned it out, and read it. I didn’t just read it once, but many times.

There are many pieces of advice that Zinsser gave in On Writing Well. But I think the most important of which is this: If you want to learn to write well, you must force yourself to produce a certain number of words on a daily basis. I found the advice sound, but it raised one question: If I’ll produce a certain number of words every day, where will I publish it?

By this time, though, blogging was very much hot. It’s the talk of the town, alongside Facebook, Twitter, and other social networking sites. Blogs, as they came to be, allow those who have a knack for writing, but do not get to see their writings in print, to self-publish their writings. Simply, it’s the answer to my question. Having had knowledge of the Internet, I opened my own blog.

Therefore my blog, which turned one year old on October 25, grew out of my passion for writing and of my desire to be better at it. It could be that I love my blog more than I love my ex-beau because (1) I remembered my blog’s anniversary, and (2) my blog and I have reached this far compared to my past relationship which lasted only a month.

To be sure, this is the third blog that I opened. For reasons I couldn’t figure out until now, I forsook my two previous blogs. When I started blogging, I didn’t have such quixotic notions as to influence others, or to educate my fellow men about climate change, or to exert influence over the government policies. All I intended at that time was to improve my writing skill. I just really wanted to write like E.B. White and Conrado de Quiros: White because of the simplicity of his prose, and de Quiros because of his candor.

If I were to evaluate my own progress, I can say that I have improved. Now I'm more prudent in using polysyllabic words. I have long dispelled the wrong notion that using words your classmates do not usually use makes you smart. Now I learned that it’s better to say “I can write and speak well” than “I have excellent oral and written communication skills.” Over a year, too, I have produced 16 op-ed pieces in the Mindanao Times, two essays and four letters to the editor in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, and an essay in Dagmay: The Literary Journal of the Davao Writers’ Guild.

Yet I know that I still have a long way to go before I can reach my goal. But I know that one day, I will. How? By blogging day after day, year after year. For blogging is—at least it has been to me—merely an extension of writing.