Becoming a Writer

When I was six years old, I wanted to become a doctor. In fact, I was certain that I was going to be one. I was so confident in my decision that, in our house, when someone would call on the phone and ask me my name, I would immediately reply, “Doctora Tetangco.” However, like all other fantasies we have as kids, my desire to become a doctor eventually faded. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I didn’t sit down, weigh my options, and say, “I don’t think being a doctor is for me.” The dream simply faded away at some unknown point during my childhood—much like my belief in Santa Claus. I simply grew up, and outgrew the belief that I would be a doctor some day. For the next few years, after Doctora Tetangco left (never to return), I didn’t know what was to become of me. That is, I had no desire to become anything. I had no concrete ambitions, unless one could consider becoming a pop star—just like the Backstreet Boys!—a concrete ambition.

I was an eight-year-old who only cared about her single most favorite boy band in the entire world, and was unaware of the effect the pop songs were having on me. I found myself listening closely to the lyrics of each song, appreciating each catchy rhyme, each cheesy line. One could say that these pop songs were responsible for awakening my appreciation for literature. But it took more than this to get me writing. It was one of my classes in second grade that lit a spark within me. My classmates and I were excitable and had short attention spans. Our teachers constantly had to think of creative ways to keep us interested in our lessons. One well-known mnemonic is the acronym, a popular choice among our teachers then. Not only are acronyms an effective memorization tool, but the words they form can be quite entertaining as well. Acronyms I put to good use; the acrostic was the first poetry form I learned to write. On Mother’s Day, I gave my mom an acrostic poem I had written especially for her. I wrote an acrostic poem for my dad on Father’s Day. I gave my grandparents acrostic poems just for the heck of it. I couldn’t get enough of writing these fun little poems. After this obsession with acrostic poetry and acronyms, I became confident enough to explore different poetic forms. I learned to write couplets. I wrote poems composed of couplet after couplet for my siblings and my aunt. All were forcibly rhymed and dreadfully disjointed, but I found joy in the fact that what I wrote brought joy to my family members. I recall two particular lines I wrote that make my sister laugh every time she remembers them:

My sister’s so cool
She can swim in a pool

There were plenty of these. As young as eight years old, I didn’t have money to spend on presents for special occasions. My gifts were the things I wrote. It brought to me double pleasure because not only did I see how pleased my parents and grandparents were at my effort at thoughtfulness, but I also enjoyed writing very much.

Unfortunately, over time, even writing failed to give me the delight it once brought. The Backstreet Boys songs I loved grew more and more stale every time I replayed them. I had used up every adjective imaginable to describe my relatives, so writing descriptive acrostic poetry about them lost its charm. I had lost my very first muse and, unless I found interest in a new boy band, I had no way of bringing her back. Without her, I fell into a writing slump. I spent my time drawing instead, and still enjoyed giving my creations to my parents, seeing them tuck the papers away in their huge metal filing cabinets. They were documenting my childhood using everything I created. But I had replaced my poetry with something I didn’t have half as much passion for; drawing brought me little joy. I now realize what was lacking: a love for reading.

I learned the pleasures of reading at a late age. I was ten when the Harry Potter books became popular, and my best friend urged me to read them. My parents gave me the first two books for Christmas. I began Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on Christmas Eve. I was astonished when I saw that I had read through eleven pages and it felt as if I had only been reading for a few minutes. (I was a slow reader then, and eleven pages seemed like an entire book). I read throughout the night, until my parents told me it was time for bed. In my room, I waited to fall asleep, but I couldn’t get my mind off the novel. I wanted to reach out in the darkness and touch it as it lay on the night table next to my bed. Its first few pages had made an impact on me that I would never forget.

After reading all the Harry Potter books I could get my hands on, I took a stab at writing again. Fan fiction—stories written by fans based on the works of other authors—was popular at the time, and I tried to emulate J.K. Rowling’s writing style when I wrote my own tales revolving around Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Rowling was my favorite author and I dreamed of being able to write like her when I grew up. This desire to write compelling stories led me to begin writing original fiction. My first few works of prose had storylines that mimicked the common soap opera. There was a ton of drama: there was always romance, and, at some point in each story, the heroine would always lose consciousness.

Even though I was writing original pieces, I never thought to myself, “Oh, I’m going to be a writer when I grow up.” Writing was just a hobby. I could spend hours and hours thinking up stories, but I never saw myself making a career out of it. Until I was in high school, writing was simply a visitor that would come at various, unknown times, jolting me with its presence. It was only when I was a high school sophomore that writing returned and came to stay.

During my second year in high school, I joined the school paper, which had three sections: news, feature, and literature. I was assigned a position on the news staff, and this is how I learned that writing non-fiction was not for me. I loved using my imagination, writing about things that I would make up in my head. News brought me none of the thrills that poetry and fiction had. But I could do nothing; I had joined the club, and had made a commitment to do my best. I compensated by writing personal pieces during my spare time.

I revisited poetry. I was thirteen, so one can imagine the overflow of teenage angst that was the recurring theme of my poems. But I paid no attention to this. I was happiest whenever I was able to produce a new piece. I quickly reached a hundred poems, writing more day after day. I wanted to share my poetry with the world, so I joined an online poetry community. People from all walks of life were a part of it, giving and receiving constructive comments. The things I wrote and submitted weren’t necessarily good pieces; however, I knew that each one was important. Each was a historical event that contributed to how I write now. Because of this, I can say I love all my crappy, angsty poetry.

By the time I was a senior in high school, my writing had dwindled to a few poems every few months. I would jot down a few ideas for short stories or novels, but I didn’t write nearly as much as I did in my second year.

Even so, senior year was when I decided I was going to be a writer—ironically, a point in my life when I hardly wrote. It was the season for filling out college applications. I had submitted my application for the University of the Philippines (U.P.) the summer before senior year. However, I had no interest in attending U.P.; Ateneo de Manila University was my dream school. Naturally, I perused Ateneo’s college brochure thoroughly, noting the courses I might be interested in taking. I had been flipping through the Humanities section of the magazine when I saw it: BFA Creative Writing. I often fantasized about becoming a writer, sharing my stories with the world. But fantasy was all it was. Even when the course name was staring me straight in the face, even when I knew that writing was the one thing I could picture myself doing for the rest of my life, I never thought that I would actually become a writer.

The decision came when my friend told me she’d written down Creative Writing as her first choice. She had done what I myself had been too afraid to do, even though I wanted to be a writer more than she. I was amazed at her courage, to assign herself a career path filled with so much uncertainty. That friend of mine was exactly what I needed: a companion on a journey that terrified me to my very soul. She is the one person whom I have to thank for where I am today, and for where I am headed. She urged me to pursue what I truly wanted.

We spent the entire senior year making plans for our futures as writers. We said we would go on book tours around the world. We would open our own publishing house together. We would go crazy and our psychiatrists would be those of our friends who would be studying psychology. We talked as if we were already in college, studying for our majors.

When I went to college, that friend of mine did not go with me. She had not been accepted at Ateneo, and had gone on to study architecture at the University of Santo Tomas instead. Suddenly, I had lost my companion, but by that time I had steeled myself against all my doubts and fears about becoming a writer. When I applied for Ateneo’s creative writing program, I made a promise to myself that no matter what, I would become a writer. I finally had the courage to realize the fantasy I’d had since I was ten years old. I made the first step and, until now, I vow to follow through to the end.