My friend, Winthrop, who doubles as our computer 911 guy, whooped when he learned I joined the blogosphere and wondered how much time I really have for blogging.
Very leeeeeettle time, but, yes, there is time. While defrosting the ref or waiting for the manang to pick up our laundry, and at the right moment when I am about to go berserk computing the budget or editing another—sigh—constipated magazine article, then it is time to blog or trawl the blogs. Calms the nerves. (Or I can just exercise, but, heck, why stand up? As the fantasonic Freddie Mercury sang, “Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin’ world go round”—by which definition, oh yes, I do rock!)
Which begs the question: if I have time to blog, then surely I have time to write fiction? Since 2003 I have written only one and a half stories. The half-story is promising, but only as an essay, while the lone story needs, oh, about 78 million revisions before it gains shape.
I have every other writer’s usual excuses for the lame output, the most popular being, “I don’t have the time.”
Which, as the other every other writer knows, is a lot of hoohah. There is always time. Even I, who straddle work and housework (The Coach and I are a tad allergic to having house help), have the time.
So here I go. I will find time to write. Starting today. I’m making the third of the 78 million revisions that the lone story needs and constructing the other half of the half-story. Before moving on to writing on an area I should probably mine: the world of lawyers.
Three people helped me in recents days to wake up from my stupor: one of them does not know me, the other knows me only in cyberspace, and the third I haven’t seen since 1983—all of them unaware of their impact.
There is Silliman University professor Ian Rosales Casocot, who makes no excuses, thankfully, or otherwise we wouldn’t have his beautiful Old Movies and The Hero of Snore Tango, as well as his portal to Philippine literature, which brings the writing community together. And there’s my high school classmate Giselle Doherty, more than 7,000 miles away in California, whose comment to one of my posts reminded me to properly steward my writing. And there is Dean Francis Alfar, who manages the “tension between words and work.” Like Dean, I will choose my attitude.
Thank you, guys. You rock!