I WRITE all the time.
It’s a metabolic necessity for me to put words down. For me, it is more fun than anything else to feel that tactile, physical pleasure. I am not one of those who despairs about printed words, as they are the primary carriers of ideas. But, when I get impatient, depressed or overjoyed, I simply write.
Armed with a ballpen and yellow tablet, there is an itch to write anywhere — in my room, airplanes or beauty parlors. I would explode if I couldn’t scribble.
I practiced target shooting with Ramon Tulfo, fainted inside the death chamber; walked all over a thousand corpses in the Ormoc City flood tragedy; ran around with the intrepid photographer Edong Reyes between hails of gunfire in the bloodiest coup de stat in Pres. Cory Aquino’s reign; got told off by a prince; and tucked a super playboy celebrity into bed.
This is my job.
News magazines are serious industries, catering weekly or twice a week to the needs of a public that wants to be told what’s new and what it should know about. In catering to that need, I did not do justice to that reality because no matter what happens during an interview, once it ends, I can’t think of any other loyalties than to the pressure of an immediate deadline and to the style and tone of the editor. Between circulation figures and advertising revenue, somewhere the subject is lost.
In all of my articles over the years, I’ve always searched for the truth or essence behind each person, story or experience. Ironically it sometimes came from something I’d previously ignored: an uncomfortable silence, a small misunderstanding, some scattered thoughts that had been compressed into a soundbite or something dramatic I’ve chosen to ignore.
We spent time working on our stories. But actually, the story came from waiting for just one moment of truth or authenticity; after all, you can tell a lot about a person or experience in a minute. The question is, however, how can one choose the right minute?
I write at home, on the bed, even as everyone tells me I am going to ruin the bed.
My two small grandchildren would crawl on the bed, run around and put their arms around my neck.
I had to have that! With my pointer, I’ve learned to point and peck on my iPad. I don’t know how to use the keys, but I just poke and poke as the letters come out. But what is as certain as the sun is that this is what I will do for the rest of my life!
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected]
