I was supposed to give a short lecture at the Taboan Writers Festival in Cebu a couple of weeks ago on the subject of “Writing for a Living” —something in which I’ve had to acquire some practical expertise, having nothing else to fall back on but the pauper’s wages we get from teaching.

For lack of time, however, my fellow panelists and I (Tibo Fernandez of MSU-Iligan and Jigs Arquiza of the Sun-Star) chose to dispense with the talks and went straight to the open forum, so I had to leave quite a few things out of my responses.

So here’s what I would have said.

This partly recaps some previous columns I’ve already written on the same general topic (remember my letters to readers Jewel and Reggie?), but I’m adding a few more points for the uninitiated to ponder.

I’m actually glad to be doing this again, because it allows me to respond to some recent inquiries from readers anxious to know if they have what it takes to be a successful writer.

“Success” is, of course, a highly relative term, especially in this country.

Do you mean critical success or commercial success?

Whose critical evaluation do you value, and where are the critics, anyway? (One quick answer: not here, not me. I keep having to repeat this — and I do so with sincere regrets — but I just don’t have time to read and to critique all the novels, stories, and poems people send me, outside of class. If you saw my workload — nine book projects running simultaneously, mapped out on a whiteboard in my home office — you’d understand why. But that’s another story.)

One point often raised at Taboan was how sorely we lack serious, full-time literary critics, even in our newspapers, so you’d have to go to school or attend a workshop to get some feedback on your work.

If you mean commercial or financial success, it’s possible, although highly unlikely for most writers, not for want of talent but because of the lack of a market and of opportunities.

I can tell you now that, in all probability, your fortune’s not going to come from that book of poems or short stories or even the novel that took you ten years to put together, no matter if they won you a raft of literary prizes and trophies.

There are some genres that might make you some decent money — screenwriting, komiks writing, and what we might call coffeetable-book writing come to mind — but it isn’t easy to get these jobs, which require some special knowledge and, almost just as importantly, the right contacts.

So rather than fuss over what “success” means, I’m going to address these remarks to people who want to become professional writers, by which I mean people who depend on their writing to support themselves and their families.

Journalists naturally fall into this category and already know pretty much what I’ll be saying here; it’s the creative writer and the academic who may need a bit of a reorientation, since I’ve found that it’s this person who often doesn’t have the foggiest idea what the market needs.

1. For starters, master the language.

This seems obvious enough, but I’m always surprised by how many people want to become writers or even editors without knowing how language works, or why rules of grammar and conventions of usage exist.

Language is your stock in trade.

Even the best of us make the occasional mistake with language (especially with a borrowed language like English), but pros should make very few of them.

I’d be very worried if I spotted more than a couple of grammatical or spelling errors on a page.


2. Be versatile.

Learn how to write a variety of texts — speeches, brochures, audio-visual presentations, press releases, annual reports, advertising copy.

These are the kinds of writing most clients need.

None of these should be beneath you to do, and to do well.

While you may believe you weren’t born to write about the virtues of a bar of soap, if you had to do exactly that, you’d better know how — and do it with a smile.

3. Learn to write bilingually.

Many clients — NGOs, government and international agencies—need material in more than one language, especially when they’re reaching out to local communities. Also, you may need to conduct interviews in Filipino or other non-English languages.

4. Leave the juvenile angst at the door.

Drop the literary and philosophical airs, and quit complaining about the job especially if it gets in the way of getting things done.

Some kvetching over beer with the boys or the girls might help you decompress, but remember that no one put a gun to your head to take the job on. The world owes you nothing; deal with it.

5. Cultivate an interest and some expertise in fields beyond literature and art — particularly economics, politics, and history.

Again, most clients aren’t interested in your lyric poetry.

They do expect you to be interested in business and industry, in the intricacies of politics, and in what they have to say as experts in their own fields, which could be anything from feedmilling to steel fabrication to central banking. Have a head for figures, and keep a sense of wonder about the way things work.

6. Be a good listener, and learn how to ask the right questions.

Learn and master the art of interviewing.

Come prepared, come on time, and make sure you record everything. (I’ll write a separate piece one of these days on how to conduct good interviews.)

7. Establish a network of contacts.

Make yourself and your skills visible.

Unfortunately, you won’t get any jobs unless people know you and what you can do.

As a pro, you can’t afford to be too shy or too modest to make yourself available or even to chase after jobs.

I don’t mean that you should take every job that comes along, but it might help not to be too choosy, especially at the beginning, because you need experience and you need professional credits to move ahead.

I’ve even taken on some special jobs for free or for very little because the connections they opened were far more valuable than whatever I would have charged.

8. Think, look, and act like a professional.

Prepare solid, neat, polished proposals; treat your clients with the same respect you should expect from them.

Dress appropriately for client meetings, and don’t be late.

And, yes, charge what you believe your services are worth.

9. Deliver quality work, on time.

In the end, it’s all about your output.

Keep your standards high, and stick to them.

I have to confess that I don’t always hit the mark — sometimes, fatigue and the distractions of life will take their toll, no matter what — but I try to make up for the slack as soon as I can.

A bad rep travels fast, and since your byline is your equity in this business, make sure you keep it clean and shiny.

10. Don’t forget what you’re doing all of this for.

Whether it’s for God, country, family, fame, or just the chance to get some paid time off to write that novel, or for that down payment on a new apartment or a new car, you have to remember why it’s important to keep writing, and to write well.

Good writing can be its own reason for being, and provide its own satisfaction — but it’s even better if it means that much to somebody else.

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Email me at penmanila@yahoo.com, and visit my blog at www.penmanila.net.

I’m in Cebu as I write is, attending the second edition of Taboan, the Philippine International Writers Festival which was first held in Manila at about this same time last year, February being National Arts Month.

Taboan will be making the rounds of the regions from year to year before returning to Manila, so this moveable feast (poet and NCCA commissioner Ricky de Ungria beat me to the metaphor) will see many places yet.

The Arts Council of Cebu under the very gracious festival director Mayen Tan and presidenta Petite Garcia is in charge of Taboan ’10, a project of the Committee on Literary Arts of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA).

The festival got off to a lively start with a keynote speech by Cebu’s own Dr. Resil Mojares — a formidable, internationally recognized scholar of Philippine literature, history, and society — who chose a deliberately provocative subject and title for his talk: “Will Magdalena Jalandoni Ever Be a National Artist?”

For those who don’t know Jalandoni (and — perhaps to prove Resil’s point — 99.99 percent of us don’t), the Iloilo-born Jalandoni (1891-1978) was a prolific writer in Hiligaynon of fiction, poems, and plays, her novels alone totaling an astounding 36.

Resil made it clear that he wasn’t making a brief for Jalandoni’s selection as a National Artist; with typical scholarly modesty, he said that he simply didn’t know her work well enough to make that judgment.

Rather, he was using Jalandoni’s case to draw attention to the gross disadvantage at which Filipino writers working in languages other than English and Filipino lie, particularly when it comes to recognition on a national or international level.

While they may have achieved much in their own literature in, say, Cebuano, Bikol, or Hiligaynon, they remain obscure elsewhere, because their work has been little translated, little critically reviewed, and therefore little seriously considered for national or international awards.

Jalandoni is hardly alone in this predicament; the Philippine literary landscape is littered with the skeletons of mute inglorious Miltons whom most Filipinos will have never heard of, much less read.

Critiquing the NA selection process — of which he himself was occasionally a part, one of the expert “peers” who sift through the nominees at the first level — Mojares noted that “In the discussion of the nominees of Jalandoni last year, all the 10 or 12 members of the ‘Council of Elders’ (except perhaps for one or two) had not read Jalandoni’s works, either due to language, unavailability of texts or translations, or simply because Jalandoni did not fall within their area of expertise.

This has been the problem in the three or four times in which she was nominated.

“This is abetted by a procedural constraint. Because of confidentiality rules, members of the Council of Experts know who the candidates are only on the day of deliberation itself. Hence, they have no time to prepare for the deliberations by way of reading, research, or consultations with those knowledgeable about particular candidates. Although brief research reports are prepared by the Secretariat for reference by Council members, these reports are made available only on the day of the deliberation and are not of much help.”

Again, Resil was really much less concerned about awards than by the inequality (and, therefore, the injustice) of popular perceptions.

“The politics of national recognition” he went on to say, “is such that it matters where you are read, in what language, and by whom.

Someone who publishes in Hiligaynon (or Cebuano, Waray, or Iluko) in a periodical with a circulation of 50,000 is a ‘regional writer.’

A writer in Manila who publishes a 500-copy of English poems is a ‘national writer.’” (Interestingly enough, we’re holding our sessions at the Casino Español de Cebu, a social and architectural tribute to a language we’ve almost entirely lost, literarily.)

The marginalization of writing from the regions has been a long-festering sore in the body of Philippine cultural politics, and Taboan’s discussions following Resil’s speech revived some of those familiar issues.

To the Antique-born poet and playwright John Iremil Teodoro, the common practice of denoting any writing outside Manila as “regional” literature merely reinforced “Manila-centrism,” according, by implication, a superior quality to products coming out of the capital.

However, to Carlo Arejola from Bicol, the regional badge was a challenge rather than a hindrance.

“You don’t need to look to Manila for approval or affirmation,” Carlo said. “You can create a readership among yourselves. We created our own awards, our own workshop.”

Indeed, as other delegates and Resil himself echoed, the question to ask was “What can the regions do for themselves?”

I offered the opinion that, while some form of affirmative action or intervention may be required to level the playing field, there’s a point at which the national/regional or national/local dichotomy becomes patronizing and ultimately more destructive than constructive.

It’s not as if a Cebuano writer can or will only think of Cebuano, and not national or global, ideas; one’s local roots and experiences may provide strong, unique material, but that’s still only raw material, yet to be refined.

And the world out there couldn’t care less: it doesn’t see us as Tagalog, Iluko, or Bikol writers — we’re just all Filipino writers, period, and perhaps we should think as such.

Resil Mojares’ conclusion put it succinctly: “The greater challenge lies outside the awards. We need to address inequalities in conditions of literary and cultural production by investing more heavily (by the regions themselves ad not just Manila) in more effective and strategic initiatives in scholarship, literary education, translation, publishing, dissemination, and promotion. We need to build the national in the National [Artist] Awards.”

I’ve always suspected that a great work will manifest that greatness in whatever language it’s written in or translated into. (Of course, you need to have that translation first.) Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so.

Clearly, before we can begin recognizing good and great Filipino writers from all parts of the country, we should lay the critical groundwork and first develop and support translators and critics who can give literary judges a fairer basis for their evaluations.

Curious about how the Nobel Prize committee in charge of literature managed to choose a laureate from hundreds of nominees writing in a dozen languages, I Googled the subject and discovered the following exchange at nobelprize.org between Professor Horace Engdahl, Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, and a reader who sent in the same question I had in mind.

Question: Are Nobel Prizes in literature based on the assessment of the writings in its original language, translations, or both? If assessed in the original language, how does one remove nationalistic interests, if any, from the nomination process? Unlike physics, chemistry, etc., where the symbolism/equations/conventions are clearly agreed upon globally, I would imagine that language and its interpretation would pose an additional challenge.

Answer: Whenever possible, the Nobel committee and the Academy will read the works of the candidates in the original language. Obviously, we often have to rely on translations, but in those cases, we make an effort to read several versions of the same book, e.g. one French and one German translation. It is true that literature, unlike science, is rooted in a cultural code with language as its most important expression, but a great work of literature should have the power to reveal the universal meaning of local symbols and conventions.

Re-read that last sentence; I couldn’t have said it better.

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Email me at penmanila@yahoo.com, and visit my blog at www.penmanila.net.

Friends and readers have been asking me what I thought of Apple’s new digital product, the iPad, a tablet computer that — like the iMac, the iPod, and the iPhone before it — has been touted by Apple’s angels as humankind’s next greatest invention.

I, of course, am a hard-core Apple and Mac freak, a guy who still counts going to Macworld in San Francisco and standing within ten feet of Steve Jobs (well within SJ’s fabled “reality distortion field”) as one of the highlights of his life, who still keeps a stable of aging Macs and PowerBooks going back to the Classic and the PowerBook 100 in his study and beneath his bed, and whose sometime chairmanship of the Philippine Macintosh Users Group he looks back on with more pride than most of his trivial, professional titles.

And unlike even most Apple fans, I’ve never waited for the so-called “Rev B”, or improved version, of a new product to run to the store to get one.

Here in Pinoylandia, I was among the first, if not the very first, to get a Titanium PowerBook, a 12-inch Aluminum PowerBook, an iPod shuffle, an iPhone, and a MacBook Air.

This usually meant waiting up all night for the Macworld extravaganza and for that inevitable announcement from Steve Jobs about “one more thing” — and making a beeline for the Internet to order or pre-order whatever that new gizmo was, sight unseen.

I feel a need to say all that because — for the first time in a very long time — Apple came out with something that actually had me asking “Do I need this? Or even if I don’t, why should I want one?”

Unlike that mind-blowing moment a couple of years ago when Steve Jobs pulled a MacBook Air out of an office envelope to introduce the world’s thinnest laptop, the iPad’s stage debut left me underwhelmed, maybe because I was too busy figuring out where, in my lifestyle, the gadget would fit.

Don’t get me wrong: the iPad, from what I see, is still a neat, beautifully designed device embodying the seamless integration of hardware and software that’s been Apple’s calling card since the very beginning.

It should do a good if not a great job as a browser, a media viewer, an e-book reader, a gaming console, a repository of a zillion iPhone apps, and, in a pinch, a mini-workstation running a modified office suite (in this case, iWork).

But my MacBook and my iPhone can already do 90 percent of that, so why should I want one more thing to carry — and something I’ll need to hold in one hand while the other one works?

I’m sure there will be many Mac users — and yes, new converts — for whom the iPad will be the perfect convergence device or digital accessory.

Just because I don’t need it now doesn’t mean others don’t, or that I wont.

The thing about Apple is that it’s gotten ahead not just by meeting needs, but by creating them.

Heck, nobody needed an iPod before Apple made one.

As TIME’s Josh Quittner puts it, Steve Jobs is “a veritable Innovator Bunny: while competitors scramble to follow him, Jobs races ahead to invent the next thing.”

Here’s my theory about my initial reluctance to embrace the iPad like the Mosaic tablets, which I’ve been telling anyone willing to listen: another tectonic division is upon us — that between those who need keyboards and those who don’t.

We already got a glimpse of this when the iPhone arrived three years ago.

Like many others, I grabbed one and pronounced myself in love with it — until I realized how much I missed the tactile pleasure of typing on a physical keypad; and so, like many others, I took to using a BlackBerry, and haven’t let go of it since.

Of course the iPad will allow typing on a fairly large virtual keyboard on its multitouch screen.

That should do well enough for email, but I doubt that it’ll be as good for heavy-duty, long-distance typing.

A physical keyboard’s virtues don’t consist just in the audible confirmation — in the reassuring click — of a keypress. The key travels downward and springs back, cushioning the impact of thousands of strokes.

When I think of typing for long stretches on the iPad’s glassine surface, I imagine my fingers falling like heavy rain on hard concrete.

But then again, maybe that’s just me and my romantic notions about the physicality of writing; the farther away we move from ink, the more ephemeral things get.

I’m beginning to wonder if my natural age (56) is finally catching up with me.

I’ve been arguing these past several years — some of which I’ve spent writing product reviews and columns for techie magazines — that what I love about being on the cutting edge of new technology is how it allows me to cheat time, to experience now what people will be taking for granted ten years hence. I still believe that.

Lately, however, I’ve noticed myself slipping way behind the curve.

When I took serious stock of things, I realized that my interest in newness for newness’ sake has begun to wane, to the point that I should probably be surrendering my techie credentials soon, if I were to be honest about walking the walk instead of just talking the talk.

For example:

1) I don’t play games. I’ve never even tried World of Warcraft, or the Sims, or Grand Theft Auto. My mom bowls on Wii and can give my brother-in-law Eddie a run for his money. I’ve never even touched a Wii, or a PSP, or a Nintendo.

2) I don’t do social networking. I don’t do Facebook. I don’t Tweet. Nor have I ever accepted any of the hundreds of invitations I must’ve received to Hi-5, Multiply, Friendster, LinkedIn, MySpace, and what have you.

3) I haven’t bought a new tech toy in ages. And it isn’t just because poker’s sucked up all my loose change, along with the Christmas bonus. Strangely enough, I’ve been very happy with the computer (a MacBook Air) and cell phone (a Blackberry Bold) that I’ve been using for over a year now; the MBA’s going on two — an eternity in digital time. Where I used to dress up my gear like they were blushing debutantes, my MacBook’s hard shell has acquired all sorts of battle scars; even my desktop pictures have been banished in favor of blank gray screens, the better for me to focus on the work I need to do. My iPod and iPhone — both one or two generations behind — have been languishing in the drawer.

So — will I eventually get an iPad? Knowing me, probably, yes. I’d be too curious not to.

But at least you can’t say I didn’t stop to think about it.

Just let me make these noises about not needing it, and valiantly saying no, for the time being, while the reality distortion field works its magic on me.

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Email me at penmanila@yahoo.com, and visit my blog at www.penmanila.net.

As I mentioned last week in my piece on our overnight trip to Corregidor, Beng and I took pictures of the sites we visited, just like any other pair of tourists out for a weekend of exploration and reflection on an island drenched in history.

The rugged beauty of many corners of Corregidor — its serenity even — stands in sharp, ironic contrast to the savage fighting that went on there, albeit for a noble cause.

Inescapably, death and suffering pervade the place, their pallor relieved only by the sterling courage and endurance of those who lived and died there.

There’s something more than vaguely disquieting about the notion of looking for thrills and spills in a hallowed graveyard, and the tours do try their best to preserve the sanctity of the place with constant reminders — as if they needed to be said — of what happened in those fire-blackened bunkers and ammunition depots.

“The Japanese refused to evacuate these tunnels,” noted a guide, “and the Americans who were retaking the island poured gasoline through these vents and set them on fire.”

But also because of such horrific stories, visitors who believe in ghosts can’t help looking for them, and even those who don’t sometimes come away from the island with their skepticism somewhat shaken.

I belong to the latter category of staunch “rationalists,” as I think they call them in India, where debunking and demystifying the tricks of swamis and spiritualists have become nearly as fascinating as the tricks themselves.

Unfortunately (or otherwise), I married a believer, a practicing Theosophist who believes in souls, reincarnation, third eyes, and the virtues of vegetarianism, so we’ve had a philosophical truce of sorts around the house going on 36 years, enabling me to eat my medium-rare steak in peace, and her to commune — telepathically or astrally — with my chief rival for her affections, a long-dead (but presumably since reincarnated) fellow by the name of Paramahansa Yogananda.

As you can imagine, this has led to some interesting differences in our lifestyles and expectations.

Her lifelong dream is to spend a week of abstinence and meditation in Tibet; I’d like to spend that week playing poker, guzzling free beer, and ogling half-clad women in Las Vegas.

When we get up in the morning, she mumbles mantras for a solid half-hour; I grab my bedside laptop to check my overnight e-mail and my eBay standings.

So it was that we went to Corregidor in search of different experiences.

I wanted to see big guns; she wanted to discover (or be discovered by) ghosts. I can now report that we found both, although the artillery was a tangible certainty, seen by everybody else; the apparitions played favorites, who included Beng but excluded me.

(This wouldn’t have been the first time for me to have been studiously ignored by the dear departed. Many years ago, I went on a writing fellowship to Hawthornden Castle in Scotland, a 16th century structure on a cliffside near the Rosslyn Chapel made famous by The Da Vinci Code. A couple of other Pinoy fellows who preceded me at the castle swore that they’d been visited in their rooms by ghosts — one of them seizing the poet by his ankles — but the only thing that seized me there over the four weeks was an acute longing for Nissin’s Ramen and Ligo Sardines.)

Beng’s alleged (that’s the objective journalist talking) encounter came when our tour bus swung by Battery Hearn, a shrapnel-studded gun emplacement behind which stood a bunker that had been carved into the hillside.

There — said our tour guide Stella — three comfort women had been kept and probably killed by the Japanese.

Stella also told us even before we entered the bunker that many previous visitors had reported capturing “orbs” with their cameras in that particular place — whitish circles that seemed to float in the air, suggesting ethereal presences.

Our group of about 15 tourists filed into the bunker, which was dark and clammy but not, for me, necessarily spooky, my courage bolstered by all the warm bodies around.

I, of course, was on the trail of artifacts, not apparitions, and clicked away with my Nikon at the military hardware, like the rusted hooks lining the concrete wall.

Beng, with her Lumix, was taking pictures of the darkness itself.

When we all stepped out back into the light and reviewed our shots, a great cry came up around Beng and her viewfinder.

“Orbs!” she exclaimed to the huddle. “I found orbs!” She pressed the magnification knob and an even bigger gasp arose. “I can see a face! Look, there’s a face in this orb!”

Instantly the crowd swelled around Beng like traffic around a U-turn.

Naturally, this skeptic stayed away from the oohs and aahs, stubbornly refusing to be suckered into a sighting; I knew that I’d get a private viewing afterward, anyway, whether I liked it or not.

Sure enough, as soon as we got back on the bus, Beng thrust her images into my face, silently but pointedly demanding that I confirm that I was looking at a cluster of orbs, floating in the darkness like talahib blossoms in the wind.

Yes — I reluctantly agreed — I could see a lot of cloudy round things.

But did I see the face — the two eyes, the nose, the mouth? Well… if I were a ghost, why would I want to return as a blur?

Now, the Panasonic Lumix is a nifty little camera, a virtual copy of my other camera, a Leica D-Lux, whose exact same lens it has, minus the hefty price tag and the trademark red dot (Panasonic makes these digital Leicas as well as their own Lumixes, those “like a Leicas”).

I knew I could trust Beng’s camera; heck, it used to be mine (a tip for husbands: upgrade yours, pass the old one on to the missus). But could I trust my eyes?

I’ve since Googled all I can about “orbs + Corregidor + ghosts” and all the search terms to go with them, and have turned up a pile of predictable, even plausible explanations for them — atmospheric conditions, the curvature of lenses, static electricity, etc.

But after all that, all I can say for sure is, I can’t be sure, which is as scientific a conclusion as they come.

Unfortunately for comparison’s sake, I was using the Nikon instead of the Leica inside the bunker, where my shots of the dark remained just that.

I suspect, though, that even if I’d grabbed the Lumix from Beng’s hands and taken the next shot, mine would’ve turned up a complete blank in the orb department.

Like I said, these spirits — if they exist — don’t only play tricks; they play favorites.

Meanwhile, if you want to see what Beng saw, you can click on this link to my Flickr page, where I’ve put up Beng’s shot (for non-commercial use only; all prospective royalties — whether from Scientific American or The Fortean Times — go to me).

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Email me at penmanila@yahoo.com, and visit my blog at www.penmanila.net.