Butch

I think, I think I just got a glimpse of how my life would be 20, 30 years hence (which is timely, as had been barraged lately with déjà vus, which, despite smart-sounding scientific explanations, I choose to believe are indication that I am on the "right path," whatever this tricky judgment means). Earlier, my fiction class met at Sir B's house in Area 2 for a sem-ender semi-party. Mood was relaxed, food was plenty, and classmates were nice/r in the way people get nice at the prospect of not seeing each other again. Ever.

Sir B's advice to our class about writing and Writing (that is, writing for others and writing for yourself) is not new to me. But to hear it from someone like him, with all the issues and baggage that a long and pretty much notable career put on the counsel, gave me the kind of perspective that I need at the stage where I am right now. This is by no means an attempt to find an affinity with Sir B (although there had been comparisons... Chos!) but a statement of fact: that the kind of professional writing that he does now is the kind of projects that my writing rakets want to be when they grow up. And in some ways (that I will never admit in the light of day), the kind of fiction he does is the type of fiction that my fiction wants to be after years of practice. Which is to say, excellent in craft, excellent in spirit.

In Dumaguete, some panelist or other said the years and decades turn writers either jaded or mellow. I have absolutely no doubt in the world that I will follow the latter path. In my 50s (supposing I reach that age), I will be a glassy-eyed man impoverished by credit card debt and taking too many cabs. I know it will be a life full of pain, feeling it and thinking it. As early as now, I notice that trying to write seriously had made me more sensitive. I am very thankful for it. There is no doubt. But there are times like today when I worry for 40-, 50-year-old me. When he browses Facebook and sees my smirking 26-year-old face, what will he say? What hurtful accusations will he hurl against me? What, other than laying off Coke and porkchop, will he tell me in hindsight?