“What would we say to our younger versions?”
At age 17, at the home I shared with my grandmother and uncle, I grinned in front of an instamatic camera upon finishing an assignment for my English class. In front of me was a manual Olympia typewriter – a hand-me-down from my late mother. It was where I learned to type.
I was a university freshman and I felt the world was mine to conquer. I knew exactly what life I wanted to pursue – I would either be a journalist or a literary writer, and then see if I could get into law school — and it appeared as though nothing could stop me. As long as I did not stray from that typewriter in front of me, I will always be in my element, exactly where I was meant to be.
Weeks passed before the roll was consumed and the picture was “developed.” That girl, young and clueless, was driven by hope, optimism, and a nagging need to make a difference, somehow. Soon enough, however, she encountered plot twists and her path became both winding and murky.
She was never the same.
I came across that picture recently and it is now pinned on the wall of my home office. I also took a photo of that photo and shared it on Facebook. And as the older counterpart from 2024, wisened by three decades of lead time and spoilers in the story of my life, I found that I wanted to say a few things to that innocent-looking — “innocent!” (in a high pitch) – version of myself.
Accept that the rewards of writing are never economic. If you want lucrative returns, a fat paycheck, a fancy house and cars, or frequent vacations, this is not the path for you. Writers remain underpaid in our country unless they are able to publish a bestseller. But the psychic rewards are immense, and if you can live within your means, keep your wants in check, and embrace opportunities that do not compromise your principles, you can live decently and respectably.
Craving external validation is natural, but do not be its slave. Denying that we want some recognition would be hypocritical. We want some reassurance that we are at least good at what we do. But both recognition or the lack of it may do ugly things even to someone who started with good intentions. Let us guard against vanity if we are recognized, and let us guard against bitterness if we are ignored or criticized. Ultimately, we do what we do because we find inherent sense and meaning in it.
Live. Do not wish that you had more time to write, or that you had a better workstation or more sophisticated computer, or were not saddled with different concerns. It is precisely from the fullness and the chaos of our days that we are able to find inspiration on what to write about. It is up to us to squeeze in a few minutes to sit and gather our thoughts, and, with grace, even find peace in doing so.
Celebrate the mundane. Stay attuned to the little things that make every day different from the one before it and the one after. Heighten your observation of people on the street or in the bus, take walks and take note of what you see, delight in a good meal, laugh with friends or family, and treasure a book or a good night’s sleep.
Keep at it. Writing will not feel magical all the time. There will be instances when you will doubt whether this is truly your life’s work and wonder whether you might be better off elsewhere. Sometimes you will face a blank page and a blank wall. Be patient; this will pass. Nothing else will feel more right even when it is difficult.
Revel in the detours. We can only plan so much; there will be things that will be out of your control. Be agile enough to pivot and open yourself to possibilities. What results from the surprise could be something better, sweeter than what you plan or imagine.
It’s all right to not be the same. More than growing up, we grow.
Now I wonder what the septuagenarian me would say to the me who just punctuated this piece, and who just took a selfie with the laptop I’m using to write this. I’m eager to find out — but I’ll relish the intervening years while I wait, as well.
adellechua@gmail.com
