I believe it was Jack Kerouac who wrote and wrote even when there were no more chances of publication. It took him almost a decade to get his book On The Road on the road, so to speak. It got him into a lot of fights with publishing houses in those almost ten years. Had him consume bottles and bottles of liquor. Killed his lungs after snorting too much Benzedrine. Aged so much since he first wrote this seminal book. In his tired mind, he had thought that most of the original ideas in it had become passe. And although the book's eventual publication made him ten times richer and a very famous man, he will soon lose most of the drive to write. And he will die a bitter drunk.

This I think is the case of writing fiction in the Philippines.  Filipino writers living in the Philippines are a country by themselves. Brilliant people who can whip up a good story standing up crowd the streets. The creativity of these people is such that it is a nod to the hardships of the times. Interesting times create interesting fiction, as they say. But the medium to bring out these good stories can be scantily counted in one hand. And even then, nobody so much as gives it a glance when it is offered up. What happens then? We see these brilliant people dying of old age, not knowing the magnitude of their brilliance, nobody knowing the genius within their midst. Not that it even mattered if they did know. They wouldn't have known what to do with these geniuses either way.

I tried writing a short story a few years back that didn't pan out. It lasted about six pages and then stopped. No matter how I tried to pound my brain to keep it going, it just wouldn't. So much like a beat horse. After being untouched for too long, the story was eaten up by a computer virus. And then all I have left now is an idea of it.

It was about a writer who wrote a screenplay that saved a whole, dying movie industry. After that, people hailed him as being The One. The Jesus Christ of Philippine movies. It brought back the people to believe in the magic of movies again. 

There was a lot more to it smoldering in my head. Like impotent politicians and bombshell wives and a drug that induces a sensation of burning and a self-destruction caused by rising to the top too soon. It was an ambitious short fiction. Maybe it was for that reason I couldn't keep up with it. But the point is, when I wrote it, I really believed that there could be A One.

The other day I caught a documentary on cable about the movie producer Robert Evans. He was the one who gave us Love Story. He then went on to produce other classics like The Godfather. During the filming of Love Story, the company he was working for, Paramount Pictures, was on a brink of bankruptcy.  With a threat to close shop, he had begged the board to give his film a chance. He had believed in Love Story so much, he was willing to bet his life on it. When the movie premiered, history was made. It broke all box office records. It was one of the few films both audiences and critics loved. And not only did the film put Paramount Pictures back in the black, it set off a whole different world of looking at movies. To quote him, Love Story had brought back the emotions to movies.

There is no fiction writing business in the Philippines. What we have are kids dabbling in it. Old people who had it but withered in the wait. And middle-aged people who are too distracted to take it seriously. For most of these people, writing has become a luxury. A mere release.

Someone dropped the name of a new famous poet. He is a phenomenon because he is young, barely out of college. I ask other people if they've heard of him. Naturally, they haven't.

Someone once wrote that writers are one of the most respected people in this country. True. They will respect you, but they will never read your book.