I have always admired Ambeth Ocampo — his intelligence, wit, and gift of gab. I am constantly in awe of how he delivers his lectures: clear, cohesive, and confident. He never seems to stammer or pause to gather his thoughts; you can tell he truly knows what he’s talking about. He practices what he preaches when he tells would-be teachers to entertain, engage, and educate.
It goes without saying that I’ve read many of his books and followed his columns in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, alongside those of the late Conrado de Quiros, back when I still subscribed to the paper.
One of Ambeth’s remarks that struck me most was: “Rizal wrote a lot of things for a people who do not read.” I knew exactly what he meant. We are not, sadly, a nation of readers.
That insight resonates deeply with me. Reading has always been my stimulus — the spark that drives me to put my thoughts into words. Over the years, I’ve written countless essays, articles, and even short stories and poems, many of which I’ve kept in my blogs. These eventually led to my book Picking Up the Pieces, and now, its sequel.
But for what purpose?
I’ve never dreamed of writing a bestseller; I know that will never happen. My purpose has always been simpler — to write so that my children, their children, and generations after them may know who I am: what I think, what I feel, and how I respond to the world. Perhaps they will find guidance in my triumphs and learn from my mistakes.
The question, however, remains: will they read?
When my first book came out, my children read it — but only up to the part where they appeared. That made me think I should have placed their chapter at the end. Maybe then they would have finished the whole thing. On second thought, perhaps not. The book might still have ended up yellowing with age, gathering dust on a forgotten shelf.
Still, I have written. And for someone who regards writing as a form of literary masturbation — a private pleasure, a necessary release — that, to me, is enough reason to be happy
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