After reading the english translation of the book Makinilyang Altar (Typewriter Altar), I have felt ashamed of myself for foolishly thinking that I am a writer. I’m just a pseudo, a fragment of what a real hardened pen master is. This book made me realize that. A real one bleeds ink, eat words and worship literature. As for me I’m only a hobbyist someone who just have some free time to jot what is on his mind. The ability to incorporate what you see and your imagination, and to give it life is something of magic a true wordsmith can do.
Being a writer is not just using flowery words and impressive grammar, but it is about giving life to those words. For them to move the reader and let them feel how you’ve felt. Writing is not only about ink and paper, that would be too superficial. And it’s not only words and imagination but it has the soul, feelings and will of it’s creator. That’s why I find the art of writing a noble profession rather passion.
To summarize the book wholly and not giving away too much of what’s in it. The story is one about remembrance and recollection, of how one writer separated his social and family life to his world of pen and paper. I would say that this book is not for everyone, many would find it boring and I myself admit that I didn’t get most of it. But this book made me realize much about a life of a writer, the one’s who never made it the gamblers if I might say. The ones whose work have never been published. It is a hard life if one wants to be one (writer), for it’s a gamble you’ll never know if your work’s going to be a hit.
After reading all those pages I could conclude that in terms of literary prowess im still a trainee, a wordsmith apprentice.
Still the frog that I was at the bottom of the well looking up at the vast sky.