Hello, Reader

Welcome to this tiny space on the internet. I already have a few places (like this one) that list my creative work, but I’ve decided to make another one to go beyond lists.

Don’t get me wrong, I love lists. I make them a lot. As of this writing, the most recent essay I’ve finished is a list.

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I’ll go ahead and be dramatic and say that I don’t think I’ll ever publish a book. In my days as a creative writing major, some ten years ago, I was set on one day producing a book-length collection of essays. I was slogging my way through. I’ve come up with a title that I love, which captures all my issues and the way I navigate through them.

But a month ago, I realized two things: First, I don’t have it in me to go back to my older work and face my younger self and all her suffering—and potentially relive those memories. I tried. I managed to edit an essay from 2014, which was about my family and the family home. But it’s not the same for my body essays. I was proud of one of them, which I wrote in the summer of 2012; it was the first long piece I ever wrote; I remember the intensity with which I wrote it; some writers/professors told me it could win a Palanca (it didn’t). Now, I shy away from it. Not out of shame, but out of horror (or cringe) by how open, unflinching, lonely, and self-critical I was. (And could still be? I don’t know and don’t want to know.)

The other thing I realized is that I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing what I write about: myself, my culture and heritage, my home/s, art, and more recently, nature—and all their intersections. I don’t see any bookend as long as I’m alive, so I can’t possibly publish a book-length essay collection, which would have a closed narrative, a clear beginning and end.

I want to stay open to what the future holds: all the joys, the aches, all the ways and things I could become. A book doesn’t stop that, technically. But it does preserve a narrative and lens of my life that could become less true to who I am as I continue living.

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At the SEA Lit Circle Writers Festival last July, horror writer Tunku Halim confided that he misses the time he didn’t have a single book out. Bookstores no longer give him pleasure, as he ends up fussing over where and how his books are shelved, and which authors—usually from abroad—are spotlighted more.

That publishing is a business hit me hard. I used to think that being read was the point of releasing a book. But maybe it’s not the root. The root is for people to buy one’s book, if not become a bestselling or award-winning author. There’s a fine line between reading a book and buying one—any book-loving person knows this. And even if Writer X doesn’t care about the numbers at first, the systems and culture surrounding them will inevitably make them anxious about The Data. The Sales.

In my case, because I often write about my issues and insecurities, the work that goes into producing and promoting a book would make me mine my darkest times for some level of prestige or bragging rights. (I’d include money, but it wouldn’t even be a lot.) That doesn’t sit right with me. It doesn’t even sound like a good deal.

Writing is a way to process my experiences, my questions, and the world around me. This has been the case for a while. But only in the last one or two years did I realize how much it helps me heal. (I have a pandemic, a police state, and a fun and supportive writing community to thank for that.) I wouldn’t trade or ruin this relationship with my art for a book and all the logistics it comes with.

My writing would have to evolve—perhaps become more joyous or more empathetic—for me to reconsider a book.

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So here’s this website, where I can celebrate my work as they each find a home in magazines or journals. (I still appreciate being read!) Where I can share the ideation and creative process because it often differs per project. Where I can credit the people who’ve helped me. Where, through recordings, I can give voice to my mother tongues—Tagalog and Hokkien—as I give space for them in my writing.

Because I write creative nonfiction or personal essays, some writers have called me self-absorbed. This website might support that idea, and you’re free to make an assessment. All I know is that a lot of judgment hounds creatives, and there’s not enough space for sharing one’s joys and inspirations.

So here I am making that space for myself, and you’re welcome to join me.

With kindness,

Steph