Unfinished manuscripts

I have to make a confession: I have two unfinished essays.

The first one, I started drafting a year ago. It was supposed to tell the story of my immersion with the Panay-Bukidnon in Jamindan, Capiz. I have written nine pages, consisting of over 2,000 words. The second one, about my interactions with the Tagbanwa of Culion, Palawan, runs 10 pages, with close to 2,500 words.

I have struggled finishing the manuscripts, because of my failure of recollection. It is entirely attributable to my fault that I failed to take enough notes, or to take photos, or to simply take in the imagery. Memory easily fails us. What could feel like a sensory treat—the smell of the sea, the sight of scenery, the taste of a savory dish—will slip away, if not properly chronicled.

There is also a trouble in recalling names—but the faces, I know; the conversations and their diction I remember. I would often scramble in Facebook, trying to look for their names. But because Culion and Jamindan are seas and mountains away, respectively, the online footprint is scarce.

One may say, why not just write what I felt about that moment, what I thought, what I wanted to say. That’s an option. But what difference would the writing make, if I make it me-centered?

Let me take you back to 2019. When I entered college, I’ve been told by my mentors that we are mere storytellers. It’s never our story to tell. In fact, care must be exercised to turn those stories into quality and faithful prose. (By way of an example, there’s a difference between writing “she simply said” and “she said”—the former injects a dismissive or passive-aggressive tone.)

I don’t have a formal training on creative nonfiction (or writing, in general). I have just copied styles of various writers I’ve read or encountered. Do it (the reading and copying) often, and you get a potpourri of writing styles which, hopefully, one can claim as his own.

My point is, when we’re mere storytellers, we’re never entitled to own their stories. Their story is theirs. They’re never voiceless. Their voices may just have been muffled. We’re just here to amplify those stories, those voices, from the margins. When we hear their stories, we are never given the license to turn them into a college reflection paper; much more a selfish peroration. Just stop making it #allaboutme. Full stop.

And this is perhaps I will never finish my manuscripts, unless and until I return. Maybe that’s the point—to yearn for a return, to encounter the people again, to feel their warm welcome and embrace, and, finally, to memorialize and immortalize those moments. Our memory may falter, but the written text will not. But until then, those dispatches will remain in unfinished.