Thursday, January 01, 2026

2:39 PM | Nancy Drew in the Public Domain!

What's in the public domain in 2026, freeing for public use intellectual property from 1930? I'm most excited about the first Nancy Drew mystery, The Secret of the Old Clock! But this is actually for the original version written by Mildred Wirt Benson [yes, "Carolyn Keene" is a pseudonym used by a collective of writers]. The 1959 revised yellow-cased version, published by Grosset and Dunlap and which most of everyone knows better [this is the version I first read] remains under copyright until 2055. There are key differences! Nancy's age is 16 in 1930 vs. 18 in 1959. There are no Bess, George, and Ned in the original text either. And the original run had some racist language as well, and slang that has not survived. I found this out the hard way when I happened to check out the original versions from the Dumaguete Public Library when I was in Grade 5, and I was shocked by the differences in tone and characters. That's when I first suspected that Nancy Drew was not what she seemed. So I wrote a letter to Carolyn Keene c/o Grosset and Dunlap [I used to write to my favorite authors back in the day], and got a nice package in return, including a history of the writing and publication of Nancy Drew, which revealed that Carolyn Keene [and Franklin W. Dixon of Hardy Boys!] did not, in fact, exist. I think this bombshell was one of my formative discoveries as a budding writer.

Read more about Public Doman Day here.

Labels: books, life, memories

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Wednesday, October 29, 2025

2:38 PM | The Frankfurter Buchmesse in Four Group Photos

From arrival to the handover ceremony, it was ten days of hard work representing Philippine literature and publishing. And with this last photo dump, I'm signing off while I process my liquidation...

Labels: books, frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, writers, writing

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Sunday, October 26, 2025

9:00 AM | I Like Serendipity

Alas, carefully laid plans had changed. I was no longer Baguio-bound after I touched down in Manila from Frankfurt, after attending the Frankfurter Buchmesse. The itinerary had been clear: no rest in the capital after arrival in NAIA, straight on to a bus station in Pasay to take me to the mountains for a book event—my first ever in the City of Pines in more than 15 years.

But, as life often reminds me, certainty is a fragile illusion. The event was canceled at the last minute, leaving me stranded in Manila for three days before my scheduled flight back home to Dumaguete. I could not change the booking, since it was the National Book Development Board who did that for me as part of my grant as a delegate to the Frankfurter Buchmesse. I was also left scrambling to find a hotel, which proved to be a futile exercise: nothing decent within my budget could be had in the days I was set to be in Manila. I was, of course, also disappointed over the fact that my dream of a return to Baguio was suddenly for naught—for I always felt like that city lived inside a poem, and I had been craving its air after the gray, efficient cold of Europe. I also missed writer friends who lived there, and I was eager to see them once more.

But I had also learned, with time and years, that derailment is not always a disaster. Sometimes, it can be the beginning of something else.

When I arrived in Manila on Tuesday, near midnight, “home” was a word that felt more like a placeholder than a destination. I got out of NAIA past midnight, bleary-eyed and body aching after the long anxietry-ridden wait at the luggage carousel. I had thanked the heavens that I had not yet booked a hotel in Baguio. Friends from high school came to the rescue, offering me their place in Bonifacio Global City. I remember standing under the shower, washing away the travel fatigue, feeling grateful to be grounded even in an unplanned stopover. There was some comfort in the unplanned, a quiet relief that the universe, despite its odd sense of humor, still managed to catch me when things fell apart. Plus: did I even think about what I would do lugging my heavy luggage around to Baguio?

So what do I do in this unexpected layover of four days?

The next day unfolded like a gentle surprise. I had been an Anvil Publishing author since 2012, with two books to my name that they have published—Heartbreak and Magic in 2012 and Don’t Tell Anyone in 2017—yet this was the first time I had ever stepped into their offices in Mandaluyong. Finally, I could put faces to the names that had lived for years in my inbox: managing editor R. Jordan P. Santos, marketing maven Page Jose, and senior editor Arianne Velasquez. Page, Arianne, and I had already spent a week together in Frankfurt—“bonded by trauma,” as we liked to joke—and now, back in Manila, we found comfort in the familiarity of shared exhaustion and laughter.



That evening, upon the invitation of Anvil publisher Xandra Ramos, I joined the Anvil team for a special screening of Jerold Tarog’s Quezon at the Metropolitan Theater. Jericho Rosales, with whom I exchanged some pleasantries and shook hands with, played the titular president, and I was struck by the film’s almost farcical tone—fitting, I thought, for a story about the roots of Philippine patronage politics. “We really had no choice to have the kind of government we have,” I told the interviewer who asked us about our reactions after the screening. “From the very beginning, we were already wading in the mud.” Afterward, our publisher treated all us to a late-night dinner at The Aristocrat, joined by fellow Anvil authors Yvette Tan and Danton Remoto. The conversations ran deep into the night—about Frankfurt, about writing, about life. It was one of those rare, luminous evenings when fatigue dissolved into fellowship, and I remembered why I chose this life of words in the first place.

The following day, October 23, should have found me already in Baguio, talking to readers in a book event, but instead I was in Quezon City, meeting with Vibal Publishing’s managing editor, Gelo Lopez, to discuss a book project that had been nearly a year in the making. The meeting brimmed with creative energy, filled with the kind of spirited exchange that made the long delays and rewrites worth it. Had the Baguio event not been canceled, I would have missed this moment of quiet progress—a reminder that detours could be productive, too.

I spent my last day in Manila mostly indoors, catching up on work and correspondence, the city humming faintly beyond the windows of my borrowed apartment. Looking back, I realized that the entire episode—the canceled trip, the scramble for lodging, the chance reunions—had unfolded like an orchestrated accident, each piece falling into place as if by divine mischief.

This year itself had been relentless—a wild pendulum of highs and lows, a roller coaster I could neither predict nor pause. But as I turned fifty last August, I have found myself embracing these unpredictable turns with something like grace. I wanted to be more fearless, more grateful, less anxious about the things beyond control. Serendipity, I realized, often arrived disguised as inconvenience.

What seemed at first like a disruption became an alignment: a canceled bus ride turned into reconnections with friends; a missed mountain event became a reunion with my publishers; an unexpected pause opened space for new beginnings. Perhaps that was the quiet lesson of the week—that the world had its own way of rearranging our plans toward small, necessary miracles. In the end, what I thought was lost time became found time, and the story I had meant to tell in Baguio began to write itself, instead, in Manila.

Labels: books, life, manila, travel

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Sunday, October 19, 2025

3:00 PM | In Frankfurt

So this is Europe, Germany specifically. First off: it’s cold, but not too cold—it has been perfect autumn weather, requiring just a jacket, since we arrived. I have never been to Europe before. I’ve been to Malaysia, to India, to Singapore, and to Thailand for conferences or for pleasure. I’ve spent months in Iowa [and elsewhere] in the United States as the Philippine representative to the International Writing Program. I’ve lived and studied in Japan. But Europe for so long had always been a tantalizing dream, the kind that makes you go wistful and say, “Someday…,” ellipses included. So now I’m in Frankfurt, Germany—after 28 hours of travel, from Dumaguete to Manila to Doha to here, I’m loving the pleasurable peace and quiet of my nice hotel room.



This trip is not for pleasure—although pleasure can be had in visiting places, in meeting people, in the partaking of the culture. It’s for work. I’m one of the 500 or so delegates representing the Philippines, which is Guest of Honor this year at the Frankfurter Buchmesse [or the Frankfurt Book Fair]. I am tasked to be part of several panels to introduce the European public to specific things about the literary culture of the country. By the time this essay sees print, we would be at the tail-end of this international book fair, which began last October 15, and is slated to end, today, October 19. It has been a whirlwind trip, ending much too soon. [But that’s how life goes.] A short trip—but something from which I have learned a lot: lessons for my writing life and practice, and lessons for valuing the culture that we produce.

As of this writing, I have done some touristy stuff, and have gone around the Dom-Romer Quarter, the so-called “new old town” of the city—essentially a cluster of beautiful heritage buildings reconstructed only in the 1980s from the ruins of World War II. But I have yet to see the museums though. I’ve sampled the currywurst, apparently a must-have in Germany. Did this on our second day in Frankfurt, right after our kick-off brunch with all of the national delegates to the book fair.



On our third day, I got my wish: to visit Heidelberg for a day trip—a bucket list item checked with so much satisfaction. I was advised that if I could, I really should make a side trip to Heidelberg, an hour south of Frankfurt, and do a pilgrimage for Jose Rizal. This place was, after all, the setting of his poem, “To the Flowers of Heidelberg,” where he studied ophthalmology at the world-famous university, and where, in the nearby village of Wilhelmsfeld, he wrote the final chapters of Noli Me Tangere. There’s a monument in Wilhelmsfeld dedicated to him, and also the house where he lived, still perfectly preserved. I was apprehensive about taking this particular trip because it would take more than a half a day [and the official opening ceremony of the Frankfurter Buchmesse was scheduled at 5 PM the same day]. It was also of considerable expense [a one-way Uber ride is roughly a one-way plane ticket between Manila and Dumaguete]. Pero kebs. When will I ever be here again?





Truth to tell, this Heidelberg visit was mostly an impromptu, organic trip. I was down for breakfast at my hotel when someone whispered to me: “Jay Ignacio is organizing a trip to Heidelberg, and he’s in the lobby now to wait for an Uber!” I hurriedly consumed my breakfast, called Jay on Messenger, and did not even bother to take a shower. While we were hammering out the logistics at the lobby, the historian Ambeth Ocampo wandered into our midst, and started advising us where to go.

Jay said: “Sama ka na lang sa amin!”

And then Ambeth said, “Okay.”

What? To be toured around Heidelberg with our eminent Rizal historian?

Then Ige Ramos also wandered into our midst, and we told him what’s afoot.

“With Ambeth?” Ige said.

“Uh-huh,” we said.

“Let me just get a croissant and then wash my face,” he said.

And so off we all went, around eleven of us, to Heidelberg, where we also met other groups who had the same plans. I do like Frankfurt, but I was surprised to find it very quiet and with almost no bustle, the hum of the financial capital of Germany very sedate. [Maybe that’s the sound of money?] The buildings are also very modern. In Heidelberg, however, I finally got a sense of an old European city, and when I was walking down the narrow cobblestone streets surrounded by very old buildings, I couldn’t help but yelp: “Mao ni ang Europe sa akong imagination!” Compared to Frankfurt, Heidelberg was bustling, with the old feel of the architecture perfectly balanced by the youth that populate the city, since it is very much a university town, like Dumaguete—and looming over us like a charm, the beautiful Heidelberg Castle. I loved that Heidelberg the old town and Heidelberg the university felt like a seamless fit, classrooms and shops sharing space. And for all the Rizaliana that embraces this city for us Pinoys, I actually began wondering how come no Star Cinema romcom had ever been filmed here. Because it is so freakin’ beautiful and deserves a movie! [But maybe I should write that screenplay...]

We got back to Frankfurt that day, just in time to change into our Filipiniana for the opening ceremony—where the Philippine Madrigal Singers sang, where Senator Loren Legarda gave a fantastic speech, and where Dumaguete poets Merlie Alunan and Marjorie Evasco read excerpts from their poetry, together with Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta. Truth to tell, nanimbarot akong balahibo to hear Binisaya in a poem uttered in that huge auditorium filled with book sellers from all over the world, in the heart of Europe. I resolved right then and there to enjoy my stay in Frankfurt—and most of all to meet people I would never otherwise meet in ordinary circumstances.



For example, upon entering the Philippine Pavilion after the opening ceremony, I bumped into indie filmmaker and National Artist for Cinema Kidlat Tahimik, wearing his signature wanoh [bahag]! When I was a college freshman back in the day, I chanced upon a VHS copy of Mababangong Bangungot [The Perfumed Nightmare], which he directed. I remember being floored by that film. It was a bootleg copy, but nevertheless I was hooked by this man’s spirit and philosophy captured meticulously and spritely on film. I’ve never met him before, so bumping into him, and chatting with him, was quite an experience. I wanted my Frankfurt experience to be a series of that kind of encounters.



Another example of that kind of meeting came a two days later. I sat down for breakfast at the hotel, and I found sitting in front of me this beautiful older woman with white hair—who turned out to be Noelle Sy-Quia, the great grandniece of Jose Rizal! She was part of the national delegation to represent the family of our national hero. Of course, I asked her about her lineage, and she readily whipped out this family tree, which she had prepared the day before to answer just the kind of question I was asking. She’s the descendant of Rizal’s sister Maria, via her son Morris, then his daughter Caridad, who is Noelle’s mother. She told me she’d been to Dumaguete before, and said she enjoyed the food immensely. She lives in Barcelona now, and I told her: “You’re living my dream life!” We talked about many other things as well—really just a nice chit chat over bacon and eggplants and scrambled eggs and cappuccino.



But there was also the work, of course. I was tasked to be part of four panels—one on “First Books, First Writing Workshop” [with Patricia May Jurilla, where I was tasked to talk about the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the first writing workshop in Southeast Asia], another on “The Haunting of the Regions” [with Genevieve Asenjo and Darwin Absari, where I talked about uncovering the folk literature of Negros Oriental], another one on “Ladlad, The Optics of Gender” [with Danton Remoto, Blaise Gacoscos, and Chuckberry Pascual, where I talked about my work as a queer writer as something that embody the third wave of Philippine gay literature], and the last one on “Fictionalizing Time” [with Jose Dalisay and Robin Sebolino, where I talked about my work as something that explores both a sense of place and a sense of time]. I also read poetry with Nicolas Pichay and Ned Parfan for one segment of the “Poetry for Freedom, Justice, and Peace” series, where I read from my own poetry [in Binisaya], as well as the poetry of Dumaguete-based Pakistani writer Mohammad Malik, and, in tandem with Nick and Ned, a poem by Eric Gamalinda. All my panels were held at the cavernous Philippine Pavilion at Forum 1 of the gargantuan Frankfurt Messe, a dedicated exhibition space designed by Stanley Ruiz and curated by Patrick Flores.



The main action for us, however, is at Hall 5.1, where the Philippine National Stand is located—and here, surrounded by other international exhibitors at the Frankfurter Buchmesse, the Philippines and its book publishers have taken center stage, occupying a large area where the books of various publishers are exhibited—ready for rights to be sold. I am in Frankfurt as an author under Anvil Publishing, for my book Don’t Tell Anyone: Literary Smut. I am grateful to Anvil’s Xandra Ramos for including the title in its roster, although it was published long ago, in 2017—because the truth is, I never prepared any of my books for this book fair, nor asked any of my publishers to put them forward as part of the official catalogue. I honestly didn’t think I’d be here in Frankfurt, and had no plans to be here: I didn’t apply for my spot in the national delegation, because I’m not really a joiner—and I knew the paperwork would overwhelm me. My invitation from the National Book Development Board [NBDB] came late, only at the beginning of August. By then it was too late to have my recent books prepared for publication but Anvil nevertheless included my 2017 book in the display—so, yes, this is the book I have been representing in Frankfurt, and also actively talking about while I’m here.



This was my first time to see up close the business [capitalist?] side of book-making, and I have been quite the sponge: listening to pitches, observing how writers market themselves, detailing how publishers display their books, listening to talks about copyright, etc. I have been happily flailing around as a noob—but what I’ve learned thus far, a lesson that needs marinating in, is really how to put value into my work as a writer. One other thing I liked about being part of the national delegation: getting to know your own publishers up close! Now they know your faces! It really helps to have a personal connection.

The Frankfurter Buchmesse is huge, encompassing many halls, and I am grateful for having the foresight to come with sensible and comfortable walking shoes, gifted to me by Golda Benjamin, who told me: “Frankfurt is all cobble stones! And the venue of the book fair is big and punishing and you need good shoes!” So she bought me a pair of classic Stan Smiths from Adidas—perfect for traversing the long corridors separating the various venues—and I had all the intentions to visit every single hall. After my first panel on October 16 at the Philippine Pavilion, where I presented a brief on the Silliman University National Writers Workshop—which felt very appropriate for my first talk at the Frankfurter Buchmesse—the only plan I had for the rest of the afternoon was to do an interview with media, then attend one event, and then go to Hall 6.1. But I bumped into Apple, a cousin I had not seen in years.



I abandoned all my plans to that we could spend most of the afternoon talking about her life in Germany, over Vietnamese food we found in the grounds of the Frankfurt Messe. Afterwards, there was the reception at the Philippine National Stand back in Hall 5.1. Receptions are little parties every country stand is expected to throw. [On my first day, I had laksa courtesy of the Singapore National Stand, a stone’s throw away from the Philippines National Stand.] But the Philippines threw quite a party for its reception last October 16. The food and drinks overflowed. Pastil! Ube Yema! Tanduay! It was quite a reception. Doing the Frankfurter Buchmesse is kind of fun because of such things—but alas it’s also quite a relief to get back to our hotel at the end of the day.



The work we did here has been immense and, indeed, tiring—but for some reason, this German stay had been somewhat restful for me. I was very surprised that for someone like me who kept very nocturnal, very erratic hours back home—sleeping at 2 AM and waking at 10 AM on the regular—my sleep here had been deep and uninterrupted, usually 7-8 hours. I’d be sleepy by 9 PM and wake up at 5 AM. I mean, was my body keeping European time all along?

Labels: books, frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, publishing, writers, writing

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Tuesday, October 14, 2025

2:46 AM | A Kick-Off in Frankfurt

This was from early this morning, at the kick-off brunch for all the Philippine delegates to the Frankfurter Buchmesse. I'm glad I met so many people from various corners of the Philippine literary world. Still keeping track of all the names and faces, which is quite overwhelming. All of us will be busy in the next few days for what essentially is a work week in behalf of Philippine literature.

For more updates, please go to the The Philippines as Guest of Honour at the Frankfurt Book Fair 2025 website.

Labels: books, literature, philippine literature, writers

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Monday, June 30, 2025

8:44 PM | All About Tenderness

I mean to share this earlier in June for Pride Month, but life ... got in the way. Better late than never! But I was moved by Mark Fermill's [ IG: @markfermill ] recommendation for Talk Bookish to Me PH [ IG: @talkbookishtomeph ] of my book DON'T TELL ANYONE: LITERATE SMUT [from Anvil Publishing: IG: @anvilpublishing ]. There's some sex in it, yes, but the book is really a distillation of what I know about heartbreak, about loving, and about longing, done in the most tender way I can write about all these. That he highlighted two of my favorite stories from my own end of the book is also a kind of affirmation for me. I cried when I wrote “Compartments.” I was exorcising all my heartbreaks when I wrote “The Boys From Rizal Street.”

You can order the book from Lazada at this link.

Labels: books, love, Pride, queer

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Sunday, April 06, 2025

9:00 AM | Realizing a Dream of Books and Writers

Like many things in my life, a literary festival set in the veritable literary cocoon that is Dumaguete was always a pipe dream—something you loudly wish you could make happen, but is always something elusive, and largely undone. I hate pipe dreams.

Dumaguete has always been a city of letters. Writers have long walked its streets like saints in a procession over many decades, their words carried by the sea breeze, mingling with the scent of tempurahan smoke and the occasional whiff of nostalgia. It is a place that cradles literature, a city where books and poetry and fiction feel as necessary as the salt in the air. And yet, for all its storied past—its heritage as the birthplace of great Filipino letters, its reputation as a refuge for writers in search of clarity—there has always been something missing. A literary festival, a true convergence of minds and voices, a space where writers and readers could gather, not just to commemorate history, but to create new legacies. This always felt like a dream, distant, unreal.

Last year, we made the first edition of the Dumaguete Literary Festival happen, but that one felt like a crazy dream. Did we really do it? And if we did, can we ever do it again? The new pipe dream is making this literary festival stick, and be sustainable.

But pipe dreams do not become real unless you have significant support from institutions, like the Department of Trade and Industry-Negros Oriental and the Dumaguete City Tourism Office, willing to have a stake in what you envision. Without them, we would not be able to do the things we do. And I’m glad we have added other institutions to the mix, like Cebu Pacific.

That is the truth of any grand endeavor. Vision is one thing, but execution demands resources, logistics, structure. And yet, in this city, sometimes bureaucracy or complacency is more labyrinth than lifeline. How does one convince a city office that literature is an economic asset; that a poetry reading can bring in just as much as a cultural show; that writers, too, are cultural ambassadors? The miracle, perhaps, is that sometimes you do not have to. Sometimes, someone on the other end of a desk understands, someone who loves words as much as you do, someone who has been waiting for a project like this to say yes to. And when that happens, the door inches open.

Pipe dreams do not become real unless you have friends who tell you they are there to help you realize them for real, like Ernest, like Gayle, like Tara, like Renz, like Kaycee.

No festival is built alone. And this, more than anything, is the soul of literature in Dumaguete: community. It is the quiet power of an offer, a “How can I help?” that turns an idea into a movement. It is Ernest Acar of Backpack Solutions managing logistics with the ease of a conductor leading an orchestra. It is Gayle Acar of Libraria Books drawing up schedules with military precision, and finding ways to bring in people that I often cannot. It is Tara de Leon of Dum.Alt.Press securing venues and volunteers and musicians with her signature dispassionate charm. It is Renz Torres, also of Dum.Alt.Press, tirelessly rallying various kinds of people to chip in and help [and also comforting me in my cycles of stress]. It is Kaycee Melon of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center finding ways to bring in new voices, finding out-of-the-box means to solve a quagmire. It is everyone saying, “We can do this,” even when it feels impossible. Because literature—the writing of it—may be a solo act, but the cultural work of literature has always been a communal one. One person writes, another reads, another is moved, and a chain begins. This festival is no different.

Pipe dreams do not become real unless they reflect a real need—and Dumaguete needs this literary festival.

For all its prestige, for all its literary history, the city has long needed a space for literary celebration. There is the annual Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, but is it enough? We have long needed a space that is not just an academic exercise, or an homage to the past but a declaration of what is happening now. There are young writers here, voices sharpened by the waves crashing against Rizal Boulevard, by the drone of motorbikes on Hibbard Avenue, by heartbreaks unfolding in the nooks of Daddy Don’s or El Amigo. They need to know that their words matter. That there is an audience waiting. That they are part of something larger than themselves. And the older ones—those who have shaped this city’s literary landscape—need to see that the work continues, that the words they have planted are growing, thriving.

Pipe dreams do not become real unless you are willing to take the risk of failing.

Because what if no one shows up? What if the funding falls through? What if, despite everything, the dream collapses? These are the fears that accompany every grand idea. But fear is not an argument for inaction. Literature, after all, has always been about taking risks. Every poem is a risk. Every novel, every story, every essay—each one is an offering to an uncertain audience, an act of faith that someone will read, someone will care. And that is what this festival is, in the end. An act of faith. In the city, in the writers, in the people who believe in the power of words.

And so, the dream begins, again.

Labels: books, city of literature, dumaguete, dumalitfest, life, literature, writers

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Sunday, February 02, 2025

9:00 AM | Why We Read Together

Once a month since last July, we arrive—mostly quietly—with our books at the Arts and Design Collective Dumaguete along E.J. Blanco Drive, home of Libraria Books. One by one, we come—all of us readers in Dumaguete—some early, and some late; we settle, we say hello; we nod, and smile. We filter into some cozy corners of the old house, or on fluffy chairs, or on the floormat, each of us carrying a book. Some bring fiction, some poetry, some nonfiction. Once in a while, some even bring college textbooks. [Not kidding. For our January session, someone brought Nigel Benson’s The Psychology Book.] Most would bring actual books, although some are content with electronic devices, like a Kindle. Some would first go to Fermentina Café to get drinks, or to Mister Saigon to grab a quick bite.



And then, when 6 PM comes, Libraria’s Gayle Acar welcomes everyone. She is the host. She reminds us of a few rules to begin the session—you can bring any book of your choice; you need to keep your phones on mute; you will read in two 30-minute blocks of reading time [with a 10-minute break in between]; you don’t have to expect a book discussion because this is not required.

And then a shared silence takes hold. A novel opens, a page turns, a deep breath is taken, and then we read. It is a ritual as simple as it is profound: a group of people choosing to read together, not for discussion, not for obligation, but simply for the joy of reading.

This is a fairly new thing in Dumaguete, even though the city has always had the rhythm of a literary town that it is. It is a place where the written word is as much a part of daily life as the sea breeze that drifts in from the Rizal Boulevard. Writers and readers, students and teachers, artists and dreamers all find a kind of quiet solace here, whether in the century-old halls of Silliman University, in the pages of a book borrowed from someone’s personal library, or in the unhurried conversations that unfold over coffee in one of the city’s many small cafés. Literature thrives here—not just in the texts produced by its poets and novelists but also in the way people live with books, in the way reading itself is woven into the city’s fabric.

It is no surprise then that Silent Book Club has found its place in Dumaguete. This global movement has grown into a phenomenon spanning cities and continents, and in a place like Dumaguete—where reading is already an everyday act—it feels like a natural fit. Unlike traditional book clubs that revolve around assigned readings and structured discussions, Silent Book Club offers something more flexible, more personal. Readers gather in a chosen space, settle in with their books, and read in shared silence. There is no required novel to analyze, no expectation to articulate a critique. Just the simple joy of reading, alone but together.

Dumaguete’s literary reputation is deeply rooted in its history. The Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the oldest of its kind in Asia, has shaped generations of Filipino writers, drawing emerging voices from across the country to engage in critical discussions about craft and storytelling. Beyond the workshop, Dumaguete has long been a hub for literary gatherings, from poetry readings to book launches, from late-night conversations about writing to impromptu storytelling sessions in quiet corners of cafés. [Last year, we initiated the first Dumaguete Literary Festival, and its second edition is slated on April 2025.]

Silent Book Club, in its own way, continues this Dumaguete literary tradition while offering an alternative space for local readers who simply want to immerse themselves in books without the weight of critique. It acknowledges that literature is not just about discourse but also about presence, about companionship in solitude. And for a city that already embraces literature in all its forms, this quiet movement feels like an extension of an already thriving culture.

The concept of Silent Book Club was born out of a simple need: to create a reading community without the pressures of traditional book clubs. Guinevere de la Mare and Laura Gluhanich, two friends in San Francisco, started meeting in 2012 in a wine bar with their books, realizing that they enjoyed the presence of others who were similarly engaged in quiet reading. What began as a small gathering soon spread across cities worldwide, with each chapter adopting its own unique approach to hosting reading sessions. In the Philippines, beyond Dumaguete, there are Silent Book Clubs in Manila, in Iloilo, in Baguio, and in Cagayan de Oro City.

Unlike structured book clubs that require a commitment to specific titles, Silent Book Club welcomes all kinds of readers. It is inclusive in its simplicity: anyone can join, bringing whatever book they are currently reading, staying as long as they like. There is no need to finish a chapter by a deadline, no obligation to offer insights—only the act of reading itself.

I think this stance is perfectly right in the kind of word we live in, which constantly demands engagement—whether through social media, work, or the general busyness of life. Silent Book Club, in a way, offers a kind of resistance to this expectation of contemporary life. It is a reminder that reading can be a slow, deliberate act, and one that does not need to be productive or performative. It is merely enough to sit with a book, to lose oneself in its pages, to turn the act of reading into a shared but deeply personal experience.

For Dumaguete’s readers, this is particularly significant. The city has always been a refuge for those who seek quiet contemplation, and Silent Book Club reinforces that legacy. It provides a space where reading is not just a solitary pleasure but a communal one, where book lovers can gather without the need for conversation, simply enjoying the presence of others who share the same love for the written word.

I asked Ina Tizon why she comes every month. “John and I both decided to join Silent Book Club 6200 so we can finally get around to reading our backlog of books,” she says. “Though to be honest, our main purpose was to go out of the house and socialize with our friends and other like-minded individuals. And we got to tick both of those boxes when we attended, we also get to meet new people and have long chats afterwards.”

I asked Pia Villareal the same question. “I joined because it was an excuse to read somewhere silent that wasn’t just the same four walls of my room,” she says. “It’s also easier not to get distracted when there’s outside pressure to keep doing the thing you want to do, which in this case is reading. And lastly, it’s just a really convenient way to be among people who appreciate books and have the decency to stay quiet while you read.”

From Tara de Leon: “I sadly suffer from what is referred to as ‘brain rot.’ It has made reading books difficult but it hasn’t curbed the desire to hoard. When I’m surrounded by people who enjoy what they’re doing, I get caught in the current of their excitement. I joined the Silent Book Club 6200 in the hope that by osmosis, I can rekindle my love for reading—and also tackle my mounting to-read tower!”

From Leah Navarro: “As someone who used to read a lot but now has difficulty doing so, I have hoped joining the Silent Book Club will spark my desire to consume books again. Which, apparently, after many sessions, has immensely helped me read the books I just put on the shelf after buying them. It’s like rekindling an old flame—and for me, having a community that read together for an hour is quite inspiring. I look forward to each month, to seeing new [and old] faces, to talk about their progress on the books that they have chosen to read.”

From Dominique Roleda: “I mainly joined because I needed an excuse to read. I had been in such a huge reading slump for the past two years, where I’d start a new book, then forget about it and then start another. I just could not finish reading a book! And then I’d make excuses that it was because I was busy, and I had other things to do. When I heard that there was a book club though, I figured that I’d give it a shot. Silent Book Club gave me an excuse to actually go out and read, so that was hitting two birds with one stone. I didn’t really think that it would be for me, because I didn’t think reading in silence would be very engaging, but just being around people reading and mirroring them did help me get out of my reading slump. It also feels comforting to silently be a part of a community, even though there isn’t much talking involved, just a shared love of books. I feel like whenever I was part of online book clubs before where there were discussions, it just pressured me into putting up a persona so that I didn’t seem dumb, and I was rushing to read so I had something to talk about—but missing the enjoyment of the book actually sucked, and that got tiring real quickly. Just silently existing in a room to read with other people [who also love reading books as much as I do] is comforting in its own way. And I’d also get some good recommendations for my next read just by looking around! And if I really want to start a conversation, asking about books at the Silent Book Club is pretty much a free ice-breaker.”

I do hope Silent Book Club becomes a firm fixture in Dumaguete’s literary landscape, much like the workshops and readings that have come before it. I love its simplicity. I love that it requires no grand gestures and no elaborate discussions—just a group of people reading together, in silence, finding comfort in the shared stillness of books.


Silent Book Club 6200 [ Instagram: @silentbookclub.6200 ] meets once a month, usually on a Wednesday night, at Libraria Books at 58 EJ Blanco Drive. The event is free and open to the public.

Labels: books, city of literature, dumaguete, literature, silent book club

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Monday, November 04, 2024

7:00 AM | So Heaven

I finally received my copy of Isagani R. Cruz's new novel, So Heaven! Thank you, Milflores Publishing [ IG: @milfloresbooks ]! I was asked to give this a blurb, and I don't know how I found the time to read this, but I did, if not because going over the first novel by an acclaimed Filipino writer was such a privilege. And this is such an unusual novel, too! Congratulations, Sir Gani!

You can order this book on the Milflores website.

Labels: books, fiction, novels, philippine literature, publishing, writers

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Sunday, September 29, 2024

9:00 AM | Two American Women in Negros, One War

A war will always be ripe for stories. Always of atrocities and sacrifices, and always of perseverance and often of hope. World War II—the last great war that engulfed most of the world—has been the subject of many such stories, and I was reminded of this last September 22 when we commemorated, alas without much notice from the people of Negros Oriental, the 79th anniversary of the surrender of the Japanese forces in the province to American soldiers. This was months after a wave of liberation all over the country started in 20 October 1944 when Gen. Douglas MacArthur famously landed in Leyte, together with President Sergio Osmeña, who became head of the Commonwealth after the death of President Quezon in exile. That landing was a precursor to the end of the war—a seemingly hopeful harbinger, but with it came a rise in grim ferocity and suicidal courage by the Japanese occupying the Philippines.

Negros was largely spared the level of atrocities that attended many areas of the Philippines—but that does not mean we did not get our share of terrors. On 26 April 1945, the Americans finally landed on Negros Oriental soil, in Lo-oc, the very beach in Sibulan where the guerillas had snatched their first victory against the Japanese in 1942. In Dumaguete, only a few days after that landing, the people who spent the last three years hiding in the mountains came down to find isolated ruins [the town of Dumaguete was spared the conflagration that wiped out many other places during the war], but things soon went back to normal—albeit a nerve-wracked one exposed to the evils of humanity. The Japanese had fled to the hills of Valencia, in a last ditch effort to escape surrender, hoping for better and more winning outcomes in the fast-changing tides of warfare. They stayed there for almost half a year.

Finally, on 22 September 1945, they surrendered at Basak Ridge near Guinso-an Bridge in Nasig-id, Zamboanguita. Leading the Japanese forces was Col. Satoshi Oyei who, in a symbol of surrender, handed over his sword to Col. F. Wilson, of the 503rd Airborne Division, with none of the Filipino guerillas in attendance. Oie was the head of the 174th Independent Infantry Battalion, which was stationed in the Dumaguete Garrison, and they were the last battalion who held on to Negros Oriental—fighting in the hinterlands of the towns close to the provincial capital. From the write-ups of history professor Justin Jose Austria Bulado, we learn that the Japanese were suffering from a lack of morale and they were in dire need of food. The remaining Japanese troops under Oie finally came down from the hinterlands and surrendered to the Americans. There were no guerrillas present at that time since Oie and his men intentionally chose—and requested only for—the Americans to accept their formal surrender as they feared guerrilla retribution. The defeated Japanese forces were then sent to the Trade School building in Dumaguete where they would temporarily stay, awaiting their transfer to the various prisoner-of-war camps in the Philippines and in Japan. Oie was later on tried for war crimes in Manila, and was executed in the early hours of 23 October 1948, three years after his surrender in Zamboanguita.

Stories of what World War II was like in Dumaguete and Negros Oriental will always continue to fascinate me—and I am happy that we are blessed with a rich literature detailing its gruesome unfolding, some of it historiography and some of it literary. We have Caridad Aldecoa-Rodriguez, whose 1989 multi-volume work on the history of the province has one book dedicated to the war years, and inside it we learn of the war in terms of numbers and names and bare details. We also have Earl Jude Cleope, whose book Bandit Zone published in 2002, tackles the history of the so-called “Free Areas” of Negros Island during the war. We also have Justin Bulado who has written many articles about the important local personages during the war years, including wartime provincial governor Guillermo Villanueva and former Dumaguete mayor Mariano Perdices. We also have Salvador Abcede, war hero and guerrilla leader in Negros who largely operated in the mountains of Tanjay, who would release a war novel titled Nita based on his experiences and first published in 1984. We also have Edilberto Tiempo, who wrote two novels set in World War II—Watch in the Night from 1953 [later published in the U.S. as Cry Slaughter! in 1957] and More Than Conquerors in 1982. We also have Scott A. Mills, who published Stranded in the Philippines in 2009, where he wrote about the war experiences of Prof. Henry Roy Bell and his wife Edna, both American teachers at Silliman University.



And then there are the memoirs, a significant number of them—“significant” because Dumaguete is not really a place you would think of when you think of World War II in the Philippines. But despite that, a great deal of literature has indeed sprung from our corner of the occupied world of that time. What struck me most about these war memoirs set in Negros Oriental, however, is the fact that a great number of them were written by American women. [A quick aside: According to Dr. Cleope, there are also two unpublished accounts of the war years in Dumaguete from the Japanese perspective—one by Komei Fujitomi, who was first lieutenant of the 174th Independent Infantry Battalion, and another by Kyuji Yamada, who was corporal of the 31st Educational Flying Corps of the Japanese Imperial Navy.]

One such American memoir, We Did Not Surrender, was written by Silliman teacher Abby Jacobs in 1983 but published only in 2003—a book I have yet to read. Jacobs, the sister of Metta Jacobs Silliman and sister-in-law of Robert Silliman [yes, the namesakes of the present building housing the Silliman University Library], had earlier written an unpublished 27-chapter narrative, also about the war, titled “Soldiers Without Shoes,” but I am not sure if the final book is based on that earlier memoir.

About two years or so ago, I read within a span of a day, and without any intention in my part, two other memoirs by American women, and both published in 1947—only two years after World War II officially ended. These were The Sun Was Darkened by Alice Franklin Bryant [published by Chapman and Grimes in Boston], and Escape to the Hills by James and Ethel Chapman [published by The Jacques Cattell Press, and one must note: while the authorship of the book signifies the two names of the couple, the writing within clearly had been done by Mrs. Chapman alone].

Two years ago, when I began reading these two memoirs, I was coming off from a first-day high of renewed research on the literary history of Negros Oriental, the manuscript of which I finished about seven years ago, fully intending to go over it again in an exhaustive edit—but which I inadvertently abandoned because … life happened. [And there was also a crippling pandemic.] I had dusted off one chapter of that work on the literary history of Negros Oriental—focusing on the formative years of our written literature between 1901 to 1945—for the sake of including it in the second volume of Hugkat the journal of Dumaguete and Oriental Negrense history and culture I’ve been co-editing with Dr. Cleope—and in doing so, was dropped into a rabbit’s hole ushering me into these war memoirs.

Another thing that struck me about these memoirs was this: while the books are connected by several commonalities—the authors are both American women living in Negros Oriental when the World War II broke out in the Pacific—the perspectives are so different from each other. One is clearly the work of a middle-class woman teaching in an American school during the American colonial period; the other is clearly the work of a privileged individual married to an American landowner. The run of their stories is similar—fleeing encroaching Japanese forces into the foothills of the province and living off the land for months on end, and finally getting captured and sent to Bacolod for processing before being interred in the concentration camp for American POWs at the University of Santo Tomas. They also detail atrocities and hardships and the constant fear of the unknown suddenly befalling their lot. But the voices that tell these stories are so different.

Alice Bryant was born Alice Franklin in Fredricktown, Missouri, on 1 May 1899. In The Sun Was Darkened, she talks about being married to a man several years her senior—William Cheney Bryant—who was an American official assigned to the Philippines: “[M]y husband’s roots were deep in the Philippines,” Mrs. Bryant writes in the memoir, “where he had lived and labored since 1902, for many years as a provincial governor and afterwards as a coconut planter. He had, in his youth, vigorously and paternally administered head-hunting Ifugaos, Ibilaos [sic], Manobos, and turbulent Moros. The latter he had pacified in the province of Cotabato, and one of the of the most powerful datus had admired him so much that he had adopted him as a son.” She continues: “These things he had done long before I met him. For the fourteen years just past he had become a coconut planter… Because of my husband’s seniority in age and accomplishments, I have always felt too respectful to call him by his given name, and hence commonly refer to him as the Gov’nor, and sometimes address him as Your Excellency.”

That coconut plantation happened to be located in the town of Pamplona, in the middle of Negros Oriental. And in the beginning of Mrs. Bryant’s book, she tells of a sojourn from America, where the couple purposely left their young daughter Imogene in the care of relatives, before journeying back to the Philippines where their livelihood was located. This was in 1939, and when they started back to Asia via a steamer, most friends and family begged them to stay, fearing an eventual outbreak of a war; they, however, insisted on going back. I like the part when they finally arrive in Dumaguete, where Mrs. Bryant writes: “How happy we had been on the inter-island boat when we saw the Horns of Negros! These well-named precipitous summits of a jungle-covered mountain rise to a height of 5,000 feet, and are so distinctive that, when we saw them, we knew we were almost home… / Now we were so near the shore that, to our right, we could see palms bending gracefully over the beach. In front of us was the pier and, to the left, buildings belonging to Silliman University, a missionary institution, and some fine residences along the waterfront. This was all we could see of Dumaguete…because the town is almost completely hidden by the coconut palms and acacias.” They are met at the pier by American peers, and then she continues: “We motored over to the Far Eastern Grocery, the leading grocery of the province, to get the things [my husband] had already ordered. The Chinese in the store seemed happy to see us back—indeed everyone seemed happy. Perhaps a warm climate predisposes people to be light-hearted and carefree.”

After a few passages, they finally arrive home in their Pamplona plantation. We learn she loved her thatched vine-covered house, perfectly maintained by good servants. She talks of her daily routines at the plantation house, and describes the people that visit her [like “snaggle-toothed old Mrs. Reyes”] or surround her [like “Lame Maria”]: “Life on the plantation was pleasantly secluded, but we were by no means cut off from the world. Good magazines kept us well-informed on current events. News came over the radio from Manila and London, although occasionally we listened to many far-scattered stations.” Later, she would describe their social life as spare but enjoyable: “We went off the plantation very little. Once a week we went to town to do our errands. When they were accomplished my husband had a game of gold with Filipino friends while I taught my Spanish dancing class. Then I would join him and other club members on the lawn in front of the thatched clubhouse for a cold drink while the sunset flamed above us and around us. / Occasionally we attended a ball. Filipino parties have an atmosphere of great enjoyment. Some were given in the club, some in private homes. One of the finest we attended during the year was a ball given after the wedding ceremony of the daughter of one of the sugar planters. Of Spanish descent, she was the most beautiful bride I have ever seen, and her white gown and lace veil were rich and elegant. After the ceremony at the Catholic Church at Bais, we went to the bride’s home. The several hundred guests found tables loaded with a profusion of rich food—pigs roasted over an open fire, turkeys, boned fowls stuffed with sausage, meat pastries, cakes. For me, the dancing was far more important than the food and drink. Filipinos and I agree on this point. In a swirl of pink organza, I did the cariñosa, a pretty flirtatious native dance, with the governor of the province.”

Two years after the Bryants arrived back in Pamplona, in 1941, Pearl Harbor exploded and sent America into the hell of war. Mrs. Bryant prepared for the war the only way she could: with caution, and also increasing helplessness. She writes: “Although I had considered war a possibility, such was my ignorance of military affairs that I was astounded both at our isolation and the speed with which the Japanese were taking the islands around us. I had not realized they would be inevitably be taken, until that fateful moment when the Gov’nor announced, ‘It’s begun!’ Then I had at once sensed our helplessness.”

But she also had an eye for detail, and gossip, which no history book could contain: “An American quartermaster captain became the ranking officer of the province. Poor fellow! Nervous and irritable, he was unpopular with everyone. He was in a climate and a country he hated. He was in an almost hopeless situation and he was worried to death. On one occasion, he ordered an ambulance to hurry to a PT-boat that was wrecked south of Dumaguete. Through someone’s blunder the ambulance was late in arriving, and a mad died in consequence.” And this is why I love memoirs as a complement to history books: they add color and opinion to what is only barebones fact in history. The man is not named but a quick reference with Caridad Aldecoa-Rodriguez’s book makes us deduce this might be Major Robert N. Vesey.

Pamplona being safely far inland, and away by many kilometers from Bais or Dumaguete, the Bryants would invite other people to take refuge with them during the war, most of them American teachers in Dumaguete. Her descriptions of each guest, often withering, is such a delight to read—especially for one Mahitable Smithers, a spinster and businesswoman who just happened to be in Dumaguete when the war begun: “She was nervous, pessimistic, and noticeably lacking in any joy of living. Her headquarters were in Manila, but she happened to be in in our province when the war erupted.” Ms. Smithers was, in fact, not invited to stay with the Bryants, but she showed up anyway. She soon surprised everyone by doing her share of domestic duties and for being surprisingly agreeable—unlike Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard who “often woke us up in the night…[and during siesta] disturbed us by reading aloud, talking, walking around, and going in and out… Hints were lost upon them.” [Smithers, however, would change when everyone gets captured and transferred to Bacolod.]

Later, we learn that the Bryant house in Pamplona was the actual residence President Manuel Quezon and his entourage stayed in before being spirited out of the country via submarine to exile. Mrs. Bryant writes: “Once we returned home after having Sunday dinner at the colonel’s, we were surprised to find two cars by the house. Then we saw two strange girls lying on a basket spread on the lawn in the shade cast by the house. They were both asleep, so we went up the stairs. On the verandah, a plump Filipino was asleep on a divan. Another was in an easy chair with this head thrown back and his mouth open. Just then, the mayor of Tanjay came out onto the verandah. ‘It’s the Quezon family and their party!’ he said to us in a low voice so as not to awaken the sleepers. ‘They escaped from Corregidor on a submarine! I brought them here to take a siesta. Quezon is in there,’ pointing to our room…. At once I sent for my servants, who were not far away in their respective homes, and we soon had a supper prepared, which we served on the verandah to the Quezon family, the politicians who accompanied them, and our houseguests. Quezon was very nervous. He drank one glass of ice-water after another and smoked incessantly. Mrs. Quezon talked as incessantly as her husband smoked, telling how they lived in a tunnel on Corregidor and escaped by submarine…” Again, these are particular and lived-in details you will never read in a history book.

Eventually, with the Japanese occupation of Negros Island in full swing, the Bryants had to leave the comforts of their plantation house and venture up the more challenging terrains of the mountains. She found the jungles beautiful—but also was aware of the lurking, unseen dangers. She was also cognizant of the hardships ahead. “The jungle was so devoid of food that there was not much animal life about us, and what creatures there were preferred to remain unseen,” she writes. “No doubt there were pythons, but we saw none. During the hours of darkness, we heard the barking of large fruit bats… Unfortunately there was one species of widely distributed small animal, which immediately invaded our shelves—rats!” She would see the challenges overcome her companions—especially Mrs. Miller: “She had been the most optimistic of any of us before the Japanese entered our province, but now she saw armed enemies behind every bush, and insisted very brusquely on having brought up … against our wishes several large, heavy suitcases that she had filled with things that could be of no use in the mountains.”

What makes this memoir memorable is the fact that the Bryants were close to the powers that be in Negros Oriental—evident in the fact that their Pamplona residence was the chosen refuge for the President of the Philippine Commonwealth before going to exile. This meant they were close to the political goings-on during the war, including the fate of Pepe Martinez, a local official killed by the guerilla for collaborating with the Japanese. In this memoir, we get behind the scenes of these wartime political happenings, complete with transcribed conversations. Very juicy!

Eventually, the Japanese would capture the Bryant party in the mountains, and they would thgen be taken to Dumaguete and eventually to Bacolod, then to final internment in Manila. I finished the book quickly, finding quite interesting a narrative of the war from a privileged woman’s point-of-view. Further research would reveal that, after the war and after settling back in American society, Mrs. Bryant became a leader in the anti-war movement and also an officer of the Women's International League for Peace and Freedom. She later on became a candidate for United States Representative from the 1st Congressional District in Seattle, Washington, and also ran for the Senate. She died in Seattle on 7 June 1977.

But The Sun Was Darkened was actually my second book which I read that fateful day when I stumbled onto American memoirs about the war in Negros Oriental. I only read it because I had finished quickly something I stumbled into online: an e-copy of James and Ethel Chapman’s wartime memoir Escape to the Hills. The Chapmans were missionary teachers at Silliman University when the war broke out—and both were exemplary members of the Dumaguete community, so much so that today, the Science Complex at Silliman is named after James. He was an entomologist, who played a critical role as an academic and later as a University administrator, responsible for building up the reputation of Silliman in science research. [In preparation for the war, he was also chosen as the provincial supervisor in-charge of food and rationing.]

From the Silliman University website, we learn that “while in Silliman, [Chapman] taught biology, chemistry, and physics, with a special fascination with myrmecology, the study of ants. It was this passion for what many would term as ‘hard sciences’ that brought him to Silliman in 1916 when he joined as a science faculty. He arrived with his wife, Ethel, who joined Silliman as an English teacher.”

Ethel the English Teacher was the one responsible for the riveting memoir she wrote under both their names about their extensive experiences in the mountains of Negros Oriental during the war. I didn’t intend to be so caught up by Escape to the Hills I scanned the first pages just because—but soon found myself riveted by its very engaging writing. I found myself reading nonstop—and if you can understand my ADHD, you know this only happens rarely.

The memoir is so good because it is so thrilling. I loved having a fantastic mental picture of Dumaguete right before World War II broke out in the Pacific in December 1941. I loved the details of the inhabitants preparing for the war to come, rationing food and preparing shelter in the mountains.

I loved learning from the book that Abby Jacobs was a super woman! Asteeeeg! University President Arthur Carson’s order was for all the women and children to immediately evacuate Dumaguete when Pearl Harbor was bombed by the Japanese, but she stayed behind in campus with the men, and went about the task of publishing The Daily Sillimanian, to print factual information about the war for the Dumaguete community, in order to combat the hysterical fake news they were already being bombarded by. She stayed on that job right until the very end, when she was forced to surrender it. Together with her family, she was eventually ferreted out of Negros via submarine, but stayed in Australia and found work with the military. She was with the liberation force that entered Manila in April 1945.

I loved learning from the book that even with the war going on, James Chapman was still the fervent biologist that he was, going about their evacuation places still collecting plants and animals for study. [The section on ants is endearing! And the section on food was strangely delicious, and enlightening!]

I loved learning from the book that despite all the dangers, they still found time to set-up a “Jungle University,” catering to the education needs of their neighbors in the mountains of Negros.

Finally, I loved learning about surviving the war from the point-of-view of an ordinary English teacher.

I am truly amazed by the bravery and the resourcefulness of our early Silliman teachers. The section that details their eventual interment at the University of Sto. Tomas in Manila was a painful passage to read, and showed how the prisoners had to resort to furtive politics to get things done. [Yes, like the Bryants, the Chapmans were also eventually captured by the Japanese, and imprisoned in Manila].

To be honest, Silliman University should be reprinting this valuable Chapman memoir, first published 77 years ago and long out of print. [Thank God I found a copy to read online.] Because it’s really sad that we only know them now as buildings and nothing else: Ethel Chapman is a building for nursing students, James Chapman is a science building, and Abby Jacobs is a residence hall.

Buildings in their memory are nice. Their stories, preserved and read today, would even be better.

Labels: books, dumaguete, history, negros, war, world war II, writers, writing

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Tuesday, August 20, 2024

1:07 PM | I Couldn't Resist

The children’s book is available online at this link.

Labels: books, children's books

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Sunday, June 30, 2024

3:15 PM | Pride Reads

On the last day of Pride Month, a book feature from my publisher on their social media!

Misgivings aside, I’m quite proud of this story collection which I share with Shakira Sison. DON’T TELL ANYONE: LITERARY SMUT, from Anvil Publishing, is an anthology composed of five erotic lesbian stories [Kia’s] and five erotic gay stories [mine]. I wrote these stories in the mid-2010s, although I knew I could not publish them anywhere. There was just no way a magazine would publish an erotic story, much more a gay one. The only place for them was a book, and I’m glad Andrea Pasion-Flores [before she became the big boss of Milflores Books] accepted them for publication.

Every time someone asks me, “Where do I start with your stories?,” I always tell them, “If you’re brave enough, try my gay porn.”

But it’s not really porn, hehehe: it’s more elevated than that. It’s about passion and longing and the humanity of heartbreak. Trust me.

One story in it, “The Boys From Rizal Street,” has gotten so popular, it’s anthologized internationally and translated to other languages, too!

Get the book on Shopee here.

Labels: books, life, philippine literature, Pride, queer, writing

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Tuesday, June 25, 2024

9:48 PM | 'Ladlad': 30 Years of Unfurling the Cape and Paving the Way

Finally, it’s out! My essay on the 30-year legacy of Ladlad, the pathbreaking anthology of Philippine gay writing by J. Neil C. Garcia and Danton Remoto, now out on Spot.ph. An excerpt:


In 1994, I was nineteen, a twink lost in the world the way only someone who came of age in the 1990s could be. I had no idea I was a twink—that was queer nomenclature I would only come to know in my worldly thirties and the world had evolved enough to have specific names for what used to be an identity no one talked about in polite circles. I had no idea either what to make of the surging tempests I had inside of me as I braved the hormones of adolescence and took in, without a map, the hazy landscape of desire you could not deny a young man at the beginning of his prime.

This was three years before Ellen DeGeneres famously came out on American television via her eponymous sitcom and unleashed a cultural touchstone for what Oscar Wilde used to describe, a hundred years before, as “the love that [dared] not speak its name.” [Actually, it was his lover Lord Alfred Douglas who penned this line in a poem, but the phrase was used in Wilde’s gross indecency trial which would decisively blanket in silence all manner of things gay, until cracks appeared in 1969 because of the Stonewall Riot.] This was four years before Will & Grace would grace our television screens and pave the way for mainstream acceptance of characters who just happened not to be heterosexual. In the Philippines, the show was carried by Studio 23, a UHF channel that largely escaped conservative notice simply because it was a smaller station and catered to a niche audience.

In the Philippines, at least in popular culture, to be gay was defined largely by the movies—and for about 50 years since Nemesio E. Caravana toyed ever so lightly with the notion of queer attraction in Kaaway ng Babae (1948), to be gay for the Filipino was to live out a phase awaiting eventual heterosexual conversion, such as in Tony Cayado’s Kaming Mga Talyada (1962). Or to wallow in guilt and ennui (and camp), such as in Danny Zialcita’s suite of queerness in Si Malakas, Si Maganda, at Si Mahinhin (1980), Mahinhin vs. Mahinhin (1981), T-Bird at Ako (1982), and Lalakwe (1985). Or to identify with Dolphy’s definitive caricature of the sissy in Jack and Jill (1954), which would generate decades-long copycats in many movies starring Roderick Paulate, Joey de Leon, and Herbert Bautista. In 1994, Paulate famously played twins separated at birth in Maryo J. de los Reyes’ Bala at Lipstick, where one twin is a tough guy and the other an enterprising shrill running a beauty parlor.

The year also saw Mel Chionglo release Midnight Dancers, a spiritual sequel to Lino Brocka’s Macho Dancer (1988), which also largely defined the Filipino gay experience as one that is seen largely through the eyes of (an often straight) male stripper. The early 1990s were not a good time to find complex gay representation in Filipino pop culture.

I was a budding cineaste then and definitely heard of Chionglo’s film—which came to me in bootleg VHS through God knows what source. (Perhaps a neighborhood video store?) I must have played that movie a hundred times on the family VCR, always discreetly and in the dark cloak of night—hoping my Born Again mother would not rouse from her sleep and catch me.

It was with the same delicious trepidation that I would come across a copy of the first Ladlad, which described itself in its subtitle, and in such an arrestingly forward manner, as an “anthology of Philippine gay writing.” There was no mistaking it for anything other than what it declared itself to be. The simplicity of that admission would create such an upheaval that thirty years later it would be difficult to ignore the fact that for many gay people in the Philippines, the publication of this book could very well be our own version of the brick thrown at Stonewall Inn.


Read the rest at the link. Happy Pride, everyone!

Labels: books, film, life, memories, philippine cinema, philippine culture, philippine literature, queer, writers, writing

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Saturday, June 22, 2024

10:04 PM | For Ladlad

Done! Submitted to the editor! I had so much fun writing this, on the 30th anniversary of Ladlad: An Anthology of Philippine Gay Writing. Will post the link when it happens. Happy Pride to all, especially Danton Remoto and J. Neil C. Garcia!

Labels: books, life, memories, philippine literature, Pride, queer, writers, writing

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Thursday, May 09, 2024

6:03 PM | Spicy Throwback

In 2005, I designed this cookbook for Cecilia Helen Bruce's A Touch of Spice, published by Village Books in Dumaguete, and covering a wide variety of South Asian cuisine. It won a prize at a culinary competition in Europe [I forget which]. This was my first time working on a cookbook, and it proved to be a vast learning challenge for me, design-wise. I lost my only copy to termites though. [Sad.]

Labels: books, culinary heritage, dumaguete, food

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Sunday, March 17, 2024

11:51 AM | The Great American Novels

The Atlantic just dropped their list of The Great American Novels...



Goodness, I have only read 25 of these. Must really go back to serious reading. But happy for Jessica Hagedorn’s Dogeaters making it. I read that book when I was studying in Japan at 21, and I loved it. [I lent it to a Finnish friend, and when she finished, she told me: “Now I understand you much better,” hahaha.] But I’m perplexed with its inclusion in this list, given its “American-ness” conceit: that novel is very much about post-war Philippines. Carlos Bulosan’s America is in the Heart feels like the better fit.

The list, and my reads thus far:

[✓]  The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)
[   ]  An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (1925)
[   ]  The Making of Americans by Gertrude Stein (1925)
[   ]  Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather (1927)
[   ]  A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway (1929)
[   ]  Passing by Nella Larsen (1929)
[   ]  The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (1929)
[   ]  Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner (1936)
[   ]  Nightwood by Djuna Barnes (1936)
[   ]  East Goes West by Younghill Kang (1937)
[   ]  Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston (1937)
[   ]  U.S.A. by John Dos Passos (1937)
[   ]  Ask the Dust by John Fante (1939)
[   ]  The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (1939)
[   ]  The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West (1939)
[   ]  The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (1939)
[   ]  Native Son by Richard Wright (1940)
[   ]  The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers (1940)
[   ]  A Time to Be Born by Dawn Powell (1942)
[   ]  All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren (1946)
[   ]  The Street by Ann Petry (1946)
[   ]  In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (1947)
[   ]  The Mountain Lion by Jean Stafford (1947)
[✓]  The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger (1951)
[✓]  Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White (1952)
[   ]  Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (1952)
[   ]  Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (1953)
[   ]  Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks (1953)
[   ]  The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow (1953)
[✓]  Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)
[✓]  Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin (1956)
[   ]  Peyton Place by Grace Metalious (1956)
[   ]  Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (1957)
[   ]  No-No Boy by John Okada (1957)
[✓]  On the Road by Jack Kerouac (1957)
[✓]  The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (1959)
[   ]  Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961)
[✓]  A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle (1962)
[✓]  Another Country by James Baldwin (1962)
[   ]  One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey (1962)
[✓]  Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov (1962)
[   ]  The Zebra-Striped Hearse by Ross Macdonald (1962)
[✓]  The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (1963)
[   ]  The Group by Mary McCarthy (1963)
[✓]  The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon (1966)
[   ]  A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter (1967)
[   ]  Couples by John Updike (1968)
[   ]  Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick (1968)
[   ]  Divorcing by Susan Taubes (1969)
[✓]  Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth (1969)
[   ]  Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut (1969)
[✓]  Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume (1970)
[   ]  Desperate Characters by Paula Fox (1970)
[   ]  Play It as It Lays by Joan Didion (1970)
[   ]  Log of the S.S. The Mrs Unguentine by Stanley Crawford (1972)
[   ]  Mumbo Jumbo by Ishmael Reed (1972)
[   ]  Sula by Toni Morrison (1973)
[   ]  The Revolt of the Cockroach People by Oscar Zeta Acosta (1973)
[   ]  Oreo by Fran Ross (1974)
[   ]  The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin (1974)
[   ]  Winter in the Blood by James Welch (1974)
[   ]  Corregidora by Gayl Jones (1975)
[   ]  Speedboat by Renata Adler (1976)
[   ]  Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko (1977)
[   ]  Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison (1977)
[✓]  A Contract With God by Will Eisner (1978)
[✓]  Dancer From the Dance by Andrew Holleran (1978)
[   ]  The Stand by Stephen King (1978)
[   ]  Kindred by Octavia E. Butler (1979)
[   ]  The Dog of the South by Charles Portis (1979)
[✓]  Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson (1980)
[   ]  The Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara (1980)
[   ]  Little, Big: Or, the Fairies’ Parliament by John Crowley (1981)
[   ]  Oxherding Tale by Charles Johnson (1982)
[   ]  Machine Dreams by Jayne Anne Phillips (1984)
[   ]  Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy (1985)
[   ] A Summons to Memphis by Peter Taylor (1986)
[✓]  Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons (1986)
[   ]  Beloved by Toni Morrison (1987)
[   ]  Dawn by Octavia E. Butler (1987)
[   ]  Geek Love by Katherine Dunn (1989)
[   ]  Tripmaster Monkey by Maxine Hong Kingston (1989)
[✓]  Dogeaters by Jessica Hagedorn (1990)
[✓]  American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis (1991)
[   ]  How the García Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez (1991)
[   ]  Mating by Norman Rush (1991)
[   ]  Bastard Out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison (1992)
[✓]  The Secret History by Donna Tartt (1992)
[   ]  So Far From God by Ana Castillo (1993)
[   ]  Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg (1993)
[   ]  The Shipping News by Annie Proulx (1993)
[   ]  Native Speaker by Chang-rae Lee (1995)
[   ]  Sabbath’s Theater by Philip Roth (1995)
[   ]  Under the Feet of Jesus by Helena María Viramontes (1995)
[   ]  Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (1996)
[   ]  I Love Dick by Chris Kraus (1997)
[   ]  Underworld by Don DeLillo (1997)
[   ]  The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead (1999)
[   ]  Blonde by Joyce Carol Oates (2000)
[   ]  House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski (2000)
[   ]  The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon (2000)
[✓]  The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt (2000)
[   ]  The Quick and the Dead by Joy Williams (2000)
[   ]  Erasure by Percival Everett (2001)
[   ]  I, the Divine by Rabih Alameddine (2001)
[✓]  The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen (2001)
[   ]  Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros (2002)
[   ]  Perma Red by Debra Magpie Earling (2002)
[   ]  The Russian Debutante’s Handbook by Gary Shteyngart (2002)
[✓]  The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri (2003)
[   ]  Veronica by Mary Gaitskill (2005)
[✓]  The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz (2007)
[   ]  A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan (2010)
[   ]  I Hotel by Karen Tei Yamashita (2010)
[   ]  Open City by Teju Cole (2011)
[   ]  Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward (2011)
[   ]  The Round House by Louise Erdrich (2012)
[   ]  Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2013)
[   ]  Nevada by Imogen Binnie (2013)
[   ]  A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James (2014)
[   ]  Family Life by Akhil Sharma (2014)
[   ]  Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff (2015)
[   ]  The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemisin (2015)
[   ]  The Sellout by Paul Beatty (2015)
[   ]  The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen (2015)
[   ]  Amiable With Big Teeth by Claude McKay (2017)
[   ]  Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders (2017)
[   ]  Sabrina by Nick Drnaso (2018)
[   ]  Severance by Ling Ma (2018)
[   ]  There There by Tommy Orange (2018)
[   ]  Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli (2019)
[   ]  Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson (2019)
[   ]  The Old Drift by Namwali Serpell (2019)
[   ]  No One Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood (2021)
[   ]  The Love Songs of W. E. B. Du Bois by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers (2021)
[   ]  Biography of X by Catherine Lacey (2023)

Labels: books, list, philippine literature, reading

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Saturday, March 02, 2024

11:58 AM | David Bordwell, 1947-2024

All film enthusiasts/film students have their edition of Film Art. This was mine in college, and I still have it. RIP, David Bordwell.

Labels: books, film, obituary, people

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Tuesday, January 30, 2024

4:42 PM | Do Not Find Me

I am finally done reading this. I struggled! Have you ever read a book that is so excruciating to read, but still mean to finish regardless of your fraying sanity because the memory of the book it is a sequel to is sacred to you? I loved Call Me By Your Name when I read it years ago, even way before the movie came out in 2017. I devoured it within a day, and my copy still occupies a singular place in my bookshelves. There really shouldn't have been a sequel.

But Andre Aciman, perhaps to satisfy a commercial demand brought on by the success of the movie, returns to tell more of Elio's and Oliver's tales. But this time, the language that was so ravishing in the first book — I remember it occasionally made me breathless, and I often stopped reading between paragraphs in sheer writerly jealousy — became so plodding and overwrought in this book. And Aciman knows it.



I've highlighted this passage from Find Me that shows him knowing full well that the tenor of his language was off. [It's the usual excuse by writers who cannot pen meaningfully realistic dialogues.]

And then to begin this book with a loooong section focusing on Elio's father meeting, in a train, a woman he would eventually seduce and marry. That section ["Tempo"] took me months to finish, because I certainly was not interested to read about the sexual escapades and cringy flirtations of Elio's FATHER. It is the longest section, too, significantly eclipsing Elio's section ["Cadenza"], which inexplicably devolved into a strange and unnecessary mystery involving a long-dead composer. Oliver's section ["Capriccio"] was the shortest of all, just a few pages of him trying to get it on with a man and a woman at his farewell party, while day-dreaming about love lost in Elio. The coda ["Da Capo"], when Elio and Oliver finally get together, is so short and so anti-climactic, it is a let-down of extreme proportions -- because we simply have come not to care anymore about Elio and Oliver after all that.

If you love Call Me By Your Name, avoid Find Me at all cost.

Labels: books, queer

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Saturday, October 07, 2023

1:59 PM | Jean Reading

It always feels like an honor and privilege when people send me videos of them reading The Great Little Hunter aloud to their children. I mean, that's the best kind of validation, right? When your target audience is truly enjoing, and learning from, a story you've written for them? This is my friend Jean Cuanan-Nalam reading to her boy. Thank you, Jean!

You can get your copy of the softbound edition at this link.

Labels: books, children's books, friends, philippine literature

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Friday, September 01, 2023

8:28 PM | Escape to the Hills

I had no plans to read this book today. But I was coming off from my first day of renewed research for the literary history of Negros Oriental that I'm currently writing/finishing, and while I was searching for other things, I stumbled on an online copy of James and Ethel Chapman's wartime memoir Escape to the Hills (1947). [The Chapmans were missionary teachers at Silliman.] I scanned the first pages just because — but soon found myself riveted by its very engaging writing. I found myself reading it. It is so good, so thrilling. I loved having a fantastic mental picture of Dumaguete right before World War II broke out in the Pacific in December 1941. I loved the details of the inhabitants preparing for the war to come, rationing food and preparing shelter in the mountains. [Abby Jacobs was a super woman! Asteeeeg! University President Arthur Carson's order was for all the women and children to immediately evacuate Dumaguete when Pearl Harbor was bombed by the Japanese, but she stayed behind in campus with the men, and went about the task of publishing The Daily Sillimanian, to print factual information about the war for the Dumaguete community, in order to combat the hysterical fake news they were already being bombarded by. She stayed on that job right until the very end, when she was forced to surrender it. Together with her family, she was eventually ferreted out of Negros via submarine, but stayed in Australia and found work with the military. She was with the liberation force that entered Manila in April 1945.] I loved that even with the war going on, James Chapman was still the fervent biologist that he was, going about their evacuation places still collecting plants and animals for study. [The section on ants is endearing! And the section on food was strangely delicious, and enlightening!] I loved that despite all the dangers, they still found time to set-up a "Jungle University," catering to the education needs of their neighbours in the mountains of Negros. I am truly amazed by the bravery and the resourcefulness of our early Silliman teachers. I have yet to go to the section that details their eventual interment at the University of Sto. Tomas in Manila [yes, they were eventually captured by the Japanese], but already I'm loving this book! Sillilman University should be reprinting this valuable memoir. It's sad that we only know them now as buildings: Ethel Chapman is a building for nursing students, James Chapman is a science building, and Abby Jacobs is a residence hall.

Labels: books, dumaguete, silliman, war, world war II

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