As a writer, I have known a sense of insecurity: it was to know I would have to do something else to survive. And inside me I held onto the belief that one-day I would be able to earn a living writing, when in the world and throughout history there were those who did that. But I don’t think I believed enough in myself to do it. New media, the development of the Internet for one, offer new opportunities, as well as my belief in practice. Practice at least means improvement, and writing a blog has given me an opportunity to improve. So the prospect of someday earning money from my writing lives on. This, however, is not something that preoccupies me.
Not someone who was focused on making money, I was a man satisfied, as a writer, with improving. As long as there was something meaningful to do or some adventure, I could pursue writing without making money. But writing was as close to being a necessity for me as anything else. An excuse perhaps, but said with sincerity: fulfilling even without the attachment of money.
To understand me, then, you would have to match my imagination with naivete. It is also important to recognize that I have never been afraid to risk everything for an adrenaline high (it’s a good thing that I never took up alcohol or drugs). So when I heard a British acquaintance in the Sulus (he later stayed with us in Manila) say he walked through Khyber Pass not once but twice, I visualized myself walking through it backwards. To later drive through the pass was thrilling. But bicycling through the jungle of Sumatra, with the tigers and the related experience of primitive fear, was my attempt at following my acquaintance’s footsteps (he hiked across Borneo)…though I couldn’t duplicate his adventures (you never can). And, in spite of making very little money from my writing, I have few regrets about how I’ve lived my life. And I’m still writing.