Ang hindi ko malilimutan kay NVM ay ang sinabi niya sa isang forum tungkol sa tungkulin ng manunulat. Hindi ko pa siya kilala noon; nabasa ko lang ito sa isang artikulo tungkol sa nasabing forum. Ayon kay NVM, ang manunulat ay dapat tumulad sa bunsong prinsipe sa kuwento ng Ibong Adarna.

Kung natatandaan ninyo ang kuwento, maysakit ang amang hari at gagaling lamang siya kung maririnig ang awit ng Adarna. Sinubukan ng panganay at ng panggitnang prinsipe na hulihin ang Adarna, pero nang marinig nila ang awit ng Adarna, sila'y nakatulog, at iniputan ng ibon, at naging bato.

Para hindi siya mapatulog ng nakararahuyong awit ng Adarna, sinugatan ng bunsong prinsipe ang sarili niya at pinatakan ng dayap ang sugat. Sa gayon, hindi siya nakatulog, hindi siya napatakan ng tae, hindi siya naging bato, nahuli niya and Adarna, at napagaling niya ang maysakit na amang hari.

Hindi rin dapat kalimutan na tumulong ang bunsong prinsipe sa isang matandang pulubi sa daan, at mula sa pulubi niya natutunan ang sikreto ng paghuli sa Adarna.

Bata pa ako nang una kong marinig ang kuwento ng Ibong Adarna, pero kay NVM ko natutunan ang pagbasa dito bilang sagisag ng tungkulin ng manunulat. Para mabigyang-lunas ang amang maysakit, kailangan mong bigyang-halaga ang pulubing naghihikahos. Higit sa lahat, kailangan mong tiisin ang hapdi ng dayap sa sugat para hindi ka ipaghele at iputan at gawing bato ng Adarna.
 

The first time I interviewed NVM, it was for our book "Writers and their Milieu II", and he was in his home in Hayward, California.  First he made some excellent coffee in his favorite coffee-maker, and then we settled down in the living room.  We talked at some length, and he also read to me from a biography-in-the-making which he thought he would call "Dragons Deferred."  He spoke a lot about his boyhood in Mindoro, his first pieces published, his rejection slips, his walks to the next town to use the typewriter and submit his stories to Manila publications.

All the time Narita was in the next room, on a couch near the kitchen area, sewing and listening -- and smiling.  When I asked NVM about the circumstances that allowed him to write in such volume and quality, he looked at Narita.  She said:  "I do everything to leave him free to write."

I could see what that meant:  manage the household, arrange for his comfort, look after his health, liaison with his family and the rest of the world, cook a delicious lunch and serve it, listen quietly in complete, intuitive support, listen deeply to every story, every wish, every aspiration.

He wrote miracles; she made them possible.

It’s difficult to describe one aspect of an encounter with the late national artist NVM Gonzales.  Each meeting always sparked an interesting exchange of ideas with him.

I first met NV in 1997.  I was a Filipino fiction fellow in the UP National Writers Workshop in Baguio.  That was my first foray into the world of literary writing.  Soon enough, I found myself immersing in that world again as I reunited with him in another workshop, this time in Cebu.  Then a year later, I decided to pursue a masters degree in creative writing in UP where I bumped into him most of the time.

However, It was in Cebu where I fully observed how NVM Gonzalez shared his knowledge with young writers—without arrogance and with sincerity.  Back then, I was having problems with my workshop story.  He told me that the main problem was it had too much fat.  I was lost.

"Fat, sir?"
"Yes, fat."
I scratched my head.  "What do you mean, sir?"

He took his cup of coffee and placed it atop my bottle of mineral water. "See this cup?  This cup is the real story.  This bottle is your fat. Remove the fat.  Remove the bottle."

I was feeling like a dodo at that time for I wasn’t so sure of what he was talking about.  I felt a bit insecure because I saw myself as a newbie in that world.  "O-kayyy, sir… so, how do I do that?" He smiled and said some more things.  But the one thing that stuck in my mind was this : "When you describe things, don’t use adjectives.  That’s where most of the fat comes from."

He continued to lecture me about fiction writing whenever we would see each other in various literary events.  Whenever he would spot me, he would pull me aside and expound on some new tip.  He even lent me books and suggested titles for me to find that will help me in my craft.  I was amused every time he would do this for he appeared to me as a caring, doting literary grandpa.  I accepted the role of literary  goddaughter with pride.  He taught me lots of things about writing.  But he never laid off on the fat issue.  He would quiz me every now and then on ways of eliminating fat.  He would ask if I have been successful in doing that.  I would just shrug, smile and say "almost."

As my writing life progressed, I eventually learned how to spot that fat he always lectured me about.  Sir Jimmy Abad calls it "cleaning the line" in poetry.  He says he picked that up from Jose Garcia Villa.  I suppose in fiction, that fat is those sentences, phrases and even paragraphs which could be easily eliminated.  They may appear nice and all in the piece but it may not be necessarily helping the narrative move forward.  Extra luggage.  Spotting the fat in a story is quite easy especially if it’s not your story.  But the trick there is to look at your own story and determine what to eliminate.  Eventually, you learn the discipline of letting it go, cutting the fat without remorse.  Spot the fat to cut as I sometimes chant in front of my computer when it’s editing time. It’s like trimming the story as Ma’am Jing Hidalgo would say.

I discovered that most of the fat in my stories come from those mushy thoughts I  sometimes incorporate unconsciously.  Sometimes, I am successful at eliminating it.  Most times, though, I refuse to take them out for fear of ruining the effect I was hoping to achieve.  I still have to learn how to go about this fat business especially how to trim the mush of my stories. They get to be so emotion-laden most times.  But hey, I’m still young.  I still have lots of stories to write, and read, and criticize.  Maybe I’d be successful in eliminating that fat thing as I go on.

The last encounter I had with NV was the week before he fell into a coma. He was congratulating me on a very nice book review I wrote for The Cutting Edge magazine.  Finally, he said, there is no fat in there.  And he was proud.  Of me.  And my article.  I was so elated.

Well, it’s a start, I said.  I guess I’m on my way to literary no-fat land. Thank you, NV, for sharing that literary litany with me.  Sorry but I refuse to remove the fat on this one.  Just this time, promise.

When i learnt that NV was about to be operated on for some liquid in the brain, i asked him:  "NV, saan naman nanggaling 'yan?"

NV, his eyes large as saucers, answered: "From reading too many Marxist critics."

Ateneo's Office of Research and Publications will publish NVM's short stories in Filipino, Tala Sa Umaga and his novel Panahon ng Pagpapala (A Season of Grace).

Last summer, I visited NV and Narita told me NV had collapsed a week before. Impertinent as usual, i asked: "NV, i'm sure you did not see a tunnel of light."  To which he replied, "No, i smelled guavas."

Wherever you are now, my dearest NV, I'm sure you're surrounded by the fragrance of the ripest guavas.