Joseph Trinidad (Writing for the Page, 2023)
‘When I trusted the process and really listened…I learned more about the voice simmering in my subconscious and what it could do.’
'Discouraged and, frankly, traumatised by New Zealand's school system, I dragged my feet applying to Aotearoa's premier writing school, the IIML. The reasons not to apply were plentiful and convincing: I had heard horror stories; I thought the Wellington literati wouldn't be interested in what I had to say, what I wanted to write about: my Filipino family, the immigrant community in the Hawke's Bay I love, and the weird, horny shit cultivated by years growing up in a small town closeted and surrounded by muscled farm boys in stubbies; I was scared I wouldn't get in.
'It wasn't until I was 26 that I actively pursued having my writing published. It wasn't until the end of that year that I had enough "good" essays and poems to meet the 10-to-20-page folio the IIML application required.
'I was at work when I found out I got in. I was squealing, banging on the walls. The toilet stall next to mine asked, "Can you stop that?" and I ignored him. When the IIML wanted to confirm if I was still interested, I replied within seconds. It wasn't until the following day I realised what I'd signed up for: eight months to write a book.
'My essay and poetry class consisted of nine women and me. I learned so much when I kept quiet and just listened to them talk. Our class had a group chat called "Water Wāhine" (in which I served as a uniquely unqualified member) to keep track of the weather and the tides for regular beach swims. My class (except for me) loved getting up at 6 a.m. to run into the frozen needles of the winter ocean. I stood back on the shore and watched them show their strength.
'My class considers our year successful mainly because of our workshop convenor, Chris Price. She was quick, kind, and exceptionally thorough with her feedback. I have yet to meet another person as well-read as Chris. Like all great teachers, she was full of quotes from other writers she admired. My favourite was from Vivian Gornick, who wrote, "What happened to the writer is not what matters; what matters is the large sense that the writer is able to make of what happened." No one gets credit for living through something. As writers, all that really counts is what's on the page.
'Chris, of course, has quotes of her own. She would continuously tell us to excavate the "subterranean argument" of a piece. What are you trying to say? Is there a way to make your subtlety provide clarity? Another Chris quote that stuck with me was "be hyperspecific", a piece of advice that quickly dispelled my fear of being too different. Throughout the year, Chris insisted that the more precise our work was, in terms of touchstones and artefacts, the more alive it became. Do not say "food" when I could say "kaldereta, sinigang na hipon, palabok", or do not say "my grandmother" when I could say "Mami". I took this advice to heart; I have it centre-stage on a corkboard above my writing desk. I still think about it a year and a half after that workshop.
'Oh yeah, workshop. Workshop was a trip, man. The energy of our workshop was simultaneously familiar and otherworldly, and it wasn't just because I was drowning in great landscape poetry. It was as though the workshop walls whispered legends of what came before: Chris Tse, Tusiata Avia, Help Me, Hera. Formidable people who had their drafts picked apart with the same intensity, who faced the same emotionally tumultuous writing programme. I felt green, ridiculous, and undeserving until the walls said, "You have eight months — eight months to write 50,000 words. You cannot afford to be cruel to yourself."
'The all-seeing eye of workshop revealed ticks I'd used as a crutch to sound more "literary" and "entertaining". Water Wāhine and my supervisor (Rose Lu, acclaimed author and essayist extraordinaire) picked up on my habit of ending with something gay and/or horny every time I found myself backed into a creative corner. "Joe, there's no need. Everybody already knows that." When I trusted the process and really listened, as opposed to actioning all the notes given to me in workshop—the rookiest mistake by the way—I learned more about the voice simmering in my subconscious and what it could do. The voice was radiant and revealing as it was raw and enervating, like a newfound superpower.
'Luckily, very early on, Chris and Rose encouraged me not to think about publishing just yet. Publishing wasn't the point of the IIML; the point was to write what I wanted and write what I couldn't. I began experimenting and continued to do so throughout the year. Free from the shackles of good taste, good manners, and good art, my work quickly became transgressive, vulgar, and truly fucking bad. There were pieces I was sure people were gonna hate. Oddly enough, my ugliest children were the ones my class responded to the most. They egged me to carry on. When I abandoned my standards and let myself, my writing, be on the edge of what I considered possible—the strings disappeared and my work began to live on its own terms.
'Outside the workshop, Tina Makereti, thee Tina Makereti, organised a monthly meeting of IIML POC students, which was more like a support group for ethnic minorities burdened by the pathology of white academia. It was, to this day, the most diverse group of writers I've ever been a part of. Plus, there was Hell pizza. The meetings were an extraordinary and necessary kindness, especially against the backdrop of the 2023 Great Kiwi University Exodus. Each harrowing headline about staff and program reductions (and there were many!) made me feel for the people behind the numbers. It didn't take much for my writing class to imagine nightmare scenarios and catastrophise. Could workshop time be reduced? Could our MA year be cut short? Would the announced staff reductions affect our teachers? By the year's end, however, it was clear that the IIML were among the lucky ones — a rare mercy for creatives pitted against balance sheets.
'Everything went so fast; I blinked and I was at the final stretch. New faces became old friends. New places became so commonplace it was hard to believe I wouldn't be seeing them regularly anymore. The seemingly dead tree outside our workshop room began to flower and attract birds that looked like they were just born yesterday.
'Reader, see you on the other side. It's a lot more stressful if you can believe it. After a year of structure that only workshops and deadlines can provide, to re-enter the monotony of the 40-hour working week made me realise that it's not a minor miracle that I even started writing at all.
'P.S. My top advice is to introduce yourself early to IIML MVPs Katie and Clare, they know how to work the printer when it's being testy (which is always five minutes before class). They're also great chats. Ask them about the photo of young Damien Wilkins on the bulletin board and the magic of the New York Street blue writing cottage.'
Bio: Joseph Trinidad is a Filipino writer who lives in Te-Whanganui-a-Tara | Wellington. His work has been featured in Landfall, North & South, Te Papa, The Spinoff, Turbine | Kapohau, and Migrant Zine Collective. He is the winner of the 2023 Adam Foundation Prize from the International Institute of Modern Letters and the 2023 Asian Ink from Playmarket.
In 2024 Joseph won the Sarabande Essay Prize, judged by Alexander Chee, with his MA folio Lucky Creatures. The book will be published in the US by Sarabande, and in Aotearoa by Te Herenga Waka University Press.
Read more:
'During the Summer, the Rivers Run Red in the Philippines' (Turbine | Kapohau)
'I DREAM OF WRITER’S BLOCK TO SAVE OCEAN/S' and 'To all the beards I’ve loved before' (The Spinoff)