You’re a Good Boss if your Underlings Don’t Like You.

A friend said this to me yesterday when I complained to her that my editors are slackers.  Oh, it is a difficult situation I am in.  For one thing, I wasn’t always their boss.  We were once colleagues before I was promoted to head the Creative Department… (but wait, does that make me Creative Director?  What exactly am I?  I think I am more of a baby sitter sometimes.)   

And so, they are unafraid to be who they really are, and to “slack off” sometimes.  In any case, what right have I to censure them when I also indulge in some internet slacking once in a while, especially when I am preparing for a project/script (procrastinating).  I’ve read enough on the work habits of creatives, and how they function better when given freedom.  That is, the boss shouldn’t be breathing down their necks all the time.  I believe in this style of managing creatives.  We aren’t your typical 9 to 5 cubicle monkeys.  We are, dare I say it, artists!  

But what I can’t stand is when people abuse this freedom I’ve given them.  I try not to be too uptight and to stress myself over this, but we have very tight deadlines, and this isn’t the time for slacking off…  I know, I know, when did we ever not have tight deadlines?  As they say, we can’t even come up for air.  Our department may look like we’re slacking, but really, inside, we’re thinking, err, freaking out about our projects and our deadlines.

But still, we have deadlines, and the total disregard for deadlines is truly disturbing.  I must say, I am also guilty of viewing deadlines as flexible or negotiable.  There aren’t enough negative consequences for missed deadlines, and the word has lost its power over us.  The deadline is when we finish it, which is often past the deadline.  Way past it.  

So now, how do I change this culture of utter disregard for deadlines?  Should I remind them gently (didn’t work!), demand, pester, threaten, cry?  All of the above?  In any case, such histrionics are not in my nature.  Having been in that position before, as one of them, I knew just how much time is required to write a script, and then the video graphics.  It just cannot be rushed.  Sometimes the great ideas come bubbling out of you, but most of the time you have to sit around waiting for inspiration to come.  

There is pressure everywhere to keep my staff in line.  This idea does not appeal to me at all.  I admit I never liked ordering people around.  Nor do I feel entitled to read anyone the riot act.  Also, I just may be severely lacking in leadership skills.  I have never liked “leading.”  I am a better follower than a leader.  I prefer to think of positions of leadership, when I am thrust upon them, as mentor-student arrangements.  We’re here to help each other, aren’t we?  

But I’m still worried if I’m going to be a good boss.

 

 

 

my excess baggage

Seriously, I need to de-clutter. The problem is not only that I am disorganized (I never put things back in their places immediately after use), but also because I have way too much stuff. No matter how I categorize and group objects, there always seem to be an overwhelming amount of stuff in my room. I have a rack for my clothes (we have a uniform now, so I hardly wear them); I have bookshelves, I have dressers for sheets and curtains and bags. But lately I’ve only been using only one or two of those bags. So, it seems logical I should just get rid of the stuff I don’t use anymore, right?

I am feeling a bit alarmed right now, because I have hundreds of books I have never even read, nor plan to read in the immediate future. I keep telling myself, “this is a classic–a find!–I will read it when I retire.” When is that going to happen? I’m 27 for Chrissakes.

I know I’m a hoarder. I have tons of useless junk. Pretty, cute, well-made, and sometimes, expensive, junk–but still, junk. For example, I have these glass candlesticks. I bought them because I thought they were pretty and classy. And I have test tubes. I don’t know what I’ll use them for but I feel good and happy because I have them. I also have 20 scarves which I bought in Vietnam and Cambodia. I don’t wear scarves but I feel good that I own such things, and the other stuff I own, mostly doodads like unusual Christmas ornaments and desk clutter, tiny decorative boxes, and toys. Knowing that they’re in a box somewhere in our house is–well, nice. But then, thinking about it, not having them won’t make me feel any worse either… So why did I buy all those things again?

It’s kind of sad, really, that I think these objects define me. It has gotten to the point where I’m confused about the style I want for my room. Am I minimalist or bohemian, or eclectic? Well, come to think of it, eclectic is just a fancy word for saying “messy.” Anything goes with eclectic.

Every website I searched about de-cluttering suggest throwing out stuff, but what if I love all my stuff? I have a comic book collection (OK, I may not need those comic books very much, but they were expensive!) Some of those I can’t throw away because they were given to me as gifts, I bought them, sentimental reasons, memories. I have a troh which is a Cambodian violin brought back from a trip to Cambodia. I never play it; it just looks nice propped up against my wall. I have a collection of notebooks, and paper products, and oh, those DVDs, accumulated during the years I was studying at UP until I went home to work.

Believe it or not, I once tried to sell those DVDs in a garage sale, but no one in our neighborhood wanted DVD copies of Rashomon or Citizen Kane. And my Sweet Valley High books didn’t do any better either.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to get rid of some of my stuff. For example, I don’t use a tape deck anymore, so one day, I brought my old tapes and distributed them to my office mates. I had a few DVDs I didn’t really like, so I gave those away too. (Let my junk clutter up someone else’s house! Hehe.) But I still have too much stuff, and I just keep bringing new stuff into our house!

I know that the only way to solve this clutter problem is to stop buying stuff I don’t really need. I know this well enough, but I must also resolve not to rely on things too much to make me happy and to define who I am, or to validate me. Sometimes, when I’m looking at shiny things that light up (I have a light fixture obsession, especially chandeliers), I forget that the person–me–is more important than his or her possessions. Because these are just objects which are weighing me down. If I was told I would be moving to another country, I wouldn’t be bringing all of my stuff with me. I’ll just pack the essentials in a suitcase or two (and that is already too much; I’m not sure if that’s 15kg…I fear excess baggage). But man, it would be a drag lugging all that stuff around, so make that just one backpack and a suitcase. I’d bring my laptop, a towel, a few change of clothes (I can just wash my clothes), a notebook, pen, purse, a book. That stuff would hardly fill a suitcase, would it?

So now, the question is: why can’t I live with just this number of things everyday? Why do I feel as if I need things to feel good about myself, as if these objects can reflect the person I want to become?

I am never going to use that stuff. My little cute toys, my collection of finely crafted teacups and sake cups, the scarves–they are just taking up space and collecting dust. But for the life of me, I cannot bear to give any of them away. I just like the idea that they are mine.

I know it’s wrong, but still, I can’t help myself. Tyler Durden says that advertising makes people buy things they don’t really need and that ‘the things you own may end up owning you.’

From now on, I must remember to ask myself when I’m tempted to bring home yet another doodad or bauble– “Do I really, really, really need this?” Who cares if it’s cheap, or if it’s free? I must think that everything I bring into our house must have a function, and that it will be used regularly. If not, then it’s just… trash.

 

Postcard from India

Ahhh, I love receiving mail. As in snail mail. Today I got a postcard from Camille from when she went to India.

It’s kind of dark now in my room, so you might not see it, but there are camels. Camille says camels are allowed on the roads. Also cows and other animals. Freakin’ awesome, if you ask me.

But the traffic’s probably hell in India.

 

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Nostalgic

So Paolo and I were talking about the most corrupt government agencies in the Philippines.

The BIR and the BOC come to mind. (I mean, the Bureau of Internal Revenue and Bureau of Customs. According to the PCIJ, Paolo says, these two agencies are considered the most corrupt.)

The reason we get to talking about these government agencies is our topic tomorrow for the show I’m producing is on taxation. On April 15, everyone has to pay their taxes, or else… I am not sure as to how I should approach this topic. Nobody really likes to pay taxes. Most people in the Philippines just think that their hard-earned money would just end up in the pockets of corrupt government officials.

This conjecture is only partly true. Of course, not all of the government officials are corrupt, but a lot of them are.

And it’s not helping that we are having problems with our budget this year. There’s a deficit, which is a big surprise. Part of it is due to the inefficient tax collection last year. Not enough taxes were collected. We’ll have to raise close to 380 billion to make it this year, what with the global financial crisis and the El Niño phenomenon.

But back to the BIR, the BOC and corrupt government agencies.

I have no stomach to feel disgust for them. Corruption is commonplace here. Nothing shocking. How do we talk about something we can do nothing about? We joke about it. There’s no other way to deal with it.

So I say, “The BOC. Those guys can own Maseratis or Lamborghinis! I wanna work there!”

“Yeah, the lucky bastards.” Paolo says, “I want a Volkswagen.”

“Yeah. Two of my neighbors own the old school Volkswagen.”

“I want the old school Volkswagen.”

“Yeah… Either that, or Mr. Bean’s car.”

I’ve always been partial to Mr. Bean’s car. The lime-yellow Mini. Why do I like it? Well, my mother and my brother and I used to stay up late watching Mr. Bean when I was a kid. So my mother, and my brother and I are probably very different people, and now, we aren’t what you would call friends, but I could hold on to the memory that when I was a kid, at night before it was time for bed, my mother would let us watch TV, and the only show we could agree on was Mr. Bean.

 

Amuse-Bouche!

I have never eaten caviar in my entire life. So today, I got it in my head to finally open that jar of caviar my brother brought home from Germany. It has been in the ref for close to a year now, and no one in the family had thought of eating the caviar. It isn’t exactly a required ingredient for the dishes we cooked.

I don’t know exactly where he bought it but the jar is labeled Deustcher Kaviar, and lists Seehasenrogen as one of the main ingredients.

Now, I don’t really understand a lot of German words. Fortunately, my Spanish friend, Mofi, who works for an organization that studies marine life and helps fisher-folk, got online. If I had a question about fish, he was the guy to ask. So I ask him if what I was about to eat was any good. It being my first time to eat caviar, I had no way of knowing whether it was good or bad.

So, Mofi asks, “Is it caviar of esturión? Or is it of Lumpus? I [have eaten] caviar of lumpus!!!”

Lumpus didn’t sound very promising. What was a lumpus? (On a side note, esturion, I assume, is sturgeon. Am I right, Mofi? 😀 )

The jar is labeled in German, and I assumed the caviar is from ‘Seehasenrogen,’ whatever it was.

And so, Mofi, an advocate of “Google it” sends me this photo:

And my answer was: “Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.” Plus, the smiley that looks like it’s gonna throw up.

“I think it’s lumpus,” responds Mofi in an attempt to solve the mystery of the identity of the caviar I have in my possession.

“Ewwwww. It’s ugly!” I’m very sorry, but this fish is rather ugly.

“Cyclopterus lumpus,” says Mofi diplomatically.

Finally, getting over my shock and prejudice towards unattractive fish, I say, “So is it nice caviar?”

“Yes. It’s great caviar.”

I try one of the amuse-bouche I have made. They are quite simple to make, really. Fita crackers, cream cheese and some caviar on top. The picture above recommends a generous helping, but I’m not that adventurous. As I’m chewing, I realize that it IS nice.

Mofi explains, “The caviar of lumpusfish is the only part of this fish that you can eat. The rest of the fish is water, gelatina.”

Like a jellyfish, I suppose. That’s kind of awesome.

Then Mofi shows me another lump fish:

This one, he photographed in Spain, which is a rare occurrence. Lumpfish are usually caught in Norway and Sweden. This female fish (above) is full of eggs, which is why her belly is so fat.

I went, “Poor girl… All her babies will be harvested to become caviar!”

But I’m forgetting the detail that the eggs don’t become fish until fertilized by a male lumpfish. So my fears about the baby lumpfish are totally unfounded.

Meanwhile, I can enjoy my caviar without any guilt.

 

I had a quasi-nervous breakdown today.

I had a quasi-nervous breakdown today.

Really, it depends on how you look at it, but it seemed as if I knew something was going to go wrong that day. I was agitated and confused, short of breath and I couldn’t concentrate.  That’s not an unusual state of being for me these past few months, let me tell you.

The previous week I had put off writing my script because I didn’t think I would have trouble with this topic, having written about it numerous times in the past. Women and their rights.

But when it came down to writing it, I just couldn’t. Up until the last hour when it was still acceptable to submit my script, I was paralyzed with fear. I guess you could say, I had the fear of failing.  So, I wrote shit. Perhaps it is because I do not have anything to say at all.

Is it because I have been writing about this subject forever that I couldn’t write anything new about it? A writer is supposed to be able to write about the same thing in different ways. This is my trade and I must write about the same topic, however trite and boring it is for me, in a new and exciting way every single time it is required of me. If I cannot do this, then what am I good for?

One of my greatest fears is realizing that I actually have no talent. That I am nothing but a dilettante, a hack, a big nothing. Someone who will just fade into obscurity, never writing anything brilliant. Like maybe the awards and accolades were a fluke. There was that Writer of the Year Award I got in high school (But then, high school was a tiny pond and not exactly the best measure of my literary abilities and accomplishments). I was quite prepared to die by the time I reached 21 if I still hadn’t written a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, or at least something awesome. That was the sort of pressure I imposed upon myself. I was going to be great or I’m nothing.

But I did end up writing something. It wasn’t exactly noteworthy, but it proved I could at least write.  I wrote a screenplay which ended up winning the second prize at national literary contest, and then I wrote that play which was selected for staging–all at the age of 21 (well, I had turned 22 in June, by the time I received the award in August).

I decided–maybe it is my destiny to become a writer.  Yes, a writer!  I was ready to embark into my new life.  So I left my advertising job and went back to school for a Masters Degree in Creative Writing.  I was going to teach college kids while writing literature!

It was around this time that I become closer to a friend I met through a film club in school, whom we shall name V and I remember we were walking by the Academic Oval (or insert any other UP locale here) and I told him about my plans of becoming a writer for a living. The award just proved I could make it as a writer, and he said, “A P—- winner?  Check it out.  There are about 20 guys in my dorm with awards from that contest” in this ‘whoa…big, frickin’ deal’ voice.  These kids wrote poetry deemed by the academe as having literary merit and yet, they were, well, losers. Poetry is not exactly a commodity in this country.  Not that V wasn’t proud of me re: my accomplishment.  He was first and foremost a pragmatist. This guy has a Ph.D. on tough love, as S would attest.  See, he only meant that if I wanted to stand out, I had to do something more.  Other 20-somethings in my field have done more but they were still losers relying on an allowance from mommy.  It is a terrible industry–this ‘writing’ thing I wanted to break into.

I pretty much got the same reaction from my Dad.  He said, “So you won this thing.  What good has it done you?”

Well, OK.  For most parents, financial security is the best measure of their children’s success.

My professor in Poetry 1, J. Neil Garcia, once said that my generation is in too much of a hurry to achieve. We want to win awards young. We want to be published young. We are hungry for success.  Well, who could blame us? As children growing up, there was that milk commercial featuring young geniuses. There was a very young girl who could paint very well, a boy who knew that the sun was the center of the solar system and a girl who knew the parts of the circulatory system while the rest of us still struggled with our ABC’s.

So, with these models to live up to, it was hard for the rest of us. You are raised thinking that you are special and that you are going to be great someday.  So I had to be very good at something, and through this talent I was going to accomplish great things. After all, humans are only valued for their accomplishments, aren’t they? That’s how the world worked. You were only loved for what you have done and what you could do.

But now, it seems as if I can’t do anything anymore.  I can’t even muster enough effort to do a half-assed job on my script.  Sometimes my boss would call me into her office and say, “You were a writer.  You’re supposed to be more creative than this,” before returning my copy.

Note her use of the helping verb “WERE,” as if my persona–the novelist, the playwright, the screenwriter–had died.

Now, my plaque for the screenplay I wrote when I was 21 hangs in our living room like an accusation.  I had not written anything worthy of an award since then.  Prof. Butch Dalisay called it the sophomore’s curse.  It’s painful because when I went up the stage to receive that plaque, he shook my hand and he said, “Maganda ang ginawa mo.”  (What you wrote was good.)  In the years immediately after that when I recalled this moment, I was inspired to write some more if only to have a literary great’s approval.  But now, I just wonder, where did all the promise go?  I was supposed to be a young writer just about to write my masterpiece but I had written nothing.

Sometimes I wonder if I hadn’t made a mistake in my freshman year, when I decided to drop Chemical Engineering to take up Journalism instead…