The Solitude of the Filipino Writer

In all the branches of art, be it in the realms of science or aesthetics, no artist is more alone, more isolated, than a writer--- the lone lover of the written word. And never more so than the Filipino writer.
A writer, when viewed in the perspective of the creative whole, enjoys, or rather destined to, a peculiar solitude that is both a necessity and a curse. A necessity because tranquility, as most of the best authors of our time are aware of, is the great helper which catalyzes the transition from the primordial idea inherent in the thinking process to the eventual materialization of the written word, or the spoken verses in plays and theatre. As Alfred Russel Wallace said it best, “In my solitude, I have pondered much on the incomprehensible subjects of space, eternity, life and death.” Without being alone, a writer cannot think.
On the other spectrum of idea, loneliness of isolation is as much a curse as it is a friend. Compared to his fellow enthusiasts in the art of painting, a writer doesn’t have that immediate gratification of seeing the warm colors of his work. For a longer time than most, he finds it hard to enjoy the endless progression of commas, periods, apostrophes, phrases and ellipses. Unlike a sculptor, who at least exerts the necessary strength on his works that in turn as much a fun physical activity(with much endorphins to boot), like hiking or strolling down a park; a writer is ultimately bound, in his chair, pen and paper( or in our time a desktop) to one of the most sedentary endeavors known to man. Whichever way one sees it, a writer’s solitude is a grim requirement he has to embrace as well as to endure.
In all these, however, I find the Filipino writer most unfortunate if such a class of seclusion exists in the world of literature. The solitude of the Filipino writer not only is isolated in the process of creative thinking and writing, but characteristically, and more depressing so, extends to publishing, marketing and overall readership. A Filipino author, if you must forgive the pessimism, is like fish in dead water in an equally dead Philippine literary market. The feeling of hopelessness is magnified to infinity whenever I visit bookstores lined with aging local books, excellent reads at that, in shelves that nary a spirit has touched. Compared with the shelves of its foreign counterparts which enjoy a healthy readership, full pockets, and best-selling labels on their front cover; local shelves look like a decaying graveyard of great Filipino writers, National artists, and great insiders of the Filipino soul. Ask a fellow, a colleague or a friend, if he knows one local author or has read one of his works; lucky for you if he replies F. Sionil Jose or Luwalhati Bautista; but ask anyone if he has read Da Vinci Code and you might as well become one of those televangelist for surplus of followers.
I do not consider myself pessimistic, more like an observer perhaps. I do consider myself a lover of the art of the written word; and to see so many great writers before me I consider heroes, after enduring so much isolation in their craft, are still in solitude out there with their books in a sea of that bloody arena euphemistically called the global market, makes me ask questions like: What went wrong? Is the Filipino writer alone?