At 20, I was sure I wanted to start a magazine. Call it a by-product of being features editor then, which itself was a random turn. In the first place, I joined our school paper simply because I wanted to write movie reviews. But, of course, that wasn’t my call, even if I swore by Leonard Maltin and his now-defunct Bible-thick movie guide. I had to expand horizons, and look where that led. 

It was the first time I felt sure about something, even if I had my share of critics and parts of it felt like Real-World Office Politics 101. That much I learned when I took a shot at Editor-in-Chief, which didn’t exactly materialize. But the fact those setbacks didn’t douse the dream back then? That demanded attention. You could say I still wanted to continue that route. 

Sure, nowadays, I cringe at the issues I produced, those attempts at profundity that echoed my LiveJournal accounts (yes, plural) and, in more histrionic instances, my Multiply. We were mandated to think outside the box then. So, there I was, doing it for outside-the-box’s sake, while revealing that I was, on the contrary, still boxed in.

Well, then again, we all still were. And, face it, no one barely at the cusp of quarter-life really knew better, hard as it was to admit. 

So, I guess there’s a bright side to not being able to find my personal copies. They’re tucked away somewhere, dust bunnies and all. And if I do unearth them, I’m pretty sure my knee-jerk reaction would be: “What the heck did I put onto these pages?”, if not bluntly “Why?!” 

It’s nothing an intense round of Marie Kondo-ing this recovering hoarder can’t fix. But, in my reckoning, those paper remnants still, in fact, spark joy. It was, after all, my best college memory. And I have to hand it to Younger Me for trying.

Brought To You By 

I did not end up following that route, which I accepted rather quickly. The first job turned out to be fun, for one. And I still became a writer, except of different nature. I did branded content for a cable channel, back when cable channels were still a thing. On occasion, I also applied what I learned from my other college hustle, which was event scriptwriting. 

So, I spent those three years living on “brought-to-you-by’s” and the occasional “ladies and gentlemen”. It paid certain bills, all right – or, at least, the ones I could already afford to pay.  But somewhere along the way, I started yearning for paragraphs, more so, by-lines. By the turn of the 2010s, I’d watch a client-tweaked version of my work on-air and it’d dawn on me: “Those are no longer my words”. By that time, a redirection felt due. And I shied away from writing jobs for a while.

Lost Among Would-Be Stars 

The detours came aplenty in my late twenties and beyond, from social media management, which was somewhat still copywriting, and segment production, the closest I got to practicing my film school learnings. My most memorable pivot yet, however, was my work with artists, which I’ve referenced and written about enough to start a book.

It was a love-hate journey, which I can’t emphasize enough. At best, it was an unprecedented calling, which I learned to embrace after a reluctant start. At worst, it took away more than it gave. Either way, the most part of 2025 was spent continuing the work independently. To be fair, there were highlights.  

Called Back

It was that November when my college org-mate, Edict, arranged for a Zoom catch-up out of the blue. What was meant to be a virtual tarot session quickly shifted gears. Not a single card was drawn that night or, in his case and timezone, that afternoon. The life updates took precedence, and he began asking about my hustles. 

The chronicling felt mandatory, as we rarely spoke one-on-one over the years. And, on my end, all I knew was that he started his own events and brand experience firm since our last encounter. As I recounted my pivots through the years, his surprise was palpable.  

“How could you stop writing?”, Dict exclaimed. 

To which, I quickly clarified, and with emphasis: “Oh, I never stopped. I just opted out of writing jobs. 

After a quick pause, as if mentally recapping everything I shared, Dict responded: 

“Nonsense. Come home.” 

“I need a writer.”  

I noticed the conversation time stamp before it could sink in. 

“I’m not reading for you anymore tonight, am I?”, I realized before wrapping up. 

Return to Sanctuary 

The shift couldn’t be more timely, as my casting work had hit a wall. And, side note: I’ve had it with ungrateful neophytes. When an ex-colleague asked: “I thought you loved doing that?” I simply answered, “Oh, I have the heart for it, all right. Maybe, even too much.” I responded to his sad emoji with “Don’t worry, Angelo. I’m homebound.” Besides, casting will still be there. It was neither meant to replace anything, nor to be replaced.

Now, here’s the funny thing about entering chapters in your 40s. Some would equate it to an achievement unlocked; others, and perhaps more tritely, a dream come true. For me, this honestly feels like stepping out of newly-parked car, or changing into house clothes before bed. For the first time in over a decade, I no longer felt like entering a new battlefield or pressuring myself to vibe with everyone. It simply felt like re-entering a sanctuary, or like my own life reverting to its first draft.

I’m still honestly getting used to the hybrid protocol, like attending meetings mid-errand. But my first virtual meeting, which happened minutes after groceries, effectively set the pace. 

“All right, Chuckie, welcome. For your first task, let’s establish the feel of a magazine”. 

Imagine 20-year-old me hearing that.