Dear Fellow,
Since I turned 11, I became fully responsible for filling out my registration forms—which refers to any form requiring my biodata. Maybe that happened even earlier. My father teaches his children how to be responsible in many unlikely ways. He’d say to me, “Fill out this form yourself. One day, you’d be the one to assist or guide your siblings when their time comes.” And the time came. At 11, I had two siblings enrolled in primary school. That means I have filled out forms for them—from hospital cards to school documents.
My baby sister, born a year after I turned 11, is now my responsibility. I mean, I was responsible for filling out every form issued by her new school. When the documents arrived, I needed no announcement to tell me what to do. I filled out every single form that came from her school. So far, her forms are the finest in the house, because, at the moment, my handwriting is the finest. Every other form previously filled out in my house bears witness to how low the bar for good handwriting was in my family. Whenever an outsider needed to do something with the document—like, the medical officer filling out the Medical Examination Form—I gave it out confidently and with pride. Well, good handwriting is no immunity against blunders in communication.
At the hospital, a family friend asked to see the Admission Brochure. As usual, confidence and pride intact, I gave her the brochure. She flipped page after page and often slowed down at the biodata sections of the document. She called out eventually, “Is this your sister’s date of birth: 17th September 2023?” She pointed at two other instances where the same details occurred and said, “Born in September 2023, and she is already a junior secondary student?”
We had a good laugh before anything else. Then, I listened to the lessons that interaction yielded. The lesson applied more to the art of writing: That moment with the family friend I cherished the harmonising power of writing.
In the past, I was suspicious of reviews, wary of feedback, and never wanted the services of an editor. In my head, I believed it was possible to write a piece so error-free that no beta reader, editor, or proofreader would see an undotted “i”. Beyond my pair of eyes, all that was suspect. But that meeting at the hospital was the day of my baptism out of that mindset.
Ever since the experience at the hospital, I am more than willing to trust the eyes of another human with my work. I am now more than willing to show my drafts to a friend to be questioned, to a beta reader to assess, to an editor to catch many flaws and frame the finest bits, and to a proofreader to fashion out the details. These eight eyes over two from now henceforth. Great writings, especially for the public, are products of revisions, because the eyes of the author, by the end of every writing adventure, are often worn out by the strain of seeing the story take form in his head and at the same time as it unfolds on her paper. When the work is set aside for at least a day, and then revised by the author before it goes out for input of the relevant others, we should have a great work scrutinised by ten good eyes.
Confession. My baby sister’s admission brochure was filled out close to bedtime. While it is possible to fill out the form without any errors, if you take nothing from this piece, I hope it reminds you that every human is not above mistakes. And so, whenever you make a mistake, laugh at your initial pride and confidence—maybe at how foolish your wisdom was. But never think that your mistakes can never be forgiven when you never accepted you were wrong in the first place, not to mention when you never even asked for forgiveness.
Please do not hesitate to leave your comment on this despatch. I am more than expecting to hear your thoughts. Why? Eight eyes over two henceforth!
Your LetterMan,
Tongjal, W. N.