The New Dentists

Grace Wang

How should I begin? First lines are, as a writerly rule, important. They draw you in—moreso an introductory piece like this. How do I rein your attention in? I could begin with a joke, something that establishes my character as “quirky.” But you don’t need any more quirky types, I’m sure. Enough of them running about and imposing their quirkiness onto you—like what I’m doing right now. But enough about me.

So you think you’re a writer. Your parents look over your shoulder and tell you what a genius you are. Your teacher tells you to read your works in class.  You get positive, one-word comments on your blog. If you are satisfied with that then stop reading this right now and move on with your happy little life. You’ll only waste your time.

I’m writing here for those people who scribble little notes on their tissue paper on lunch breaks. To those who attend to their jobs without quite resigning themselves to it, to those who pay a little more attention to things than other people—I’m writing for those kinds of people. These are the kinds of people who get that itch to say something, to talk about things that other people don’t notice, to show the beauty that others wouldn’t care about. These are the people who can be writers.

If you’re published here, I congratulate you, but don’t stop here. Keep writing, join workshops, get constructive feedback. To those who didn’t make it: what are you waiting for? Don’t go and mope about your loss. Get off your pathetic asses and write something that you can be proud of. Write until you’ve written something that deserves to be read—no, write till you realize why so many people do it, and love it. Otherwise, don’t even bother.

Let’s be clear people: writing is harsh. It’s unforgiving and it’s pointless. No one can claim to love writing unless one has gracefully accepted negative feedback, unless one has been through those terrible moments when one can’t find the words that matter. One can’t claim to love it unless one has taken the time to create, to find that beauty in the mundane. One cannot claim to be a good writer, unless one acknowledges that trite expressions of love, oversentimental poems, thoughtless drivel, and bland stories that your family and friends rave about are not necessarily good writing. As for why I give you that last adverb, well, you’ll know it when you become a good writer.

But remember that we are not the ones who will tell you if you are a good writer or not. We publish your works, yes, but for all we know that could have been dumb luck. Keep improving, and convince me that you’re worth a second glance. Keep writing, and you wouldn’t even need our approval.  The New Dentists is a springboard for writers—we are not here to baby you. We want to get your works out there and prove that, in the end, writing doesn’t even need a point. It’s beyond practicality. It’s not a silly quirk to impress people with, it’s not a damned way of life. It is what we live for, and if you understand what we’re about, then you’d have become a good writer, and we’d have done our jobs right.

Grace is the managing editor for The New Dentists. She is currently taking up Literature in DLSU-M, and, in her spare time, enjoys manga, anime, fantasy fiction, and cats. She is meticulous and harsh—in other words, the better editor.