I treat my writing like a day job, like my main job, even if for

When Miguel Syjuco said, “I treat my writing like a day job, like my main job, even if for many years I was doing other jobs to pay the bills. I worked as a copy editor. I was a medical guinea pig. I was an eBay power seller of ladies’ handbags. I was an assistant to a bookie at the horse races. I bartended. I did anything I could to make ends meet,” he was speaking not only of labor, but of devotion — the sacred persistence of an artist who refuses to let his calling be silenced by circumstance. In his words is a fire known to all who chase a dream through hardship: the conviction that one’s true work is not determined by what earns a paycheck, but by what gives meaning to the soul. His declaration is both humble and heroic, a testament to the discipline of creation, the endurance that carries the artist through obscurity until the world at last begins to listen.

To treat writing like a day job is to honor the craft not as a pastime, but as a vocation. The ancients would have recognized this spirit — for to them, the poet, the sculptor, and the philosopher were not idle dreamers, but laborers in the fields of the divine. Syjuco’s words remind us that art, like faith, demands daily devotion, even when it yields no visible reward. He shows us that greatness is not born from sudden inspiration, but from long years of toil. For he understood what the ancients called arete — excellence through perseverance — the virtue of one who perfects his craft not for applause, but because it must be done. Even when he tended bars or sold handbags, he remained, in his heart, a writer. The body may labor for sustenance, but the spirit must labor for truth.

The origin of Syjuco’s words lies in his own journey — from a struggling writer who took whatever jobs he could find, to an internationally celebrated novelist whose work gave voice to his homeland, the Philippines. His early years were marked by uncertainty and sacrifice, yet through them he carried a discipline that few possess: the discipline to write each day as if the world depended on it. Like a blacksmith who hammers steel in the dark, trusting that one day the blade will shine, Syjuco forged his craft in silence. He reminds us that purpose is not always profitable, and that faith in one’s calling must endure through lean times and long nights.

There is an ancient kinship in his story — the tale of Vincent van Gogh, who painted tirelessly while selling not a single work in his lifetime. He lived in poverty, feeding himself little and often working by candlelight, yet he painted the heavens with such passion that even the stars seemed to swirl with longing. Like Syjuco, van Gogh did what he must to survive, but he never abandoned the work of his soul. He, too, treated his art as his main job, though the world did not yet see its value. Their lives teach the same truth: that true artistry requires not only talent, but endurance — the courage to keep creating when recognition and reward are distant dreams.

Syjuco’s mention of his humble labors — copy editing, bartending, even serving as a medical guinea pig — is not an admission of defeat, but a declaration of integrity. For he did what was necessary to sustain his life, while never abandoning what sustained his spirit. There is dignity in such labor. The ancients believed that no work was dishonorable if it served virtue and purpose. The farmer who tilled the soil and the philosopher who studied the stars both served the same divine order. So too, Syjuco’s many odd jobs were not diversions from his path, but the stones that paved it. Each task, no matter how small, became part of the discipline that shaped him into the writer he was destined to be.

His words also carry a quiet challenge to those who would seek greatness without struggle. He teaches that passion must be coupled with perseverance, that dreams alone cannot feed the body or forge mastery. The artist must become both creator and worker — one hand on the pen, the other in the world’s labor. For even the gods, the ancients said, toiled to bring order from chaos. Zeus ruled through strength, Athena through wisdom, Hephaestus through craft. To live fully, one must balance survival and purpose, the duties of the day with the demands of the soul.

Thus, the lesson of Miguel Syjuco’s quote is both timeless and vital: treat your passion as your true work, even when the world does not yet see it as such. Every act of dedication, every hour spent honing your craft, is a brick in the temple of your destiny. Do what you must to live — sell, serve, struggle — but never cease building the dream that calls to you. For one day, the walls of that temple will stand tall, and others will marvel at what you built in the dark.

So let this teaching be passed on: labor with purpose, and your purpose will labor for you. The world may measure worth in wages, but the ancients — and all who truly live — measure it in devotion. Whether your art is writing, teaching, healing, or any noble pursuit, treat it with reverence. Rise each day and serve it as faithfully as you would a sacred duty. For the gods reward not the swift or the fortunate, but the steadfast — those who, like Miguel Syjuco, endure the long seasons of obscurity until their light breaks forth, radiant and undeniable, at last.