When I was in the fifth grade, I became lazy. I had always been a diligent student. Teachers complimented me for my neatness, and I made my parents proud with report cards that dazzled with As and Bs. But halfway through the term, the high marks got to my head. While I remained conscientious with written assignments, I wanted to see what I could achieve by tossing aside work that required no physical evidence: studying and reading.

I got my first F. Because it was on a quiz, I dismissed it as irrelevant. Then came another F. Still, I coasted by, managing a high mark here and there. Come quarter’s end, my report card was a disaster of straight Cs.

My mother, a high school valedictorian, went ballistic. Later in life, she would tell me that my grandfather had done her assignments, and in college, being very pretty, she had cajoled her many suitors to substitute for him. Yet as I sat sobbing, my mother towered before me a shrill cry of disappointment.

I dreaded my father’s return from work that night – he a disciplinarian – and thus was surprised by his compassion. He placed an arm around me, asked why the slip in my grades, and then, “I don’t expect perfection.” This from a man who, at eleven, had hawked cigarettes and newspapers in the slums of Manila, whose big dream was to have an office job. One day he would found his own bank. “I was never a good student,” he confided, “but I made the effort to do my best. I know you can do much better than this.”

At 54, I’ve got my own big dream – to be a recognized author. Hard work, indeed. Young writers nowadays who pronounce that getting published took five “long” years don’t realize they’ve had it easy. I’ve been laboring over this for 30 years, and I don’t intend to ever slacken. True to my father’s words, the best in me is yet to come.