Why TF Were You in Portugal?
a dispatch from disquiet, some news, and finding renewed love in hopeless places
It is early Spring 2025.
I am almost a year out of one of my worst relationships. My uterus is broken, the ketamine no longer hits, and every masc I match with is ugly. This new person I’m seeing appears to be a horrible communicator—something I’ve learned over time, yet somehow tolerate (???)—but their peculiarities continue to pique my interest. So I ask the universe for a sign, an omen. I need a prescription to soothe the aches of unrequited yearning.
The next day, I receive an acceptance for a writing program in Lisbon.
The fruits of frantic, impulsive applications, I have the chance to travel to Portugal for a two-week memoir workshop. Of course, my spouse has qualms—especially because I’m headed to Andalusia with another long-distance partner not even a month earlier. Aren’t you wasting money coming back and forth? You’d be in Spain already. Couldn’t you just move your trip or stay in Europe longer?, he wonders aloud, his arms folding in front of his chest. I shake my head, I can’t. I’d need medication, miss you and the dogs too much and where would I even stay in between? Then I ask if he wants to tag along.
Throwing his hands in the air in protest, he groans. It’s going to be so expensive. Through thorough nudging, coaxing a budget, and using my parents’ airline miles to convince him. It doesn’t hurt that I mention it’s our first vacation in years that wasn’t work or family related.
I hate to admit but I like it here.
The Iberian peninsula changed me. I’m a tapas and petiscos person. I walk hills and trek to other villages on day trips. I say Ola to every dog I come across, and try not to slip on calçadas. Not a fan of the hills, I prefer the metro or Bolt. I savor the crunch of a pastel de natá shell and how it contrasts with its gooey, rich custard center. My fellow writers dole out the pastries as currency, as if their writing alone isn’t enough to satiate me.
In our initial workshop, we introduce ourselves and what we bring to the vacation. I hesitate to respond—someone’s already claimed the foodie answer. Mental inventory of my suitcase: Tons of books, a heating pad, a portable TENS unit, extra medications and a first aid kit just in case. Amongst all else, I follow the motto of the Boy Scouts by preparing ahead of time.
When it’s my turn, I boast: I’m your resident Daddy TM. I care for others and organize adventures. I feed my friends, remind them to nourish themselves, and send them in a taxi home when they’re too exhausted to trek uphill. Sometimes, my spouse tags along, helping me herd my fellow explorers.
We travel to Cascais on a free day after morning workshop. Frantic but efficient coordination over WhatsApp with our new friends, we meet them, huddle our masses together on the train and set off for the beach. Half of us share a family pack of sushi and devour it on the sand—hoping granules won’t catch wind and taint our lunch. As Rihanna once sang, we found love in a hopeless place. I can’t help but think she was actually singing about her community, the crew she gathered along the path to stardom. I hope I feel that way about writing, eventually.
Camaraderie amongst craft-obsessed creators is palpable—our scribbles shape-shift into polished pieces before our eyes. In my nonfiction workshop, our facilitator (the most festive frump herself, Emma Copley Eisenberg1) inquires how our essays take shape, how we can help our words move vibrantly on the page. Emma prompts us to describe what the piece is doing, what shape we think it takes, and what we think it wants to be about (and if that’s so, how can we achieve it?)
It is an honor to hone my craft, especially among other esteemed writers. Being workshopped, though? Scary. (Upon cursory and obligatory Googling of classmates after our first workshop, I cry to my husband, PLZ I NEED TO BE FRIENDS WITH THESE PPL!!!) I created crucial connections2, and appreciate the syncs in my new colleagues’ writing and values. 3
I am green in the traditional publishing field. My mother, a Filipino immigrant, runs her own independent newspaper geared towards Hawaii’s Filipino community—but she calls herself a journalist, not a writer. My father, the doctor and quintessential Renaissance man, often drafts speeches on a notepad or interviews others for a memoir-in-progress, but hesitates to fancy himself a writer. Although I’ve passed multiple rounds of the slush pile—even published in smaller journals—, I’m ~just a widdle baby~.
I’ve long searched for semblance of community amongst writers, but nothing clicked until Disquiet. Time to let these pieces marinate and soak in the feedback I’ve received from classmates. I’ve spent over a year extending and editing and chop/screwing these pieces together and it’s time to let it sit, generate more and then collage these sections back together into bigger parts.
This experience was eye-opening. I’ve made friends, mentors and teachers for life. I feel emboldened to take more risks, allow the writing to piece itself together and take shape into what it needs to be rather than forcing it into shapes my literary ancestors taught. I think it will be very nice to let the coochie pieces rest for a bit and give that part of my body/life/mind a break 💕 Time for unpacking and unravelling of ideas that are bigger than myself. This program taught me (whether by design—hello the name is DISQUIET—or accident) that everything I write is political. Every piece I write is in dialogue with the brutal reality of American life. I look forward to growing as a writer and a human and these people taught me that.
As an influencer who got a ghostwriter to write their book once wrote (yes 🍵 it ain’t me, I write my shit), I’m no longer feeling imposter syndrome, I’m claiming my stake as a writer. The words may not be perfect or even coherent, but as long as something ends up on the page and I can fashion it into a powerful statement or beautiful work of art—I’ve done my job.
Some Lil’ Updates
Because of the extensive travel, learning, and writing I’ve undertaken this year, my schedule and offerings have changed.
Unfortunately, I am no longer speaking at Midwest Love Fest this year. I’m sad to miss it, but in the upcoming months I have non-stop travel, and start grad school in the fall. I’ve received an opportunity I can’t miss in mid-October, and I don’t think it’ll be good for my body to have back-to-back travels with no break. I’m writing this as I have two days to settle into the city before zooming off to the Hamptons (for another writing conference. By the time you get this, I’ll be deep into workshop. Again.)
For those who answered my call for community writing building— please give me until the end of the month to sort out how I can best build this for all of us! I managed to gain a workshop group from Disquiet, which I’m so happy about—but I know a lot of you are yearning for community and I’m doing my best to facilitate that in between the amount of shit I’m working on!
Thank you for your patience x
Link to Emma’s Substack about her latest book, Housemates, out now!
I met and learned from my literary heroes, y’all. I almost threw up.
Please check out my friends’ Substacks below, I’ve linked their latest posts on this post, so please support them!