‘The Art of Deception’

The Title

The term sugilimbong came to me while rereading Borges’s Ficciones for the nth time. Whether

this is out of sheer vanity or style, I don’t know, I simply wanted to invent a name to call my

own stories and the title of the book, ‘ficciones,’ gave me the impetus—which is more like an

excuse, really—to construct a portmanteau. The word ‘sugilimbong’ then is a combination of

two Cebuano words: ‘sugilanon’ (short story) and ‘limbong’ (deceit).

As the title of the collection, it fits perfectly well with my objective to write little pieces of

deceptive fiction. You know, the kind of fiction written by the likes of Raymond Queneau, Henri

Michaux, John Barth, Witold Gombrowicz and, of course, Borges. The diverse influence of these

foreign luminaries coupled with the idea of a modern interpretation of the local folklore are the

basic tenets—a two-fold system that works its way like black-and-white magic in the world of

sugilimbong.

The System

Each sugilimbong has a title which deliberately corresponds to a mythical lore such as the agta

or the sigbin. The gist is to retell popular tales of the supernatural in such a way as to reinvent

them. For example, Sugilimbong opens up with a two or three page introduction entitled ‘Ang

Amaranhig’ which is supposedly written by a professor of Cebuano literature (non-existent) who

introduces a book (also non-existent)—a novel—that, as it seems, is not the collection. The

professor goes on and on about the merit and the gravitas of this imaginary novel and its

imaginary author, arguing, in the end, that he needs to be saved from obscurity and oblivion, that
he needs to be read, ergo, that he needs to be ‘resurrected’ like the amaranhig. Obviously, this

faux-introduction with its academic pretentions and excesses is itself a sugilimbong.

Another example is entitled ‘Ang Abat.’ This sugilimbong tells the story of a lone gun-for-hire, a

nocturnal beast like the abat, who lurks in the dark and puts terror into the hearts of men (mostly

politicians) and kills them. Although, I must admit, that this type of tale sounds contrived and

cliché, what salvages this sugilimbong, in my opinion, lies in the fact that it is written in a

univocalic style. In its Oulipian-inspired universe, it only uses a single vowel throughout the

whole narrative.

A third example is ‘Ang Ungo’ (which is one of the four sugilimbongs in the manuscript). This

one tells the story of the vicious and violent world of pickpockets in one long and lengthy

sentence. It’s a breathless monologue with a lot of voices thrown in for effect.

To put it in a box, the stories in Sugilimbong are, in a sense, exercises in style and form. The

formula is rather simple (even simplistic), but, as in any medium, it is in the execution that the

difficulty arises and this welcomed challenge is what makes writing a wonderful experience.

The Writing

Since I was a kid, I have always been drawn to the art of fiction, especially to the short story

form. My first story was scribbled when I was five or six years old and it was a reimagined

version of a story called ‘The Penguin’s Party’ (mine was called ‘The Cat’s Party’). As any

childish attempt at literature, it was badly written, but I was so proud of my puerile achievement

that I had to share it with a few close friends who thought it was funny and original.
During my early years in elementary school, as far as I can tell, the books that I remember

having a profound impact on me are the Choose Your Own Adventure Series published by

Bantam Publishing House. As you know, these books are written in the second person and have

multiple endings. This is likely what most of us would label as ‘postmodern fiction’ today. But,

of course, during that time, I didn’t know these kinds of things and I read them solely for their

entertainment value. They were very exciting and very fun to read. The second person point-of-

view gives each book a fascinating twist as the reader becomes the protagonist of the story while

the multiple-ending gimmick adds up effectively to the constant thrill. Some endings are bad,

some endings are good. You could die in the hands of a Chinese mafioso or you could karate kid

your way and save the girl. As a child, this gives you the kind of enjoyment similar to playing

role-playing-games on a computer screen. The only difference—and this difference is what

matters here—is that time is almost never wasted in the company of a good book.

I consider myself lucky that my aptitude for writing didn’t wear out as the years went by in a

hurry. There are no secrets aside from the obvious fact that reading is what fuels and sustains this

passion for the written word. A novel by, say, Raymond Federman entitled ‘My Body in Nine

Parts’ in which he tells deft, comical stories about his own hair and eyes and nose and mouth and

pubis, et cetera, is such a sublime piece of literature as well as a fine achievement that it

stimulates something in me and gives me something to think about. And this little something that

pokes your psyche or whatever it is propels you to write something like that. Something sui

generis or the illusion of it being sui generis.

Now, I can’t tell if my short story collection, my Sugilimbong, is a successful excursion to this

kind of fiction. What I can tell you is that the fundamental method of trial and error always plays

a significant part in one’s writing process. Oftentimes, at least for me, failure inspires a writer to
rewrite and revise again and again until he comes face-to-face with his own notion of perfection.

Consequently, the ‘perfect collection’ or ‘perfect novel’ is then published innocently with all its

imperfections. (This statement is, of course, contradictory and, apparently, it is also true: We

always believe that the product of our labor of love, that Herculean work that we have put such

magnanimous amount of energy and effort to polish until it sings is flawless and faultless until a

wise critic or two tells us otherwise.)

In conclusion, since I have no idea of how to end an essay any more than I do to write one, I will

have to apologize and end this one abruptly with a haunting quote from the great Osvaldo

Lamborghini (this also serves as the epigraph for my collection):

‘Publish first, write later.’

CD Borden
September 2019
Casuntingan, Mandaue City
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