Why we write: Chasing the next byline in a broken world

 WHY do journalists keep on writing? 

Why do we jump from a P9 billion local budget debate one day to a solemn indigenous peace ritual the next, always peering through the unforgiving lens of human rights?

It’s not exactly the “sexy” story we rush to write. 

We aren’t here for the applause or the easy clicks. We are here because, as my former Editor-in-Chief once grimly reminded me, you are only as good as your last written article.

That statement isn’t a compliment; it’s a relentless, low-humming source of journalistic anxiety. 

It means yesterday’s investigation into political graft, however impactful, is already decaying into archive dust. It means every new day brings a new blank page and a renewed mandate: Find the next injustice. Write it better. Make it matter.

Jumping between topics — from SALN volatility to the plight of a new coffee shop owner fearing tax hikes — isn’t about professional restlessness; it’s about following the chain of consequence. 

The human rights lens is our default setting because the law, the budget, and the economy are never abstract or opaque; they always settle squarely on the back of a person.

When we analyze a local budget, we’re not just looking at P9 billion; we’re looking at the potential P1 billion business tax increase that a single mother running a sari-sari store will have to absorb.

When we report on a peace agreement in Bukidnon, we aren’t just covering a handshake; we’re documenting a ‘panastas’ ritual — a painful, sacred act of cleansing meant to allow families back into their ancestral forests, free from the fear of armed conflict.

We use this lens because power always flows downhill, and it’s the journalist’s job to stand at the bottom and document the splash. 

This framing humanizes the data. It transforms an arid, two-column financial report into a volatile story of “dramatic crashes” and “debt bombs” that affect real lives.

The pressure of “you are only as good as your last written article” isn’t a motivator fueled by external validation; it’s an internal push for relevance and redemption.

We keep writing because the job is never finished. 

A law might be passed — like the Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act (IPRA) — but as our reporting shows, nearly three decades later, its legacy is one of “recognition without protection.” The promise remains “unfinished.”

The cynical view is that we are simply chasing the next byline. 

A byline is neither a ticket to applause nor validation. It is accountability laid bare.

But the truth is, every journalist is haunted by the feeling that the last article wasn’t quite the one. It didn’t quite capture the pain of the coffee shop owner, or the quiet bravery of the tribal leader, or the sheer ridiculousness of the Local Finance Committee stating they’d achieve a tax goal simply by “increasing taxes.”

So, we write again. 

We brave the jargon, the official press releases, and the long, rainy afternoons. 

We write to give voice to the powerless, to make the powerful uncomfortable, and, ultimately, to live up to the impossible standard set by the next blank page.

We write, not because we expect to fix the world, but because if we stop, the injustice will continue, undocumented, and unchecked. 

And that, truly, would be a failure.