To those who are contemplating of starting a business but feels like they are unaware when is the best time to start, here’s an article dedicated to you.
Consider the circumstances that you may be having right now – escalating prices of prime commodities, tuition fees of children, and preparing for your retirement, having a regular job may not be enough to sustain the needs of the family. While having a side hustle can somehow ease monthly financial stresses, having your own business can absolutely alleviate you from all the problems (of course, for as long as you put your heart and mind into it).
The best time to start a business depends on various factors and can vary for each individual. Here are a few considerations to help determine the optimal timing:
Passion and Readiness: It is essential to have a genuine passion for the business idea you want to pursue. Starting a business requires dedication, hard work, and perseverance.
Assess your readiness in terms of knowledge, skills, and mindset. If you feel confident in your abilities and are passionate about your idea, it may be a good time to start.
Market Opportunities: Evaluate the market conditions and identify potential opportunities for your business. Consider if there is a demand for your product or service, and if the market is favorable for growth. Conduct market research to understand the competition, target audience, and potential customers. If the market conditions align with your business idea, it could be a favorable time to start.
Financial Stability: Starting a business often requires an initial investment of time and money. Assess your financial stability and determine if you have sufficient funds to support the business during the initial stages. Consider factors such as personal savings, access to capital, and potential sources of funding. Having a solid financial foundation can increase your chances of success.
Personal Circumstances: As mentioned earlier, consider your personal circumstances and obligations. Starting a business can be demanding and time-consuming, so assess if you have the necessary time and flexibility to commit to the venture. Additionally, consider any personal commitments or responsibilities that may impact your ability to focus on the business.
Timing in the Industry: Some industries have seasonal or cyclical trends that may influence the best time to start a business. Research and analyze industry-specific factors to determine if there are any timing considerations that could impact your business’s success.
Ultimately, the best time to start a business is when you feel prepared, passionate about your idea, and have thoroughly evaluated the market opportunities and your personal circumstances. It’s important to remember that starting a business involves risks, so careful planning and consideration are vital.
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If you have any questions or would like to share your thoughts on the column, feel free to send an email to jca.bblueprint@gmail.com. Looking forward to connecting with you!




Writing renaissance
In some sort of Literary Festival, I chanced to hear a young Waray writer, hardly past her twenties, recite one of her poems in raw, uncut Waray. The crowd became silent, awed—not only by the force of her voice but by the sense that something long buried was finally being expressed. And I said to myself: this is not an instant. This is a movement.
Too long, Eastern Visayan literature dripped rather than flowed. Our words were always discounted as provincial resonance within the national literary community—too regional, too raw, too harsh in texture. But that discounting, I now see, was a misunderstanding of possibility. It was not silence we lived with—it was incubation. And what we’re witnessing today, from school-based writers’ guilds to university presses unearthing Waray manuscripts, is proof that incubation breeds not only life but urgency. Our creative writing community, once scattered and tentative, is now gaining momentum, depth, and fierce clarity of vision.
It’s not merely a matter of young people writing. They are writing with defiance and resistance, in the voice of their weeping mothers and inebriated uncles, their street vendors and wailing grandmas, in the very idioms born from ricefields, oceans, gossips, prohibitions, typhoons, and church bells. They are writing in Waray, not due to romanticization of the past but due to resistance—the erasure of their experiences, the linguistic suppression of their language, and the hackneyed theme of Manila-centric stories. They are not appropriating tales. They are appropriating what is theirs. And their ownership of their own fiction is keen and challenging.
Most accountable for this renaissance is a voice that dared to speak out long ago when it was all the rage to be otherwise and dangerous to defy. Merlie Alunan has charted emotional terrain for us that transcends provincial boundaries. Vic Sugbo’s critical writing added intellectual substance to our words—it would no longer be all talk. Dave Genotiva did not just write, he trained, mentored, irked, and handed over the baton. Then there are the immeasurable, immeasurable others—the teachers who introduced Waray literature to the classroom, editors who bet on Waray manuscripts, and culture workers who busted budgets just to print one chapbook. I count myself among them, not out of arrogance but out of a deep, stubborn love.
What’s most thrilling about the region’s current literary shape is how it refuses neat categorization. The writing here is not always polished, but it is always alive. You’ll find a short story about a fiesta lechon gone wrong alongside a philosophical poem about Yolanda’s aftermath. Humor side by side with sadness, and folk will never be still. There is some decadent rawness to it all—a writing that resonates with the land it springs from: volcanic, green, stony, rain-beaten, storm-tempered. It is not imitative literature—it provokes.
This maturity I refer to is not tone or method—it is bravery. These young authors are no longer satisfied to write for school contests or Facebook likes. They are writing in anthologies, showing up for writing fellowships, starting independent publishing cooperatives, and most of all, lifting each other. I have seen writers from Borongan arguing with writers from Calbayog at Zoom readings, and poets from Catarman producing zines with a kind of DIY fanaticism that would get any Manila-based lit fest pegged as tame.
There is democracy afoot, an equality of literary heart that doesn’t know gatekeeping.
But we cannot idealize. The direction is upwards. Publishing outlets are still few, and institutional support—LGUs, schools, cultural commissions—is sporadic, best-case, or worst of all, mysteriously ritualistic. At times, the strongest barriers are in here: the self-fulfilling prophecy that writing in Waray is “less.” But with each poem, every story, every essay written, read, and passed around, the deceit strips away that much further. Every work is a defiance in miniature, a light in the darkness of cultural forgetfulness. And no more stumbling about seeking fire—now we’re burning fields of it.
If this is a revolution, make it so. Not with anarchy but with polite, persistent insistence. Let writers write in the rhythm of their coastlines, in the vocabulary of their barangays, and with the courage acquired from their own soil. But preferably, let local writing be taken seriously by schools. Let municipalities supply reading rooms, not tarpaulins and bunting. And let us, further down the road, continue to keep clearing the trail—not for praise, but because we know what is being sacrificed in silence.