Down the Pebbled Steps - A Writer's Reverie

Sneak peek!

2012-02-11T20:28:00.000+08:00

I'm doing a quick survey: who would read on after this page?

Dreams onlymake as much sense as your state of mind.

What did itmean, then, for me to keep returning to that same dream for a month andcounting?

The onewhere the annoying woman kept asking me to help them. The question of who they were aside, how was I supposed todo anything? I was the crazy girl people whispered and pointed at in school. Icouldn’t even help myself.

Then therewas the carnival. It was always night-time in that carnival. It had no namethat I knew of, but it was ablaze with lights that never stopped dancing, alivewith music that never stopped playing.

In thatdream, I saw only the boy. People milled about, but they were only facelessfigures. So was the boy, in fact, but his features were only slightly clearer.

I had nevereven met him before, but every time I saw him in my dream he was perched on theedge of one of the Ferris wheel’s capsules. He stood there for barely twoseconds, a sea of carnival lights blinking beneath him, before he threw out hisarms and dived off the Ferris wheel.

Always, Iwas too late. Too late to stop him, too late to even call out for him. Don’t! I wanted to say. But the wordwould die in my throat as I watched him plummet through the cold night air andfinally crashed to the ground.

And then thelights go out totally. The music stops.

That’s whenI’d feel the hands reaching out for me. Cold and clammy, tugging, wanting,needing – what, I didn’t know. A glance down and I’d see a mass of bodies lyingat my feet, turning blue with each horrible second.

I wouldstill be able to feel those hands on my skin, my ankles, my neck, even when Isit up in bed and discover that I was being straitjacketed by my sheets.

It wasalways that same dream. It had been that dream for a month. I didn’t know whereI came up with a dream like that. A dream that didn’t sleep, that roosted thereright in the middle of my head long after I’d woken up.

A dreamwhere it was always midnight in a carnival of monsters.

This, by the way, is the first page of my first ever complete urban fantasy novel, THE DREAMCATCHERS. Thoughts?

2012-02-09T17:22:00.003+08:00

Some really good advice from Rosslyn Elliott: Why Your Novel Characters Need Real Flaws

Wouldn’t it be great if all my flaws were minor? But they’re not. And neither are anyone else’s.

As C.S. Lewis writes in The Screwtape Letters, even our greatest strengths are likely to become weaknesses under some circumstances. The same strong will and resourcefulness that helped Scarlett O’Hara survive the Civil War also made her a conniving homewrecker.

But we all know Scarlett O’Hara’s name, even though thousands of historical romance heroines have faded into oblivion. We remember Scarlett because Margaret Mitchell did a brilliant job of creating her heroine to walk the edge of likability. Scarlett’s flaws are all too real, and that means there are parts of Gone with the Wind in which we do not like her.

What is a real character flaw?

It’s a flaw that affects those around your character in a significant way, a weakness with serious consequences, not just angst or temporary hurt feelings.

Here’s the catch. When a leading character does things a reader doesn’t like, there’s a chance the reader will throw away that book. Or write a really negative review.

A writer may be tempted to solve this problem by creating a cosmetic character flaw. It hurts no one but its possessor. A cosmetic flaw is a victimless flaw. Even if it’s contorted so it causes some manufactured, preferably unintentional pain to other characters, the cosmetic flaw doesn’t cause any negative feeling in the reader.

Here’s an example from real life: what’s the clichéd answer for the classic job interview question: “What is your weakness?” To be safe, you’re supposed to say “I’m too hard on myself.” That’s a cosmetic flaw. Because the reality is that if you’re truly a perfectionist about your own work, chances are you may also be too hard on others, not just too hard on yourself. And that is when your cosmetic flaw turns into a real flaw. Real flaws are ugly and they hurt people.

Every cosmetic flaw is a victimless half of the real flaw it replaces. Here are two examples:

Cosmetic character flaw: Insecurity. Its real counterpart: envy and sabotage

Cosmetic character flaw: Fearfulness. Its real counterpart: disloyalty under pressure

We’re free to use cosmetic flaws if we want to write fiction that leaves no mark on its reader. But enduring books contain characters with real flaws, whether those books are hilarious comedies or moving dramas. If our goal is to stir deep emotions or joyful laughter, to show real love, to comfort the lonely, to make readers think or remember…our characters need real flaws. We can’t play it safe with our readers’ sympathy–we have to let them go to the edge.

My question for you:

How has the issue of reader sympathy affected your writing? Do your protagonists have real flaws that could bother a reader?

# # #

Rosslyn Elliott lives with her husband and daughter in the southern United States, where they enjoy working with horses and pampering their dogs. She earned her BA in English and Theater Studies from Yale University, and her Ph.D. from Emory University.

She has won awards for both her fiction and non-fiction, including the 2011 Laurel Award and the 2011 Lime Award for Fairer than Morning, which was also selected as one of Lifeway Fiction’s Ten Favorite Reads for 2011.

Rosslyn’s second novel Sweeter than Birdsong was just released by Thomas Nelson Publishing. Her fiction is represented by Rachelle Gardner of Books and Such Literary Agency.

2012-02-01T20:48:00.000+08:00

It always feels anticlimatic after Chinese New Year. Gone are the days of the house being filled with sonorous relatives, the infectious festive buzz and the sound of melon seeds being cracked. Till next year. In the meantime, back to the grind. The refrigerator is still choking on mandarin oranges, and I'm doing my best to relieve it of them.

This semester, as expected, is one of the busiest ones I've experienced since my freshman year, mainly because I'm taking all five level-3 modules. That wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the group projects we're required to do. Group projects are almost always a pain, because of all the schedule-coordination and discussion we have to do. If I had my way, all the work will be done within the first week we're told of our assignments. But it is what it is, I guess.

Still, final semester! Four more months (and one extra term because I need to clear one last module to fulfil all my module credit requirements) and I'll be bidding school life goodbye. On the one hand, I'm excited to start earning a steady income. On the other, I'm dreading the entry into the cruel world. Of two minds? No, just eager for change and afraid of it, like we all are.

Unfortunately, much as I'd like to go on self-indulgent soliloquy about post-graduation emancipation, I have four papers and three presentations to work on, as well as countless readings to catch up on. Till next time, then.

Top Five Writer’s Tips

2012-02-01T20:34:00.001+08:00

by Swati Avasthi (author of YA novel, SPLIT).

5. Celebrate the mess.

I am not naturally neat. So, my life is cluttered with ways to keep my messes organized. Necessarily evils include: my ga-zillion sticky notes, my calendar, calendar reminders, weekly, daily, master, and manuscript to-do lists. Without them I get nothing of quality accomplished.

Unless we’re talking about the first draft of a novel. Then messy is good. Messy is productive – it just doesn’t look like it. First drafts are about playing, discovering and uncovering. Let go. Play in the mud, celebrate the slop, and see what you unearth.

Example: In the first draft of my current WIP, I introduced a 2 year old in the beginning of the book. Three months and around 200 pages later, he was 25. I ended up cutting him out altogether, but he was useful: his appearance taught me that my protagonist needed to be protective of someone (when he was 2), and by the end of the novel, needed a mentor (when he was 25). His appearance was my intuition talking. Respect your intuition. Messy as it is.

4. Learn to love revision.

Pouring out the story on to the page is wonderful. It’s a rush. But revision is even better. Are you groaning? Lots of writers I know hate revising. I love it. Here’s how I learned to love revision:

First, I assumed that every word I wrote would need to be re-written. Probably more than once. Probably more than twice. For Split, 8 was the magic number. Yep, 8 full drafts. 6 of them before I started agent-hunting looking for an agent. (Don’t actually hunt agents. Hungry as you are, they do fight back.)

Second, I learned that revising is pretty much the same thing as writing. You are still uncovering deeper levels of the story. But you are also discovering what the story is not about. Pull out all the distractions. Complicate all the moments where you are only doing one thing at a time.

Third, know when you are done revising: when you have a house of cards and removing one line, causes a cave in; when your critique group agrees; but most of all, when there are no more surprises left in the book for you, no nuance left to uncover.

3. Think, think, think.

Admit it. Your imagination is like a dog with a bone, gnawing at it to get at the rich marrow inside. Give your imagination a problem and then go for a walk, knit part of a scarf, or sleep on it. You’re likely to have the marrow out if your imagination keeps at it.

Or, go even farther and use method acting (preferably when no one is around) to explore your POV character. I once went grocery shopping as Jace. My kids were beyond thrilled when I came home with tons of junk food, and they learned what Little Debbie was.

2. Cultivate your Ideal Reader.

Your Ideal Reader is insightful, passionately opinionated and smart, especially about books. Your Ideal Reader will speaks in truths, both hard ones and kind ones. Your Ideal Reader gives you foot rubs and calls you a genius. Well, maybe not the last one. Find that person. If you’re lucky, it’s someone you already know. (For me, it is my husband) If you’re not, take writing classes and listen to hear whose opinion you respect. Share pages with a trusted friend. Or hire a book doctor, one who you are sure you can trust.

Then, listen. Your ideal reader is your ideal reader for a reason: you respect his opinion.

Then speak. If you don’t agree with his suggestions, talk about why. Don’t argue him out of his point. Rather, try to uncover what about the line or the moment is bothering your Ideal Reader. Once you understand, find an edit that accomplishes your goal and your Ideal Reader’s.

I can’t overstate the importance of an Ideal Reader. I can only say that Split could never have been written without mine.

1. Writing is no place for timidity. Write bravely. Write boldly. Write every day you can.

2012-01-12T10:50:00.000+08:00

One of my favourite authors Maggie Stiefvater (author of the Mercy Falls trilogy and her latest book, The Scorpio Races) has shared a very insightful and detailed explanation of her thought process as she crafts a scene. It's one of the most helpful, useful blog posts I've read, so I really must share it.

From Rough to Final: A Dissection of Revision

It also made me realise how much of your original writing you get to keep, and how much you have to edit. Plus, it made me understand how much work I have cut out for me to reach her standard. Many thanks again to Maggie for sharing!

Short Story - Abdication

2011-12-31T12:28:00.004+08:00

I wrote this one because my tutee wanted me to write a story for him. And I thought it fit the word Abdication (remember, it was one of the words with which we had to write a one-page scene for our introductory playwriting class). I love writing for children.

Abdication - Fiction by Joyce Chua

The snake reared its gleamingblack head. Its eyes flashed, never once leaving me. A hiss, almost gloating,slipped out of it. Its body was arched, lithe, ready to attack. Could it smellmy fear?

Deepbreaths, Alex, I thought to myself. You’re the next Amazing Animal-Tamer. What’sa mere snake to you?

The truth was, though, that I hadnever been able to tame any animal, much less tame it amazingly. The circus hadassigned me this position because the last animal-tamer had his right legchomped off by a tiger he had been trying to tame. Naturally, once I’d heardthat, my new job had not inspired any confidence in me. But I needed this job.And, as it turned out, there wasn’t much that a mute, half-deaf man of my ageand qualifications could do.

So there I was, trapped in a giantsteel cage with a giant snake ready to kill me. This test was meant to be myinitiation ceremony. I could see Homer, said ex animal-tamer with chomped-offleg, watching from the sidelines. You would think my employers would be kindenough to start from the basics – let me try training a goldfish or a dog orsomething. You know, elementary level.

But apparently, circus performersdon’t have time for elementary level tricks. No, we had to leap straight to theadvanced level.

Back to business. No time forregrets or complaints now. There would be time for that after I had gotten outof this jail cell.

IfI got out of this jail cell. Alive.

Beano, the sword-juggler, rattledthe cage. “Get closer, man! How’re you going to quail the beast if you’reafraid to get your hands dirty?”

He reached through the bars andshoved me forward. I stumbled forth, catching myself a couple of meters beforethe hissing creature.

The snake interpreted my advanceas an attack, and launched one of its own. I barely had time to dodge before itpitched itself at me. Its fangs clamped down on one of the bars, where my neckwould have been had I been slower by a fraction of a second.

Cheers erupted from the spectatorstand, where almost the entire circus crew, including the ringmaster, Mr.Caramel, was seated next to Homer. I was pretty sure they weren’t cheering forme, though.

And true enough, Dobson thefire-eater roared, “Did you see that? What a magnificent beast she is!”

“Beautiful attack, Comet!” Homercried. Rising to his feet, Mr. Caramel clapped his hands. His gold watchgleamed as brightly as his shoes.

Comet. That thing had a name. Andit sure lived up to it, given the speed at which it moved. How was plain oldAlex supposed to tame a gigantic snake named Comet?

“Alex!” Mr. Caramel barked. “Stopdaydreaming! Do your job, or you’re going to be locked in there all day! I meanit.”

I had no idea how to tame a snake,but damned if I was going to be stuck in a cage with it for a day. I spread mystance and raised my hands before me, ready to grab at the snake should itlaunch a second attack. Perspiration pooled at the nape of my neck. I hoped noone noticed my shaking hands.

When it came, I spared no time toconsider what I was doing. I saw my hands reach out to grab at it, then myfingers wrap around its dry scaly body, just below its head.

It lashed its body at me, but Ihopped out of range in the nick of time. I waited for it to strike again, thenslammed my foot down on its writhing body. It thrashed like an out-of-controlhose and hissed so loudly I could hear it with my faulty ear.

With a free hand, I scrambledaround my pocket for my trusty old Swiss Army knife.

‘Snick!’

Right before the snake tossed meoff its body – right before I could lose my balance – I swung the blade acrossthe snake’s neck, just below where my other hand was clamped around it.

Blood. It flowed, poured, streamedfrom the gash I had made. In a few moments, its body slackened, then becamecompletely limp.

I stared as it lay before me likea thick rubber hose, its eyes glazing over as seconds ticked by. The crewerupted in cheers again – for me, this time.

“Well done, Alex!” Homer said,thumping me on the back when he approached me.

“Well done, indeed!” Mr. Caramelbellowed. “Next, we’ll try Bessie, our Sumatran tiger. She’s a tough cookie,but I think you’re ready for her. Just don’t kill her this time, will you?Sumatran tigers are much rarer than cobras.”

Short Story

2011-12-30T17:29:00.000+08:00

Eyes Full of Stars – Fiction by Joyce Chua

Thewater would be icy tonight, after the day’s rain.

Asthe water lapped at his toes – crept up his ankles, calves, knees, chest – andstung his skin, he almost laughed at his own stupidity. It felt foolish enoughto believe what the medium said, and even more foolish to act on her words. Buthope and desperation were two sides of the same coin, and there was nothingelse left to lose.

Itwas deep, too deep, but not deep enough. The lady had said it was absolutelycrucial that he stood at the deepest inch of the lake.

Andwhat the hell, he thought. Since I’m already here.

Anotherthunderstorm seemed possible. The sky still took on a bruised shade, though itrevealed a faint hint of the moon.

Keepher name in your heart, the medium had instructed. If the bond you share withher is strong enough, she will come.

Ofcourse, it was the sort of thing a medium would say. That way, you couldn’tblame her if this didn’t work.

Buthe held her name close to his heart anyway, felt the cadence fall in tandemwith his heartbeat, until it became nothing less than breathing, a habit, thena need.

Underthe faint moonlight the stone glittered, unnaturally bright, in his palm. Onyx,a love stone for the reunion of couples. The medium had definitely done herhomework, at the very least.

Hefelt a tug at his feet that grew stronger by the second. Ripples starteddancing across the surface. Water rushed towards him, churning, roiling, almostknocking him off his feet. He folded his fingers over the stone and squeezed ittight. Its edges dug into his palm. He could lose his footing, but not thestone. Anything but the stone. It was his only chance.

Hedid not let go when a particularly strong current swept him off his feet. Hedid not let go when he gulped down a mouthful of bitter lake water. Not evenwhen he dipped under the surface. Not even when he felt the fire in his lungs,heard the awful cold ringing in his ears despite the underwater turbulence,glimpsed the last of the moonlight as night took over completely.

Thenext time he saw the sky, it was clear – moonless, cloudless, but strewn withstars, glittering like tearful eyes. There was no ringing in his ears, and thecold had dissipated. He was no longer in the middle of the lake; he was dry.

Andthere she stood, in the middle of the field before him, like she had neverleft. She was more beautiful than heremembered, her thick long hair cascading down her shoulders. And her eyes,wide and dark, made up of a million stars, shining like the black onyx still inhis palm. He dropped it at last and took a step closer to her. She extended ahand, waiting for him to slip his into hers.

Hestared at their intertwined fingers in wonder. To think it had really worked.

Tomorrow,he thought, stroking her hair. Tomorrow he would pay that medium a visit again.

Beauty and the Beast - Raffles Alumni CO

2011-12-29T20:08:00.000+08:00

I cried listening to this. Especially when the 高胡 (something like the first violin) started playing. There's something about string instruments hitting the high notes that brings out the tears. Makes me miss playing in an orchestra. It's been ages since I touched my 二胡 (something like second violin), and I just miss the feeling of working with everyone in the orchestra to create music. The end makes me especially emotional. You just feel this sense of achievement and the power of teamwork. Doesn't beat completing a novel, of course. More like a short story. And Raffles Alumni Chinese Orchestra is really impressive.

2011-12-29T19:57:00.001+08:00

Given that a number of things (not too significant, so don't hold your breath, if you are) have happened since the last time I blogged, I think I'll make a list of updates this time.

I. Bidding period begins.

Can you feel the anticipation, the territorial vigilance with which everyone is camping out before their computers, lying in wait for the next bidder so that they can one-up him and throw in a higher bid? I know seniors get priority (well, not exactly priority - just that they have more points accumulated from past semesters and can afford to bid higher), but with so few options this coming semesters, competition for English modules is tough! And because of some administrative failures last semester, I absolutely have to take five English modules next semester so I can graduate on time. So I HAVE - did I mention HAVE? - to secure all five. The only five, in fact, because I've taken the rest before. You'd wonder why they offer so few English modules for this coming semester. I could ask the same.

So if everything goes according to plan, I'd be taking:

1. EL3204, Discourse Structure
2. EL3206, Psycholinguistics
3. EL3252, Language Planning and Policy
4. EL3880E, Second Language Learning,
5. EL3257, Investigating Language in the Media

I know. Hardly inspiring or scintillating. But, you know, school is school. No more fun modules, like Playwriting or language modules. Speaking of which, I got the A I wanted for Playwriting, and did better than I expected for my other modules. It's different when you feel passionately about the things you study, indeed.

II. One more semester and I'm done with school. Can you believe it? Not to sound completely corny, but it feels just like yesterday that I attended my first 10am lecture at LT11. I was rereading Megan McCafferty's Charmed Thirds, the third of the Jessica Darling series, where Jess attends Columbia University. And I just felt like it was such an apt book to be reading, because I could totally relate to what she was going through. The uncertainty, in the new environment and in herself, the diversity, and the stuff she was learning, the what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life-after-I-graduate brand of anxiety. My three years of tertiary education is coming to an end, and I feel more than ever the pressure to make a decision, pick a path already, plan plan plan your life, don't waste time or you'll fall behind.

I admit, a lot of the pressure comes from myself. My dad's not putting any pressure on me to earn my first million by the time I'm 25 or whatever, but I do want to achieve something quick so that I can show my dad that I will get by in life and that he doesn't have to worry so much.

But 2012 seems bleak, at least on the job market front. And that's not something I can control. So in the words of my dad, let go of what you can't control.

III. So Christmas has come and gone. Next up: New Year's. Excited? Not really. Thankful, though? Definitely. We've all lived through another year, at the very least, and that's always something to be thankful for.

IV. I'm currently reading The Grift by Debra Ginsberg. This is the third time I'm attempting to read it. I don't know why I didn't manage to get through it the previous couple of times, because it's actually a pretty well-written story. Not so much about plot, but about character, and it's high time I learnt how to write a character-driven novel without sucking instead of falling back on plot every time my story stalls.

And remember when I said my goal was to finish writing Fifteen Minutes Down Sunset Avenue by the end of this holiday? Yeah, that's not going to happen. Unless I manage to write, like, ten pages a day every day until 9 January 2012, the first day of school (after which I won't have time to write at all). At the rate I'm going (about three pages a day), that seems highly unlikely. Still, it's making progress. And I've finally come up with an idea on how I'm going to raise the stakes and resolve the story. All that's left is to write it. Which is always easier said than done.

V. The National Arts Council is organising a competition to select five young adult manuscripts to publish. And I was considering sending in Fifteen Minutes, but that doesn't seem possible now. With all the editing to do, it'll take me months before I deem the final manuscript ready. Besides, I'm still too attached to Lambs for Dinner to pass it up for this competition. But one of the criteria is that the story should not incite violence. And Lambs is really a little dark. Maybe not gory, but it might incite violence, how should I know? So I either risk submitting something that may or may not go against their criteria, or submit something that's not ready yet. I don't know about you, but the latter seems much worse to me. So Lambs it is. I believe more in it than Fifteen Minutes anyway. At least for the moment.

2011-12-10T12:08:00.001+08:00

And a final word from Lev Grossman:

"Don't let the world convince you that you can't write. That may ultimately be true, who knows, but it's way too early to tell."

Beware these writing maladies!

2011-12-10T12:04:00.001+08:00

And more great advice from Nathan Bransford's blog:

Do You Suffer From One of These Writing Maladies?

[commercial voice] There are pernicious writerly germs out there infecting pages all around the world. Left uncured they can be fatal. Talk to your book doctor or literary health provider if you notice any of these symptoms:

Yoda Effect: Difficult to read, sentences are, when reversing sentences an author is. Cart before horse, I'm putting, and confused, readers will be.

Overstuffed Sentences: An overstuffed sentence happens when a writer tries to pack too many things into one sentence in convoluted fashion, making it difficult for the intent of the sentence to come through and to follow it becomes an exercise in re-reading the sentence while making the sentence clearer in our brains so we can understand the overstuffed sentence, which is the point of reading.

Imprecision: When writers just miss the target ground with their word using they on occasion elicit a type of sentence experiential feeling that creates a backtracking necessity.

Chatty Cathy: So, like, I don't know if you've noticed but OMG teenagers use so much freaking slang!!! And multiple exclamation points!!! In a novel not a blog post!!! And so I'm all putting tons of freaking repetitious verbal tics into totes every sentence and it's majorly exhausting the reader because WAIT I NEED TO USE ALL CAPS.

Repetition: Sometimes when authors get lyrical, lyrical in a mystical, wondrous sense, they use repetition, repetition that used sparingly can be effective, effective in a way that makes us pause and focus, focus on the thing they're repeating, but when used too many times, so many times again and again, it can drive us insane, insane in a way that will land the reader in the loony bin, the loony bin for aggrieved readers.

Shorter Hemingway: Clipped sentences. Muscular. Am dropping articles. The death. It spreads. No sentence more than six words. Dear god the monotony. The monotony like death.

Non Sequiturs: Sometimes when authors are in a paragraph one thing won't flow to the next. They'll describe one thing, wow can you believe that thing that happened three days ago?, and keep describing the first thing.

Description Overload: Upon this page there is a period. It is not just any period, it is a period following a sentence. It follows this sentence in a way befitting a period of its kind, possessing a roundness that is pleasing to the eye and hearty to the soul. This period has the bearing of a regal tennis ball combined with the utility of a used spoon. It is an unpretentious period, just like any other, the result of hundreds of years of typesetting innovations that allows it to be used, almost forgotten, like oxygen to the sentence only darker, more visible. And it is after this period, which will neither reappear nor matter in any sense whatsoever to the rest of the novel, that our story begins.

Stilted dialogue:
Character #1: "I am saying precisely what I mean!"
Character #2: "Wait. What is that you are trying to tell me?"
Character #1: "Are you frickin' listening to me? I am telling you precisely what I am feeling in this given moment. And I'm showing you I'm really angry by using pointed rhetorical questions and petulant exhortations. God."
Character #2: "Sheesh! Well, I'm responding with leading questions that allow you to tell me exactly what you mean while adding little of value to the conversation on my own. Am I not?"
Character #1:"You are totally doing that. You totally frickin' are. Ugh! I'm so mad right now!"

The Old Spice Guy Effect (excessive rug-pulling). The character was standing on a rug. He falls through his floor to his death! The rug was actually a trap door. But wait, the character was already dead. He merely faked falling through the trap door. But wait, the trap door was actually a portal into another world. The character was actually alive, he just thought he was dead. Now he's really dead. Or is he? I'm in a chair.

Have you spotted any other writerly viruses out there in the wild?
The fall season of writing viruses is here. Watch out for these dangerous diseases!

Part 2

Catching the Rye:
Well you probably first want to have read this book by J.D. Salinger with an immediately catchy voice that kind of spoke to a generation or some nonsense, and after you do that you may be corrupted with that voice in your head for some time if you want to know the truth of the matter. If you really want to think about it it’s already been done and anyway the guy who wrote it didn’t end up wanting to talk to anyone anymore and holed up in a house somewhere so that can’t have been good and you probably want to try and go and write your own voice so you’re not a phony.

Adverb Central:
“What do you mean I can’t use adverbs with dialogue tags?” Lucia asked questioningly.
“Just don’t do it,” Nathan replied testily.
“But why not?” Lucia asked quizzically.
“It’s kind of a rule,” Nathan said resignedly.
“I kind of like them,” Lucia said poutingly.
“If you keep using adverbs,” Nathan said patiently, “Pretty soon your reader will only notice the adverbs and not the dialogue because the adverbs are doing all the work for the reader.”
“Oh,” Lucia said understandingly.
“Yeah,” Nathan nodded knowingly.

Gee Whiz That’s a Lot of Exposition:
“But what is it?” Captain Spaceman asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” his crack scientist said. “It’s a ‘What’s It.’ It is a device that requires me to explain to you precisely how the technology in this world works so the writer can get some exposition out of the way.”
“But why wouldn’t I already know how the technology works?” Captain Spaceman asked. “I am the captain, aren’t I?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” the scientist said. “You will impatiently prod me along while I tell the reader exactly what they need to know even though there is no good reason for us to be having this conversation. You might even say ‘Yes yes, go on.’”
“Yes yes, go on,” Captain Spaceman said.
“And I’ll be sure to include some foreshadowing. I mean, sir, just think of what would happen if the ‘What’s It’ fell into the wrong hands... You might even be moved to weigh in on the gravity of the situation.”
Captain Spaceman scratched his chin. “My gods, that would be catastrophic.”

Olympic Head Jumping:
Jackie saw the problem approach from a mile away. She turned to Richard, who was wondering about the weather that day and thought nothing of Susan, who was sitting quietly and wasn’t expecting the problem at all. Jackie wondered at that moment how everything had gone wrong, while Richard’s eyes widened as he saw another person approaching, Derrick, who gave a wave as he approached, happy to see his friends. Susan began to notice something was amiss and gave a start, which Richard noticed and looked in Derrick’s direction while Jackie had already been onto the problem from the start, ignoring the quizzical expression on Derrick’s face as he tried to understand. No one had any idea what was really happening.

Fantasy Overload:
“We are hearty warriors! Let us share a hearty chuckle! Ha ha ha!” Pentrarch said.
There was a glint in Lentwendon’s eye as he took a swill from a mighty cistern of ale. He bellowed a deep laugh and clapped his friend on the back.
“I say,” Pentrarch said, “What is it about fantasy novels that lends itself to such stilted, manly camaraderie? Do we not have normal interactions?”
“We do not,” Lentwendon said, his voice suddenly grave. “We do not. We prefer to express our friendship with great noise and clapping of shoulders and brood quietly but stoically when matters turn serious. It is the same with our women.”
“Oh yes,” Pentrarch said “Our women are quietly supportive that we must do battle in far off lands, and they always have weary, knowing eyes. In truth they are the strong ones.”
Lentwendon nodded as he stared quietly at his cistern. “And ale, always ale.”

2011-12-10T11:48:00.001+08:00

Really helpful advice from Janis Hubschman's blog:

When the story stalls, ask: what is the character thinking now? Is she thinking anything? If not, why not? Characters need to learn something about themselves, about their values and assumptions.
Characters reveal themselves under stress. Raise the stakes. Drive the character into a tight spot. What are the psychological crutches the character relies on under pressure?
Readers like to learn about something when they read. The details of an unusual job or hobby, the day-to-day activities of a particular place at a particular time in history, for example, draw the reader in.
Trust the reader. Remember Hemingway's iceberg theory: "you could omit anything if you knew you omitted it and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood."
Take apart successful published stories (or the stories of writers you admire) to see how they work.
Give the character something to do in the scene. It brings the character and the scene to life. A character soaking in the bathtub, thinking about her rotten marriage is boring. A character performing brain surgery, thinking about her rotten marriage is a different proposition.
To gain insight into a character, consider her history: Think about what happened before the story, what tortuous path led the character to this particular moment?
Allow the character to misinterpret another character's words or actions. In life, we often misread a situation, jump to conclusions. Interesting things can happen when characters make presumptions or project their own hang-ups onto others.
Let the characters connect with others. Alienated characters, the whiney and self-absorbed protagonists that blame everyone else for their predicament have lots of precedent in literature, but can hold readers at a remove.
Build tension by slowing down a scene. Let the scene unfold moment by moment. Linger on the details. Build silences into the dialogue.

the long and winding road

2011-11-23T09:29:00.001+08:00

With my impending graduation next July, I've started considering my career options. I know, my first sentence is already a yawn. But that's the truth of the matter, and I have to come up with a plan fast before I end up roaming the streets with a cardboard sign saying, "Will sing for food." And I'm not even a good singer.

My dad saw how worried I was that entire day (but he was, in fact, the one who got me thinking about what I'm going to do after graduation) and sat me down for a talk before I went to bed. He told me to stop worrying about the things I can't control and that it's near impossible to be unemployed in Singapore.

But with a degree in English, I can't exactly qualify for a profession, if you know what I mean. I mean, it's all fine studying English in university, but it's an entirely different issue looking for a job that requires an English major. Is it true that English majors are doomed to end up as teachers? Not that teaching is a dead end. That's not what I mean. It's just ... I'm not the teaching sort. I have zero patience for kids, and I'd only see it as a means to earn income, the way I view my tutoring job now. The people around me who are well on their way to becoming teachers, you can totally see the passion in their eyes when they talk about the kids and their job. I don't get it. But should all else fail, maybe teaching is the only way to go.

Here in Singapore, if we sign on to become teachers, we get tuition paid for by the government but we'd have to be bonded for three years to the Ministry of Education. So if I decided to get bonded (after doing a year of post-grad in the National Institute of Education), I'd have to spend three years in the teaching business.

Gerlynn squawked at me to think through it carefully and discuss it over with my dad before embarking on - and I quote - "hare-brained notions" like spending three miserable years doing something I'm not keen on. How is it that some people such as her can be so logical and calm about everything? I'm a mess when it comes to making decisions for myself. Gerlynn always says, "Make your own decisions! You're 21!" Even my dad said that the other day - he told me I had to rely less on him to make decisions and be an adult now. I could blame it on my horoscope (Libras easy-going at best, and indecisive at worst), but that would be dumb.

I cried during that talk with my dad. He told me to put less pressure on myself, especially on something I can't control (although I don't really get what it is I can't control about getting myself employed). Before tucking me into bed he told me to communicate with him more (I was pretty reticent the whole day, worrying) so that he won't worry about me so much and he'd know I'm okay. I cried even more after that because what kind of daughter makes her father worry like that?

I know, I know. I was in a strange mood that day. And the weather did nothing to alleviate it. After the scorching morning, the rain gods were having a blast. The party lasted all the way until evening.

But post-graduation jitters aside, I have more pressing issues, like finding a part-time job to tide me through December. I don't mind scooping ice-cream or desk work as long as I can find time to swim every day and don't have to travel all the way to Alaska to work. Just putting this out there.

2011-11-20T10:03:00.001+08:00

From Kidlit:

A Writer’s Worst Enemy

November 30, 2009

Impatience is a writer’s worst enemy. To all those who are rushing rushing rushing to get your manuscript out the gate and into my hot little hands, think of it this way real quick: you’ve spent… what? A year of your life on this manuscript? Why not give it the best chance possible and spend as much hard work revising as it — honestly — needs?

There is a finite number of agents and editors. Once you query your project around to every agent who represents your genre or age group (or every smaller publisher that still accepts unsolicited submissions) and once they reject you, you can’t do anything else with that project other than a) self-publish it (a whole other bucket of fish, to be discussed later) or b) revise the hell out of it and submit again to people who might be open to seeing a drastically different version (your pool this time around will be much smaller). So… just take the time, revise the hell out of it from the get-go, and skip that whole nasty getting-rejected-first bit! In other words: be patient.

Sad truth alert! Not every manuscript you write will go somewhere, publication-wise. Far from it. Every manuscript you write is supremely useful, though. I think every time you sit down at the keys, you should be striving to improve. Everything you write this week should be better and more exciting to you than what you wrote last week. You hear people talking about starter cars and houses, maybe even starter spouses. Well, I think that almost every currently published writer has written at least one starter (or drawer) novel. MG and YA superstar Lauren Myracle wrote something like five books, she said once, before getting her first published. Some have many more than that. So will all the novels you write be published? Even eventually? Probably not. In fact, I think it should be a good and healthy thing to look at some of your starter novels and be horrified by the quality of the writing. That means you’ve come a long way since.

Everyone knows the story of the person who never once sat down at a computer before, wrote a first draft manuscript inspired by a dream they had, sold it for a million dollars and got six thousand movies made of their story, etc. etc. etc. You know why everyone knows the story of “the exception to the rule”? Because it’s news. It’s so rare that everyone talks about it and raises it to mythical status. The other 99.999999% of us mere mortals have to write plenty of dreary starter novels (and don’t forget about the Million Bad Words) before we can figure out how to draft a living character, create a compelling plot, achieve tension and humor and literary magic. That sort of stuff takes practice. And practice takes… patience.

For a lot of writers, or anyone working in the creative arts, our ego often compels us to think we’re “special.” What teen girl hasn’t heard stories of some chick at the mall getting discovered by a modeling scout and then immediately dressed up really cute and gone to the mall in hopes of scoring her one-in-a-million chance at stardom? It’s worse for writers, because they don’t actually have to get dressed and leave the house to indulge in such fantasies. Who among you hasn’t started in on a hot idea and thought, “This is a brilliant, undiscovered masterpiece that everyone will love the second they read it”? Who hasn’t let themselves boast, “Let all the other writers slog around in the trenches because I’m special“?

Well, talent is a huge piece of the puzzle, naturally. But hard work, I’ll argue, is a bigger piece.
Because naturally talented people — especially the people who know they’re naturally talented — often get an entitled attitude and wait for the success to come to them. It’s the people who think “I might not be special enough yet but, damn it, I will be successful” who usually end up towering over their smug counterparts. Because the ordinary writers have to work for it and they know it. They have to put in the hours to see improvement, to witness the talent start to shine. They learn to work hard and never give up. And those are the people who make it, while some of the naturally talented people sit around on their couches, waiting for that model scout to come knocking.

In the writing game — and I’ll say it is one, on many levels — the qualities of patience, hard-work, humility and the eagerness to learn will get you much farther than striving to be the exception to the rule. The former you can control, the latter you can’t. Wouldn’t you rather be in control of your success and your career?

Write, write and write more

2011-11-01T20:45:00.000+08:00

I shouldn't be blogging right now. I have a Chinese short story and an English group paper to write, a French test to study for, and a French essay to write.

Yes, it's that time of the semester again. This mad rush, the culmination of earlier procrastinations, is taking ahold of us again.

I'd like to say that I'm not a procrastinator. I've completed all my individual work. The Chinese short story and English paper are group projects, which, as we all know, are a bitch to get down, given how difficult it is to coordinate all our schedules and get down to writing the damn thing.

So lots of writing to be done. Though I can't find a downside to that, because it's writing!

Just today, I wrote my first ever short story in Chinese. It was an in-class assignment and we'll be graded according to the piece we write. We had to write a short science fiction however we want. In other words, CREATIVE WRITING! I was hesitant at first because let's face it, I'm a lot more comfortable writing in English than in Chinese.

Writing short creative fiction in Chinese is different from writing those Chinese essays in secondary or primary school. Back then, we were forced to write to a lame topic or title and use the phrases and words the examiners or teachers would give us credit for. This, though, is free and easy. Write whatever you want, however you want, as long as it is credible sci-fi (it's a Chinese for Technology module, after all). I wrote a piece titled BLACK HOLE, where I used Einstein's theory of relativity as a metaphor in my main character's life and to serve as a backdrop against which his transformation is held. It doesn't matter if I don't get an A for this, because I actually had fun writing it (though I also had Google Translate to thank). I'm pretty proud of myself for coming up with a piece I actually like in two hours. In Chinese. Have I mentioned it's a first?

Okay, I'll stop bragging now. I'm trying not to go near my English group paper, which, if you think about it, is kind of impossible since I'm in charge of writing the introduction. Oh yeah, I'm a fine kick-starter. Go team, and all that.

What is the last place you recognise?

2011-10-10T14:36:00.002+08:00

"Good books, like our true selves, aren’t instantly created or perfectly crafted. They are messy and frustrating and flawed, which are exactly the same things that make them real." ~ Sarah Dessen

Trust Sarah to tell it in the truest way possible. I've gushed over her latest book WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE before, marvelling at how she always manages to keep her characters original and real, even for ten books and counting. But what I didn't know was that she had had to rip out the last 200 pages of her first draft for WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE and re-write from there. Her solution to writer's block is to go back to the last place where the writing was going well. Kind of like when you get lost on the highway and you go back to the last place you recognise. Because often, it's at that point where you took a wrong turn - added or introduced the wrong character, removed the wrong character, made them do or say the 'wrong' thing - that things start to go downhill. So retracing your steps from the last place things were going right, and take it from there again, is how Sarah circumnavigates the messy journey of a first draft.

That got me thinking. Where is the last place in my life I felt like I had taken the wrong turn? And I found that I couldn't think of one. Probably because my life is only just beginning, so to speak. But I realised I'm actually glad about how things have turned out.

Sure, you can say that's because you don't know what you're missing out on. You think this is the best because you haven't experienced better. I know that. It would be completely ignorant and naive of me to think that what I have now is the best I can possibly have, because, really, how do you define 'best' anyway?

I could just as easily feel that having a mother would be better. Or having a wider social network. Or travelling more. Those can maybe make my life better than what I have now, but only because I don't know what my life would be like with them. What I do know is that I have my dad, my mind and body. And these are all I really need. These are what have taken me this far.

But "something to love, something to do, and something to look forward to", as the quote goes, is what's need for a happy, fulfilled life. What's lacking these days is the last ingredient. Now, I'm not about to go into another bitching session about how I don't know what I can do with my life and how I'll probably be miserable in a job that doesn't involve the type of writing I love. Today is just not the day for self-pity and self-indulgence. Today, I need to work on the final pages of my play, study for a quiz this Thursday, prepare for a presentation this Friday and get started on a group paper.

It's strange. Just yesterday and the day before, I was feeling really down. Must have been low on serotonin, or something. But at least now I know, if I ever feel like my pages are getting messy and frustrating and lacking, I just need to go back to the last place I recognise, the last place everything was going well, and take it from there again.

Supernatural Season 5 kicks butt!

2011-10-07T20:12:00.004+08:00

I know I am way late with this review, seeing as how SUPERNATURAL is already in its seventh (seventh!) season and I've only just finished watching Season 5. I like to think I'm pacing myself so I don't finish watching everything so soon. Because that's how amazing SUPERNATURAL is.

I thought I'd take a break from the show for a while, after I was done writing THE DREAMCATCHERS. Because fantasy was all I read and watched while writing it. So once I was done, I was craving stories that were more grounded in reality. Which was why I turned to Asian dramas and Sarah Dessen (yes, I'm rereading WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, one of the favourites so far). But a few days ago, I decided to return to it, and just watching half of one episode reminded me why I love that show so damn much. I must have said this before, but I'll say it again. Those writers - especially Eric Kripke - are complete geniuses. I think the best stories are those you wish you'd written yourself. And SUPERNATURAL is definitely one that I wish I was creative and original and smart (and neurotic) enough to write myself. Just the storyline itself is enough to blow your mind. And don't even get me started on the characters. I believe they're what make the story.

I think SUPERNATURAL is more character-driven than plot-driven, despite its reliance on, well, supernatural phenomenon. The relationship between the two brothers, Sam and Dean, is what most viewers (and die-hard fans) are really invested in. So even though it's a fantastical narrative, the story is grounded in our most basic instinct: love. My playwriting instructor said that all fantasy stories, no matter how fantastical, have a universal theme (or two) that readers or viewers can all relate to. In the case of SUPERNATURAL, it's family. Sam and Dean are all they've got, ever since their parents were killed by demons.

I heard a lot of the fans were disgruntled by how Season 5 ended. But I didn't feel a smidgen of disappointment. Because for me, SUPERNATURAL was never about the demons and the Apocalypse; it was about the brothers. And Swan Song (the season finale) delivered that beautifully. It tied up enough loose ends and left enough for viewers to want to hold on tight for Season 6. The ending, especially, left me in tears, because (and for those of you who haven't watched it yet, this is a spoiler - although I must be the only one who's watching at this rate) Sam basically sacrificed himself to cage Lucifer and now Dean is left all alone without his little brother. He made a promise to Sam that he wouldn't try to bring him back and that he'd go back to Lisa and start afresh with her and embark on a new, normal life. It's absolutely heartbreaking.

I've watched a fair number of American dramas. But while the rest are all about oh, my best friend slept with my guy, my guy cheated on me and then proceeded to sleep with everyone else in the show, I'm in love with a bad boy (I'm looking at you, GOSSIP GIRL), I have a deep dark secret and I'm in love with you and you're stupid enough to want to be with me, my mom is sleeping with my friend's dad, I'm so bored I'm going to seduce that young hot gardener, yadda yadda yadda, SUPERNATURAL has an actual storyline that isn't filled just to satisfy the ratings. A lot of the shows should've ended with Season 1, but because the ratings were good, they proceeded with Season 2, 3, 4, 5.... Until the show becomes done to death and meaningless. I doubt the writers for SUPERNATURAL will let the show go down that road. It's been 5 seasons, and they're still delivering while being completely true to the show.

So while I'm aware that the writers (and cast - every one of them brings their characters to life and I can't imagine anyone else playing them) of the show won't be able to see this, here's a big thank you from a fan. Thank you for creating such a magnificent, inspiring, original, witty, poignant, first-class show. Even though the show has to end some day, I know you won't let your fans down; every episode will be relevant, amazing and true to the original essence of the story.

I shall stop gushing now. On to Season 6!

monday update

2011-10-03T14:46:00.004+08:00

So I'm holed up in the school library ... not studying, as I probably should be. I'm at a very secluded area of the library where people here mostly just sleep in the comfy seats provided along the wall. I'm blog-surfing, which is, you know, also considered as a form of research, since discourse is everywhere and as a linguistics major, I should be competent enough to consider the intent of discourse and the discrepancies between the idealised and actual projected image. And so on.

Except that I'm really not.

I'm trying to think of a way to come up with my usual 8 pages of dialogue for my play, due Wednesday, when we have our reading during class. That, and sourcing for new dramas to watch. Because humans are story-telling/story-loving creatures, right? We feel the need to chronicle our lives through vicariously living through the characters on-screen and on the page. Stories help us make sense of the chaotic in our stretch of time in this world, and it helps that they have a proper (hopefully happy) ending, something that's impossible to define in real life.

So, whatever it takes to keep reality at arm's length, because man, its bite is painful.

Just yesterday, my dad was telling me I should start considering my options. As in, career options. After graduation. I was in the midst of cranking out some dialogue for my play, when he popped in for a chat. The Classifieds section of the day's papers was strewn on the floor (you can tell how high on my priority list that is at the moment), and he asked me what I was considering doing after graduation. He said the worst was when it's time for me to become gainfully employed and I still don't know what I want to (and can) do and then I embark on this mad rush to apply for jobs and settle for any old crap position, in which I'd be miserable and contemplating to find another job. That's sound advice, I know, but it just put me in a lousy mood afterwards, so much so that I didn't even feel like writing anymore. It felt like reality had punched me in the gut. Because, sure, I'm enjoying what I'm doing now, writing plays for class, and writing essays and catching up on readings, but what happens after? It's all good to focus on the present, because you don't know what's going to happen next and all that. But what if the future is (not so) slowly but surely looming and the problem is precisely that you don't know what's going to happen? The uncertainty is enough to gore you to the ground, deflated and weary enough to not want to lift up your head.

Any job that requires narrative writing, I'm your girl. Anything that requires creative writing, sign me up. On the spot. Because those are the things I'd do even if I wasn't paid to do them. But the list seems to end there. Teaching? No, thank you. White-collared jobs? I've expressed my disillusionment with them before. Entrepreneur? I'm too illogical, irrational and impractical for it. Not to mention naive and uninterested.

This is turning out to be another post where I lament about my lack of career options (well, okay, not quite a lack of, because really it's just me being picky and unmotivated). So I'm going to stop here and move on to happier things.

My 21st celebration was a blast, and this is a little overdue (since my birthday's on 25 Sept), but a big thank you to all of you who came and made that day special! I wasn't too keen on making a big fuss over a birthday, but my dad said it was a milestone in my life and that I had to celebrate it well because you only get to be 21 once. Which sounds depressing, but I shan't dwell on the downside. 21 feels entirely too old - 18, I feel, is the best age, even though we had to contend with the crazy A'levels.

(On a sidenote, it seems my dad is always trying to make me get a life. Apart from organising my party, he also encourages me to go out more or join more clubs and societies or pick up a sport or class to meet more people. I don't know what to make of it. Sometimes, it's really nice to have company - the bigger the company, the better - but sometimes, you just really want to be alone.)

Speaking of my play, I realised I haven't quite told you much about it (although whom I'm addressing is unclear - maybe it's better to treat my blog as a person, so I won't feel like I'm talking to some imaginary audience). It's about this girl Becky who is so obsessed with a pop star that she spends her days camping out on his fansites and Twitter profile. She hears a host of three people in her head: Prince II, an impression of the pop star who is supposed to love Becky unconditionally; Aunty Kim, her neighbour who passed away two years ago and had been a mother figure in her life ever since her mother left her; and Mr Hawk, her creative writing teacher who saw the potential in her writing. When her mother reappears in her life, the voices in Becky's head grow increasingly louder, so much so that they start crowding up her mind and interfering with her daily life. She talks to them in public, often in agitation, and her atypical behaviour is noticed by her childhood friend and neighbour (also Aunty Kim's son), Lucas, who has always been protective of her and now tries to help her exorcise the voices in her head one by one. To do so, they have to revisit the day Aunty Kim died, and understand Becky's infatuation with Prince.

Some parts sound a bit autobiographical, if you know me, but sadly there is no Lucas in my life. (I can hear Gerlynn sniggering right now.) Still, fiction's the best form of escape.

Till the next post!

Something to keep you going ... because we all need it from time to time

2011-10-03T14:42:00.002+08:00

From Lisa Shroeder's blog:

Monday Motivation - the first draft is YOUR story

"Writing is rewriting... If you fall in love with the vision you want of your work and not your words, the rewriting will become easier." - Nora DeLoach

I love that quote. The first draft is about getting the story down that you want to tell. The words might not be the right ones. The scenes might not be the right ones. The characters may be flat and dull. But it's okay. Write because you have a story to tell and fall in love with that story. Later, you will revise to take care of all those things.

Just get the story down - and let yourself fall in love with it.

I've been writing 1,000 words a day on my WIP. Sometimes I go back and tinker with earlier chapters, and I know some writers don't let themselves do that because they'll do that forever. But for ME, that tinkering often helps me get back into the story - back into the world that can be hard to reenter at times.

That's the thing about first drafts. We have to figure out what works for each of us. I've learned what works for me. I now know I can do 1,000 words a day pretty easily in an hour or two, if I open the document, read some of the previous day's work, tinker if necessary, and start writing.

I also know that the reentry is easiest if I leave off in the middle of a scene, in a place where I can pick right up and keep going. Sometimes I leave myself notes to remind myself what I want to happen. But I now know it's so much easier to get writing when I've left off in the middle of something rather than the beginning of a new chapter. Blank pages are HARD, so I try to avoid them as much as possible when writing a first draft.

Figure out what works for you. Write to get the story down. Remember, it's YOUR story in the first draft. Don't worry about anyone else. Write for yourself. Fall in love with it.

There's plenty of time later to do the work to make other people fall in love with it.

2011-09-18T19:19:00.003+08:00

"We'll move to our house after you graduate next year, okay?"

"Okay." We had been discussing this for a while now.

"But I'm afraid you might get lonely."

"Lonely?" I echoed, like the word was too unfamiliar to me, when in fact I had become really acquainted to it.

He nodded.

"Lonely?" I said again, trying to inject more incredulity in my voice.

Again, he nodded.

"Nah, I won't get lonely."

"It's just," my dad said, "when we move out of grandma's house, you'll be at home alone most of the time. I'm afraid you might turn into a hermit, or something weird like that."

Clearly, he doesn't know he transformation's nearly complete.

"Nah, that won't happen. By the time we move to our house, I'd be working. I'd have colleagues. I'd have a social life."

Reassurances are promises without the finger-locking.

2011-09-11T11:06:00.004+08:00

In the time since I last posted, I've been swept up in schoolwork. Nothing too heavy, really. Just a language here, a playwriting class there. It's all been really enjoyable, and I've been busy collecting ideas and developing them, conjugating French verbs, Google-translating my Chinese essay (maybe I shouldn't let that one out)....

This semester is shaping out well, except for that one glitch that forced me to take only four modules, instead of the usual five. EL2202 closed one of the four tutorial classes due to a smaller intake of students. And it just happened that the slot they closed was the only one I could actually attend and that didn't clash with my other classes. Since the system couldn't register me for its tutorial class, I won't be registered as a student. And by the time they informed me of that, the period for module-bidding was over, and so I'm stuck with only four modules. Which means I'd have to take Special Term. Again. Not that it's a terrible thing, just that I'd have to take five modules next semester to satisfy my Major requirements (and you know the timetable's going to be a bitch to negotiate) and I'd have to find one module to take during Special Term to fulfil my last Unrestricted Elective requirement (hopefully, they'll offer Japanese or Korean language modules then, otherwise I'd have to take some boring-as-hell science or business module - I can't even contemplate that horrific notion).

Yes, CORS is a bitch. Why universities don't extend the bidding period, or construct an entirely foolproof online module-bidding system, I don't understand. I'm not the only one who's experienced that problem. My friend from French class was forced to drop a module for her Major too. Doesn't that sound ridiculous.

Anyway. Guess I'm stuck with four modules this semester. And only one of it has a final exam; the rest rely on continuous assessment. For playwriting, our final and only play takes up 80% and class participation 20%. Which is why I have to make this play good. At least I know where I'm going for now.

Okay, let's rewind and start from the beginning of this semester. The first playwriting class saw Huzir asking us what we had done since EN2271, Introduction to Playwriting, and what was going on in our lives now so that we could channel all that into our play. And I realised it seemed I didn't have much of a life outside of watching dramas, writing my novel and swimming. But the thing is, I'm not unhappy. In fact, I'm pretty happy where I am now. Is this me being complacent, so ensconced in ignorance that I feel no compulsion to stick my head out or - pardon the cliche - step out of my comfort zone?

Routine, I realise, is comforting. And it can also be a crutch. It's what we fall back on when we are afraid to live, afraid to get hurt. But for a writer, it is stifling. It makes our lives stagnant. But I'm just too used to it - being alone, being spontaneous, being emotionally independent - that I don't see the need to rely on activities to meet new people. Maybe that's the problem with being an only child. They're too used to playing by themselves, going everywhere by themselves that they don't think they need other people. They hold people at arm's length and it takes a long while before they decide to invest in a relationship. And if you don't commit to a club or extra-curricular activity, university doesn't make it any easier. After every semester, you hardly see the people you had gotten to know last semester. So the people you sit next to in class are more like temporary allies rather than real friends. We'll come together to work on a paper or project, and after that, thanks for your contribution, see you around. And that's all you do, see them around, say hi and move on. University can be a lonely place despite the number of people and activities in it.

I know I sound like a downer. But that's probably just me. University isn't half bad, really. You get to meet different people every semester, learn different things, think about things you never gave a second thought, and be taught by really intelligent and passionate lecturers. Everything there feels so alive I'm excited to be a part of it nonetheless.

I'd go on, but I think readers (the handful of them) might vomit at any further sanguinity. Right now, I'm simultaneously watching 'The Snow Queen', writing my play, writing my Chinese essay (30% of final grade) and listening to 'Secret Garden' OST.

Speaking of dramas, 'Secret Garden' is one of the best I've ever watched. And while I was initially disinclined towards Hyun Bin, the male lead, his performance in the show has made me fall for him. I've been replaying the song he sang in the show, 'That Man', and the instrumental OST for 'Secret Garden' for one and a half weeks and counting. Which is why I've been looking for his older dramas like 'The Snow Queen' and 'The World that They Live In' to watch.

Maybe I'll stop before I start gushing.

To make a really awkward change of topic, I'm turning twenty-one in exactly two weeks' time. The thought is more depressing than exciting. I'm about to bid my youth goodbye. No more acts of defiance (not that I've ever been a rebellious kid), or whimsical behaviour that can be excused or tolerated, and no more freedom from responsibilities. In a year's time, I'll be graduating, and I'm not even completely sure what my next step will be. I know I want to work in the publishing industry. I want to help aspiring authors publish books, or contribute to Singapore's literary arts scene in whatever way I can. But that's all just in theory. How to go about doing that practically, I haven't got much of a clue other than interning at a private book-publishing company (I've been researching on some possible companies). Typical arts student, you might, say. All talk, no action. All ideas, no logic. Still, I'll take comfort in the fact that I have a heading now, at the very least. Which is more than I can say for myself at the same time last year. Maybe some of us will never know whether what we want or what we're doing is right or will pay off.

This has been as upbeat as I can be. Till next time.

2011-08-17T12:47:00.000+08:00

A post by Nathan Bransford (Wednesday, August 3, 2011):

On Distractions

Occasionally you'll see advice out there that writers have to keep to a schedule, have to write X words a day, have to write every single day because that's what it means to be a writer. That's what writers do. You're always supposed to power through, always keep moving, always push push push.

I'm sure this works for some writers. I am not one of them.

Not only do I simply not have time to write every day, I wouldn't even if I could. I can't write every day. I can barely write two days in a row.

Writing is tiring, it's hard, and it's easy to get burned out. After full a day of writing I feel physically and emotionally drained. It takes immense concentration. Coming up with new ideas is hard work. And blocking out all distractions takes \willpower.

But it's not just that. I need time to be distracted.

Distractions, the good kind, can come in many forms. They can be a friend who calls spontaneously one afternoon, a walk through the park that beautiful weather demands, a trip to a museum, or just a day doing absolutely nothing.

Sometimes you need to recharge. Sometimes you need to be inspired. Sometimes you need to just let yourself experience life.

I feel like as a writer it's so important to listen to yourself. Don't listen to the lazy you, the one who never wants to get anything done. But do listen to the Writer inside you (capital 'W'), who writes because life is so interesting and amazing.

You can't write if you don't live. You can't write good books if you're a writing machine who doesn't take time to live life fully outside of your work.

Some of the best inspiration comes precisely while you're distracted, while you're actively not thinking about writing and just noticing life.

Let yourself be distracted. It can be your most productive time.

On (not-so) Secret Novel, amazing novels, and novel experiences

2011-08-03T12:06:00.005+08:00

It's taken me long enough to blog again.

School starts in a week. And while I'm looking forward to LAF1201 (Beginner French) and EN3271 (Advanced Playwriting), I'm keeping my fingers crossed (if I believe in crossing fingers) that this semester isn't going to sap me of all I am.

Still, I have a week more to go. And I intend to spend it the way I want. That, of course, involves writing.

I'm working on my new novel!!!! (Can you tell how excited I am? If I could add on more exclamation marks without looking like a prepubescent girl at a Bieber concert, I would.)

For the past couple of weeks, I was toying with the idea of working on Novel A and Novel B. I decided on Novel A, but after just twelve pages decided I wasn't convinced with my characters enough to go any further. And while agonising over Novel A, scenes for Novel B just kept forming in my head, and it was Novel B that I kept thinking about before I went to bed.

So last Saturday, I thought, what the heck, horrible timing be damned (it is one week before school - and all relevant madness - begins, after all), and got started on Novel B. And since then, I've written four chapters. I'm excited because it reminds me of the time I wrote LAMBS FOR DINNER, the thought process, the way the story flows out of my fingertips, the way I had to rush to keep up with the ideas in my head, the things the characters are saying in my head. I haven't felt this exhilarated while writing since LAMBS.

No, wait. I have. When I was finishing up THE DREAMCATCHERS.

Speaking of which, I've completed that! In the middle of July, in the middle of MNO1001 lect (Management and Organisation, which I'm taking to fulfil my Breadth requirement). After a whole year of second-guessing and self-doubt and almost giving up, I've finally pulled through. Sometimes, it's not that you can't write; it's that you won't. I kept telling myself I couldn't think of anything to propel the story forward, and I couldn't think of how to resolve the story. But once I got down to it, everything managed to tie itself up pretty nicely (if I do say so myself).

But now, I'm stashing THE DREAMCATCHERS away in the drawer for a month before returning to edit it (so that I will be an objective editor and my perception will not be too skewed). And on to work on secret new novel!

Oh, okay. The title's FIFTEEN MINUTES DOWN SUNSET AVENUE. I'm still not too sure about it, though. I wish I could think of some strong title, like SHIVER (by the unbelievably talented and funny Maggie Stiefvater), which captures the essence and the mood of the story.

And speaking of the WOLVES OF MERCY FALLS trilogy, I just rushed down to Kino after my swim last Thursday to buy the final installment, FOREVER! SHIVER remains one of the best-written stories I've ever read. And I am completely stoked to read FOREVER. Just the first page - just the prologue - looks so good. I'm going to relish every word and read it as slowly as possible.

Blog-surfing today led me to this post by Natalie Whipple, YA author: Happy writers: finding confidence in yourself. Which gives us a much-needed boost of assurance as we create the story we want to read, and the world we wish to live in. And What I Really Want to Say to New Writers helps put things in perspective.

On a final note, here's what I meant by 'novel experiences':

Modules I'm taking next semester:

1. LAF1201 (I just looked at the notes posted on IVLE - everything's in French. Wonderful. Just...wonderful.)
2. LAC3203 - Chinese for Science and Technology. I had fun last sem with LAC3204, laoshi was nice and really put effort in helping each of us improve in our Chinese, and the coursework was relevant and useful.
3. EL2201 - Sound System of English. Big yay for phonetics and phonology! I had fun learning that under Mie Sensei in my freshman year, sem 1.
4. EN3271. More second-guessing and self-doubt (it is writing, after all). But with critique partners and constructive criticism and lots of fun (it's one of the classes I laughed the most and hardest in ever since entering NUS).
5. EL3256 - Language in the Workplace.

Bring on senior year sem 1!

An update on ... books (naturally)

2011-06-21T14:50:00.012+08:00

I've been meaning to talk about this book I've read recently: Stolen by Lucy Christopher. I picked it up because of the blurb written by the publisher, who described it as a love story between a girl and a broken boy. And those who know me would understand I'm a sucker for this type of stories.

As the title suggests, it's about a girl, Gemma, who was stolen by a boy, Ty, at the airport, after she had a fallout with her parents. To escape the tension between her and her parents, she decided to accept Ty's offer of a drink, which he'd spiked. After that, he dragged her to Australia - he as though on a righteous crusade and she in a drug-induced haze - where he had set up a living quarters in the middle of the Australian desert.

The beginning was rather slow, and I wished she could have reduced the description of the abduction. It's good to know the details, but I wanted to get to the good stuff, the deeper stuff in Ty's psyche. Some - most - people would label him as crazy, but he kept saying he was 'saving' Gemma from her life, the one he knew she was miserable with, that I could tell there had to be more to Ty than just a crazy abductor/stalker.

The story chronicles Gemma and Ty's lives in the desert, Gemma constantly plotting to escape whenever she wasn't throwing a fit or crying in fear while Ty looks after her and tries to acclimatise her to living in the desert.

To cut the story short, Gemma eventually grows to not fear Ty after he saves her life countless times and reveals his past to her, in which he had been abandoned by his parents and was searching for his mother when he found Gemma and fell in love with her.

Towards the end of the novel, when Gemma and Ty were in love with each other, I couldn't put the book down. The imagery Christopher had created was intense - rich, beautiful and burns into your mind - and the emotions weighed on you so that you really felt like you were Gemma, in love with Ty, knowing that he had committed a crime but able to understand his motivations for abducting her. Call it Stockholm Syndrome or whatever you want, until you've read this book, you wouldn't understand the confusion Gemma goes through right to the very end.

What I love about this book is the imagery. Christopher paints a very vivid image of the Australian desert, its stillness at night, though it is never quite asleep, and in the day its lack of restrain, its life. I guess unless you belong to the land down under (and Christopher is), you wouldn't be able to write a story with this sort of setting.

Which reminds me of what Huzir said: "You have to connect with your own reality before you can start conjuring up other realms worth visiting."

I'm currently in a rut with The Dreamcatchers. Sent it to Joanna for some feedback and she gave really a awesome one (BIG, BIG THANK YOU TO YOU, DEAR!) and after some discussion I realised this isn't working - for me and for her - precisely because it doesn't seem authentic. Joanna said some of the expression and words I used weren't the sort that were common in our everyday lives. It's a problem a literary agent had with Lambs for Dinner too. She said the characters didn't feel authentic enough, didn't give her the sense of the place.

So my decision now is to tentatively stash The Dreamcatchers away bear this advice in mind while I work on my next novel.

Yes. My next novel. I originally planned to just stick out the last fifty pages or so I have left to write The Dreamcatchers. Problem is, I keep procrastinating because I can't seem to pick up where I left off and get into it again. I can blame the circumstances, I can blame the saturation of Young Adult urban fantasy market, but truth is, I'm probably just not ready - or steady enough - to create an urban fantasy novel that is good enough, for my own standards and for others'.

But I'm not going to wallow in misery about it. This is, after all, my first valiant (if I do say so myself) attempt at writing urban fantasy, so I'm going to cut myself some slack that it doesn't work out. Besides, I'm not going to abandon it forever, just lay it aside until I have the guts to face it again, weed out everything that isn't working and start over.

I'm excited about my Shiny New Idea, but it's still in its infancy, and I need to do some elaborate planning before I take the plunge. Goodness knows how many times I've dove into a new project without enough planning, only to get stuck midway and tear out my hair in despair.

Moving on.

I'm now reading Sarah Dessen's latest novel, What Happened to Goodbye. If her preceding novel, Along for the Ride, had seen my support for her waning, then What Happened to Goodbye is picking it right up again. It has the trademarks of Sarah Dessen books: new girl, new town, new life, and a past that is just waiting to seize you from behind when you think you've shaken it off. But what's amazing about Dessen is that you can tell every scene she crafts is carefully thought through, even though it may seem effortless. The characters don't ramble on without a point, they don't move across the page for the sake of moving, and each of them has a purpose in the story, and they deliver their lines smoothly. Dessen's dialogue flows, and every piece makes sense, every action has a motivation. Her characters are average people, and nothing really dramatic or glamourous happens in her stories to her characters, but the characters alone are enough to sustain the story (no mean feat, considering each novel averages three hundred pages - trust me, I would know) and create the drama and tension needed to keep readers turning the page.

Like in What Happened to Goodbye, I feel like the protagonist, McLean, is someone I can totally relate to. Her parents are divorced and she feels guilt, she feels anger, she feels hate, and she keeps certain things from her father regarding her mother, and the constant reaching out of McLean's mother, countered with her backing away, feels like a familiar dance-step that my mother and I are engaged in. Dessen is totally in tune with the emotions of a single child living with her father, but she doesn't ramble on and on such that McLean seems whiny, but helpless and doing the best she can. Dessen can always create characters we can all relate to, on some level or other.

All I can say is: Sarah Dessen does it again.

And I don't know why, but reading her books always make me feel like writing, even if I've been running a dry spell for goodness knows how long. Nothing like a good book to pump up your writing juices again, I suppose.

2011-05-28T11:47:00.002+08:00

Allow me to indulge in some mindless rambling.

To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing with my life. It gets even more obvious when you're in university, when you're around people with such clear ideas what they want to do with their lives, and when and how they want to achieve. They are so driven and determined, I feel like I can never ever be like them. I don't mean to put myself down or allow myself to feel inferior to others, but it seems I've gotten a lot more apathetic after the A levels. Back then, in secondary school and junior college, I knew what I wanted: as many A's as possible. The whole point was to get to the school I want. But now in university, where the next step after graduation is employment, I'm more lost than ever. And time's running out for me to decide.

I don't regret majoring in English Language (okay, maybe a little - I often wonder if I would enjoy majoring in English Literature instead), but that's all I'm sure I want to do. What happens after, I haven't made any solid decision. My peers are already planning their career journeys and setting goals on when they want to earn their first million or buy their first condo or take their PhDs. All this planning just gives me a headache. Maybe I don't thirst for all that as much as they do. Maybe I don't give a flying crap about scaling the corporate ladder and the ranks of society, or luxury-car and condo ownership. Maybe I'm just not a fan of planning, period. Maybe I've been too protected by my father, that I don't feel the need to work for anything. I want him to not work so hard and be so tired all the time. So I guess I'll work for the sake of that. But I don't know what else I want beyond that.

And it's not like I'm doing fantastically in school. There, I said it. I'm not doing all that well. Just average, occasionally slipping below average. But the good thing is, I'm not planning to take honours, so I'm staying thankfully out of the fray, away from all those people slugging it out amongst themselves. Maybe the reason I don't kill myself trying to get on the honours track is because I don't see how that's going to make anything better. Sure, everyone says the pay will be better and all that. But what if I don't even know what I want to do after graduation? Despite my efforts, I can't do as well as my peers, so I'm not going to die trying. I don't believe education is the be all, end all of life anyway.

Still, it's still nice to know you can ace the modules you choose. Nothing like university to make you feel uncertain about yourself and your abilities.

The 9 Paradoxes of Patriotism in Singapore

2011-05-11T11:52:00.002+08:00

A post by Jack Sim on The Online Citizen that I feel makes some good points (though there are also some I disagree with):

The 9 Paradoxes of Patriotism in Singapore

It’s election time, a time for review and reflections.

I’m 54 but had only voted once before due to the walkover nature of our politics.

This time, opposition candidates will challenge almost every constituency.

Our political maturity has entered a new phase, but what does Singaporeans really want?

After all, Singapore is much appreciated by foreigners who are fed-up with their own countries and found it better here with jobs, safety, low taxes, and an almost predictable growth path.

Here are 9 Paradoxes that the government must grasp with our new political reality:

1. The more attractive Singapore is in attracting massive droves of foreigners, the more unattractive it is for locals. It feels like a crowded 6-Stars Hotel where people come and go. There is no distinction between treatment of citizens and foreigner. This creates an ‘unloved’ feeling among locals when the government’s emphasis that foreign talents are better than local becomes demoralizing. Singaporeans wonder what is the use of chalking up economic numbers by importing so many foreigners? Singapore and Singaporeans becomes two very different words.

2. The more government focuses on the Economic Growth Model; the less they focus on our Soul. The building of two casinos shows clearly the trade-off between increasing jobs (largely jobs for foreigner labor) and increasing the misery of gambling, broken families and hardship. The pursuit for economic growth model won over the soul here. It is even worse since the casino is located directly in the heart of the banking and civic district, instead of a further location or off-shore island.

3. The more the government focus on meritocracy (defined as good academic results), the more they made people think the same way. Creativity suffers when kids has no opinion of their own. Schools and parents improves academic excellence by getting kids to read and memorize past 10 years exams questions and model answers and regurgitate them well during exams. In addition, schools hold special sessions to train both parents and kids on “Exam Techniques” so as to score better marks for the glory of the school’s ranking. Whoever has the best conformist’s memory wins top marks. This cultivates the habit of looking the “the right or approved answers”.

Our educational system has thus transformed into a “Marks-Factory”. These kids grow up as deteriorated adults unable to have an opinion of their own, always looking for leadership by others.

4.The richer we are in our pockets, the poorer we become in our soul. In our rush for an ostentatious life-style, we’ve neglected the social need for nurturing soft-skills like love, acceptance, empathy, compassion, listening, harmonizing, and a Can-Do Spirit of Enterprise. This has led us into a culture of high conformism and extremely selfish safety needs. To build resilience in people as a nation, we need to first nurture strong value systems and a sense of community that comes from within our hearts and not prescribed by orders.

5. The more the government reminds the voters that “You are vulnerable but luckily you have good government”, the more dependency and expectation they create that the government will solve all problems. Naturally, disappointment is larger when expectation is raised high through the creation of such a dependency relationship.

6. The more Singaporeans are educated, the more they want to contribute in their own way in nation building. Yet, the prescriptive culture of the government does not offer effective channels for innovative ideas to get through. In the process, a great misunderstanding occurs when government sees innovators as troublemakers who are unappreciative of what the good government has done for them. The truth is most Singaporeans do appreciate the prosperity achieved, but they want to play a more active role in building their nation, not merely a passive recipient of goodies. Yet, the current government-supported channels are seen more blockers than listeners. By disallowing active citizenry and rejecting their diverse views, the government alienates the moderates and patriots at mutual detriment.

7. The more the government celebrates the foreign talents; the less they appreciate or notice our homegrown talents. These local talents are actually very much appreciated by foreign countries while we’re are so busy trying to attract foreign talents from abroad. The old adage that “prophets are not appreciated at home” is true everywhere but Singapore should a review this thinking so that good citizens can have their natural place in our society doing their best for the social good.

8. The more efficient the Government, the more they stifle innovation. Our current state of bureaucracy rewards people who make zero mistakes rather than those who made innovations (which requires some trial and errors).

“Get it right the first time” is a good quality control mechanism that is suitable for factory floor but totally detrimental to the promotion of innovative culture.

Innovation culture’s mantra should be “Dream it and do it till you get it”.

We need to re-design incentives to transform bureaucrats from rules-based workers into mission-driven people, unclogging the bureaucratic process and help our diverse range of talents flourish in ways most desired by society at large. An inclusive approach will bring out thought leadership beyond the narrow scholarly circles.

9. The final paradox is that while the people trust the government, the government does not trust the people. Absolute power in the past has also created a sense of arrogance in the bureaucrats and Members of Parliament. A recent message by the Prime Minister reminding his MPs they are servants and not masters is a sign of change that is so much needed. This new message will take many years to evolve into a culture in the government if the message succeeded in trickling down through the ranks.

The ruling party has every chance to listen and engage the people constructively to build a nation together. But they’ve chosen to go it alone.

There is a sense of “Statelessness” in many patriots here. These are ordinary thoughtful citizens do not want to enter the complicated political arena. They just want to contribute to make their country better. They are not content with being treated like a customer. They want to be embraced like a citizen, a nation-builder and a healer of social gaps. They are constructive if the government engages them constructively.

2011-05-09T17:12:00.004+08:00

I generally do not like to discuss touchy topics like politics or religion on my blog, but in light of the recent General Elections, I feel the need to get my point out.

I don't claim to know a lot about Singapore's political history or its current state. But I know that I am one of its citizen who will come to inherit the nation as it is now. If given the opportunity, I'd love to vote, but as it is, I'm still one year short of the age to vote.

I'm pretty clear on who I support, and given the calibre of our leaders - their experience and wisdom - it is near implausible that I will swing over to any other parties. Unfortunately, what gets me riled up about Singapore politics is the fact that I am unable to make others see my point. They believe what they choose to - nothing wrong with that, of course, but a lot of voters seem to vote with their hearts and not their minds. Some get carried away with emotions and get lulled by promises and pretty words, and some oppose for the sake of opposing. Why must we be ruled by the same part for almost fifty years, they think. It's time for change. But when you ask them what they want to change, they draw a blank. Change lor! they declare.

Because to them, the government owes them a living. The government is not taking care of us. They bring in foreigners to snatch away our rice bowls, they give opportunities to foreign students so that locals have to go overseas. The thing is, Singapore has always been competitive. It's always been a Darwinian society that seeks to preserve the best, so that with competition each of us will strive to work harder and improve on the whole as a society. It's brutal, yes, but that's how we managed to rise from a Third World slumop to a First World nation in those fifty years. The fact is, no one owes us a living, much less the government.

Another point raised by naysayers is the salaries drawn by the ministers. According to them, the ministers collect their fat paychecks and tell people to improve productivity so that our GDP can increase and then they can collect fatter paychecks. This actually brings me back to the preceding argument, where the number of opportunities available to us should be directly. I'm aware that since I haven't started working I can hardly talk like I know how the common worker is struggling. But Singapore is irrefutably a meritocratic society. Maybe wages aren't keeping up with the cost of living, and the Singapore government is slower to address this problem of the widening income gap. The middle class is understandably frustrated. But with the amount of crap that the Singapore government has to deal with - along with ungrateful citizens who keep complaining about ministerial pay and expect regular handouts - I'd say they're entitled to the pay they earn. And my dad raised a point: if they are paid peanuts (and I'm not referring to $60k), there will be a heck lot of corruption going on, as in the case of our neighbouring country.

I defend the ruling party, but that's not to say, of course, that it is completely free of errors. GE 2011 has shown that more people want their voices heard, and are frustrated that no one is responding to their feedback. The ruling party can stand to make some changes, and bring themselves closer to the ground, in order to win the hearts of the people again, but to lambast their efficacy as the government just because you're worried you can't buy a house or that your bowl of noodles is now $5 when it used to be $3 is to overlook the big picture and zero in on the personal details. We chose our leaders because we want Singapore to progress as a nation, not for personal development. If everyone thinks that way, we're going to live in Singapore, Inc. with no true spirit, and a very diverse and polarised population.

I came across this comment on a forum, and I'd like to say that I completely agree with what is said:

Yingxin89:

Are u guys not agreeing that our MPs and minsters are probably the most educated and knowledgeable group in Singapore? If not, how could they lead us? And living in ur own world, you do not see that many of our entrepreneur friends and property agents and re misers are earning 70k-120k per month. I do not see why 15k for an mp or 120-200k for our country's minister could be overpriced. With their knowledge and abilities, they could be earning much more. Please do not be narrow minded into thinking everyone should earn the same to be fair. We are not communists. They deserve what they deserve.

And you say that housing is not affordable. Why is it that i don't see people crowding on the streets with cardboards? Why is everyone complaining about every single thing that doesn't even concern them?

Do you not have a home? Do you not have a job? Are your children not getting good education in a conducive environment? Is your neighbourhood inaccessible or dimmed with little or no streetlights? Is your living environment filled with rats and thugs? the answer is no.

We Singaporeans are living in such an awesome condition and environment and yet we complain about small insignificant things that are propaganda from another opposing team. I do not understand what aroused their unrighteousness for problems that are not even theirs to believe with.

Lastly, I love MM Lee and his robustness. If not for him, we wouldn't be where we are now. If not for sweeping thugs, secret societies, gangs, communists, marxists off the streets in the then Singapore with no foundation nor proper education for most. We would not be a democratic nation as we are now. Not to mention a prosperous first world country.

There are tough decisions to be made in tough times. And if we don't see the big picture. We will never progress. And if you are complaining about ur own life, DO something about it. Stop relying and blaming the government for everything. No one owes u a living.

Word!

Wish list, reading list and a whole lot of rambling

2011-03-16T20:35:00.004+08:00

My Book Wishlist for 2011:

1. FOREVER, the third and final installment in the Shiver trilogy by the ever-amazing Maggie Stiefvater. She writes about werewolves and kissing and is funny, modest and so talented. Here are some advice she's dished out on her blog (okay, I admit - these links are mostly for my benefit, so I can return to them whenever I get stuck):

i. Seven Steps to Starting a Novel
ii. The Giant NaNo Prepping Post: Or, How Maggie Writes a Novel
iii. Hi, I Suck
iv. Ten Rules for Query Letters

Among other awesomeness.

2. BLOOD MAGIC, a debut novel by YA author Tessa Gratton, also Maggie's best friend and critique partner. Along with Brenna Yovanoff, author of YA urban fantasy THE REPLACEMENT, they form the Merry Sisters of Fate, who write a short story each and post it on their common blog for rabid fans like us to enjoy. Tessa's style seems to be as gritty as Maggie's. Brenna's is quietly disturbing, and the characters are not as spunky as Maggie's. They're all very talented and dedicated writers, but my favourite's still got to be Maggie.

3. RED GLOVE, the sequel to WHITE CAT, by Holly Black. (The use of colours seems intentional.) YA urban fantasy about a family of curse-workers. Black's prose is tight and compelling, and add to the equation an original plot with twists and turns, and you've got a bestseller.

4. STAY, by Deb Calettie. I've been a long-time fan of her work, ever since I picked up WILD ROSES (to date her best novel written yet, imho) when I was fifteen. Her prose is always so lyrical yet the narrator's voice is always relatable. No distance between the narrator and the reader, but Caletti manages to keep her writing pure and filled with fresh imagery. Not to be corny, but I always reach the end of her book with a smile.

5. WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, by my all-time favourite YA author Sarah Dessen. I've been a fan since I was fourteen and picked up KEEPING THE MOON, a story where a girl finds confidence after spending a summer staying with her aunt in the close-knit town of Colby. Her stories are simple and not heavily reliant on plot, but her characters transform in dramatic ways throughout the story and you feel yourself learning those life lessons - so subtly conveyed - along with them. As long as it's by Dessen, you know it won't disappoint.

6. ABANDON, by Meg Cabot. She's prolific, and she's frequently on bestseller lists - for good reason. She knows what to deliver, and she knows how to deliver. She may be the one of the queens of commercial contemporary fiction, and literary types may turn up their noses on the heavy doses of pop culture present in her stories, but in terms of plot, you have to admit she has a way with it. She just has it.

Books that I've recently read and think they deserve some mention:

1. THE DARKEST POWERS series, by Kelley Armstrong. Tight pacing, characters you would root for, enough plot turns to keep you glued to the pages, ghosts, necromancers, werewolves, kissing, sorcerers and witches, evil corporations trying to genetically modify the magical gene and end up having their efforts turning around to bite them in the asses. Enough said, right?

2. NOCTURNES, by Kazuo Ishiguro. As I mentioned on FB, reading Kazuo Ishiguro is like returning to a warm, safe place, like reading Roald Dahl. Their writing styles are so amiable it's like you're settling in for a bedtime story told by your father or grandfather (in Dahl's case, that is). NOCTURNES is a compilation of short stories about heartache, regret and the uncertainty of the choices people people make.

3. KISS ME DEADLY: 13 TALES OF PARANORMAL LOVE, by assorted writers, including Maggie Stiefvater, Carrie Ryan (YA urban fantasy author of FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH), Michelle Zink (author of PROPHECY OF THE SISTERS), Becca Fitzpatrick (author of the HUSH, HUSH series, about fallen angels and kissing), Rachel Vincent (author of MY SOUL TO TAKE), Sarah Rees Brennan (author of THE DEMON'S LEXICON), and many more. In this book are short stories of paranormal romance by the most popular YA authors of today ... and okay, I'll admit, I'm reading it mainly because of Maggie Stiefvater, but there are other writers I'm coming to be aware of because of this book, such as Karen Mahoney and Justine Musk. Reading their short stories is like getting a taste of their writing style before you decide to devote your time to reading their novels, don't you think?

That's all for now. But man, my wallet's going to get quite a workout in the days following!

汪東城 Jiro Wang's story behind the family portrait [Eng Sub]

2011-03-12T11:53:00.000+08:00

My dear Jiro. My wish for you is to stay happy and strong, like you've always been.

2011-03-10T11:27:00.002+08:00

From Nathan Bransford's blog (7 March 2011):

Let's look at a back-of-a-napkin breakdown of a print book vs. an e-book (all numbers approximate):

$24.99 hardcover:
$12.50 to the bookstore (roughly 50% retail price) - [me: so half of the amount we pay goes to the freaking bookstore, not the actual, you know, CREATOR, of the stories? Shocking.]
$2.50 to $3.75 to the author (between 10-15% of the retail price)
$1.50 for paper, shipping, distribution (again, approximately. UPDATE this would be for a high-print-run book, HarperStudio cited $2.00 as average)
=
Around $8.00 to the publisher, which is split between overhead (rent, paying editors, copyeditors, etc.), marketing, other costs, and hopefully some profit assuming enough copies are sold.

$9.99 e-book (agency model):
$3.00 to the bookseller (30% of the retail price)
$1.75 to the author (25% of the publisher's share)
=
Around $5.24 to the publisher, split between overhead, other costs, and hopefully some profit

When Your Writing is Too Safe

2011-03-09T13:45:00.005+08:00

For this week's assignment, we were supposed to come up with three ideas for our final one-act play. I sent my medical certificate (for the horrible scrape I got on my foot after a bad fall yesterday morning before my swim - don't want to think about it) along with my assignment. And here's his reply:

Dear Joyce,

Sorry to hear about your accident -- hope you recover soon.

Re your play ideas: forgive me for being blunt, but I think that as a writer you are doing yourself a huge disservice if you continue to set your plays in some quasi-American no-space. I would really like to see you write about Singapore -- or somewhere in Asia at least -- and I strongly urge you to do so. Is there a reason you don't? You have so consistently steered clear of anything grounded in this region that I find myself wondering what it is you're avoiding.

Please dig deep within yourself and come up with ideas that say something about what's going on with your society, your country, your family, your generation, your gender, your ethnicity, whatever. Just please ENGAGE with the world around you; don't waste any more time on exercises in narrative technique displaced to some strange television-like America.

You are a fine, fluent, and committed writer. But you have to connect with your own reality before you can start conjuring up other realms worth visiting.

Start again, please.

Warm regards,
Huzir

I understand where he's coming from. And I guess he is right. My stories take place in a no-space setting that don't exactly speak like Singaporeans. Their sentences are complete, and there are no colloquials or accents or anything to suggest they're from Singapore or even Asia. I was just concerned with the story, and the flow of it, not the voice. I try hard, in fact, to keep the natural setting and flavour out of my stories. Maybe, like Huzir suggests, I'm avoiding something. I don't know. But I do know that stories in a localised setting don't appeal to me. They just don't. I'm sure they are very well written, but they just don't appeal to me, the way historical fiction or memoirs don't.

The stuff I read are Western. The stuff I watch (apart from Taiwanese variety shows and dramas) are Western. The music I listen to ... well, it's 50-50 now. It used to be completely Western. Maybe it is this Western influence that is directing my writing style. I don't know any other literary realities or settings that I can experience or experiment with. Maybe because I don't read local authors, I don't know how I can write a story in a local setting with local flavour and realities. Why localised stories don't appeal to me is because the details are too distracting, almost to the point of annoying. That's just my own opinion. Or maybe I'm just too used to reading in a Western setting that I find anything else jarring and therefore unwelcome.

I really don't know. Huzir's feedback has yanked the carpet out from under my feet, and I don't know what to do anymore. And I have to accept his feedback and work with it - I mean, he's the one deciding my grade for this module. But I have no idea how to erect another narrative dimension that I should be familiar with, but am not.

I'm not ready to face this. I've always been working within the cocoon of a generic, formulaic space, and now I'm asked to break out of that and get in touch with my actual environment.

And I only have one week more to submit my second try. If anyone has any suggestions or advice, I'd only be too happy to listen.

Play - The Program

2011-03-07T18:21:00.003+08:00

1.

A projector screen at stage centre. Newscaster RYAN DE SILVA’s face appears onscreen. He is formally dressed, well-groomed, poised and almost artificial in his manner.

RYAN (Onscreen): A very good evening to you, dear citizen of the Republic. Thank you for joining me, Ryan De Silva, on the 9pm news.

Two groups of ASYLUM PATIENTS, dressed in black, enter from both ends of the stage, each led by a WARDEN in white. They stand in rows at either end. PATIENTS at stage left are blindfolded. GABBY, ERIC, KRISTEN and JAEGER are dispersed within the group on the right.

In HOME news: The esteemed government has announced that all mental health institutions will be shut down from 0800 hours tomorrow. Any corresponding or related institution will also be shut down. Government officials have also declared that as of 1700 hours today, all 22,000 individuals suffering from incurable mental instability have been terminated.

BLINDFOLDED PATIENTS on SL suddenly collapse soundlessly. WARDEN on SL exits.

Patients that have passed the 'Curable Test' will be cured of their mental illnesses through 'The Program' in the comfort of their own homes. They will rejoin us at a later date as fully contributing members of society. The general public is reassured that minimal costs will be borne by the state in the administration of ‘The Program’.

WARDEN on SR marches the remaining PATIENTS offstage as RYAN continues to speak.

The public is reminded that these actions are in accordance to the 'Complete Extermination of Tax-Dollar Liabilities' Act – Chapters 89A-90B. You may refer to this new law at the Ministry of Finance website. Should said website content be unclear to any citizen of the Republic, you may call the MOF hotline 2271, to enquire further.

Screen goes blank. Lights out. Four partitioned cubicles, each with a chair and a laptop. MODERATOR sits in a corner at his desk. He is dressed in a dark suit and comes under a spotlight only when he speaks. He appears to be busy and is sorting out multiple things constantly. Lights up on two of the cubicles, with KRISTEN and JAEGAR at their chairs. GABBY and ERIC are unlit.

Kristen: What I feel isn’t real.

Jaeger: That’s the first step.

Kristen: Hello. It’s nice to meet you.

Jaeger: Hi. It’s nice to meet you too. This is odd, isn’t it.

Kristen: I don’t quite know what to say. (Pauses) That’s an interesting name you have.

Jaeger: Thanks. I think my dad was drunk when he named me. So we’re supposed to be helping each other, or something?

Kristen: Seems like it. Only, I’m not sure I’m exactly in a position to help anyone.

Jaeger: Yeah, me neither.

Kristen: It was so much easier in rehab. At least we were guided there. But I guess it’s not worth helping people like us anymore.

Jaeger: Oh, you know. Apparently paying for real human therapists is too expensive. I didn’t enjoy my real life sessions anyway. But this online thing beats getting sent to the Recycler.

Kristen: I had a friend who got dragged to it. She wasn’t even sedated when they threw her in there …

Jaeger: I’m sorry to hear that.

Kristen: We have to be cured. The esteemed government has done a lot for us; we can’t let them down.

Jaeger: I don’t see how forcing us to talk to strangers on these badly designed chat rooms is supposed to help.

Kristen: Shh! You shouldn’t talk this way. You know they’re all listening in on us.

Jaeger: So you’re a paranoid personality?

Kristen: Not quite. Just anorexic.

Jaeger: Ah. That explains a lot.

Kristen: How so?

Jaeger: (evasively) So … how long have you been in the system?

Kristen: Close to two years, when they found out about my eating disorder in junior college. I’ve been trying. I really have! But I can’t help it.

KRISTEN waits for a moment; there is no response. JAEGER starts back into action.

Jaeger: Whoops, sorry for the wait. I’m back. To be honest, I’m looking at the clock now. How much longer do we need to be on this thing?

Kristen: As long as it takes for us to be cured. We have to be cured.

Jaeger: I’ve been trying for five years. To be honest, I think they only keep me around because youth is too precious to waste.

Kristen: You don’t mean that. They must think you can be cured. What are you here for, anyway?

Jaeger: Eating disorder, like you. You wouldn’t believe the whacked-out Freudian theories they come up with to explain it. Wasn’t hugged enough as a child, wasn’t fed enough, has deep-seated desire to have sexual relations with a parent. Hey, how old are you?

Kristen: Neither too young nor old.

Jaeger: Haha. Nicely done. How’d you know I was a guy?

Kristen: I didn’t.

Jaeger: Ah. Awkward.

Kristen: That hardly matters, anyway. We’re here solely to be cured.

Jaeger: I guess you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t share your perspective. Especially if talking to a fully qualified psychotherapist-analyst-psychiatrist for years hasn’t changed the slightest thing about me. No offense, though. I’m sure you’re a very good listener.

Kristen: Thank you. It is most kind of you to say so. Tell me more about yourself, Jaeger. Why do you binge and purge?

JAEGER is silent for a while.

Moderator: #ED271, you are warned to share your issues with #ED2408.

Jaeger: Fine. You tell me why you starve yourself, and I’ll tell you why I want to vomit.

Kristen: You are not cooperating, Jaeger. We have to be cured.

2.

Lights up on ERIC and GABBY’s cubicles. ERIC is sitting stiffly before his computer, fidgeting as he waits. GABBY abruptly bursts onstage. Breathless, she throws herself down on her chair, which swivels around until she manages to still it.

Gabby: (deeply flustered, typing furiously) OH, DEAR ESTEEMED GOVERNMENT! I am sorry I am late for my session! My name is Gabriella May Tan, #TS0910. I am reporting for my session at the program and I apologize formally for keeping the moderator waiting.

Moderator: Patient #TS0910, you are forgetting decorum.

Gabby: What I feel isn’t real.

Eric: That’s the first step.

Gabby: Okay ... So look, I don’t really have a problem. I don’t really need to be here. So ... let’s just talk about whatever you have.

Eric: I can’t. I can’t go first.

Gabby: Why not.

Eric: Well … I’m not really used to this. I’m actually perspiring. Under my armpits. As I type this to you.

Gabby: Ridiculous. This is not even real life social contact.

Moderator: #TS0910 you are out of line. Do not abuse the system. The system knows that you are a Stage Intermediate case. You would have been sent to the Recycler if not for your recognized contribution to society.

Gabby: Send me away then.

Moderator: #TS0910 this is your first warning.

Gabby: I am not afraid!

Moderator: #TS0910 this is your second warning. You are reminded that your registered status as a Widow means that your four children will be sent to the Recycler with you should you not comply with the program. You have been warned.

Gabby: (taking a deep breath, clenching her fists) So! Social anxiety, huh? Do you have any friends? Why are you a Stage Intermediate, like me?

Eric: (tenses, folds arms) I have some friends.

Gabby: Not to be mean, but that’s a little of a surprise.

Eric: I do have friends.

Gabby: You do know that those monsters you run around with in video games aren’t real right?
Eric: (silence)

Gabby: Eh? You there? There? You can’t leave before the hour’s up, it won’t count as a full session then and then how will we get cured, huh?

Pause.

Eric: Do you live with your children?

Gabby: … No. You know I can’t! Why must you ask me if you know I can’t stay with them …

Eric: Some people can. Especially if they are certified to be Loving Parents … Even with … mental issues, some people can stay with their children. Do they stay with your husband then?

Gabby: He’s dead. Are you not paying attention? I am a WIDOW.

Eric: Oh. Then ...

Gabby: My … My parents. And I … I’m not a certified Loving Parent. Because I have this …

Eric: What is it you have?

Gabby: I … I like it when people touch me.

Eric: I cannot relate.

Gabby: I know what you mean.

Eric: Huh?

Gabby: I also … I also don’t like to touch my, my parents. Or my siblings.

Eric: Ah. I see.

Gabby: They call this Terroramantifronication. And I have been in therapy since I had my children 5 years ago.

Eric: I am sorry to hear that.

Gabby: Stop being sorry. Help me finish this. Help me be certified sane so that I can see my babies again.

Eric: I cannot promise you anything.

Gabby: You have to hurry, we’re running out of time.

Eric: I can’t work under pressure. My armpits are perspiring again.

Gabby: (Flinging hands up) OH, DEAR ESTEEMED GOVERNMENT.

Moderator: Half session mark. Break for 7 minutes only. Do not be late in your return.

Lights out.

3.

Lights up on KRISTEN and JAEGAR’s cubicles.

Jaeger: What I feel isn’t real.

Kristen: That’s the first step.

Moderator: Subjects may commence on proper, in-depth discussion of ED. #ED271, you are to share with #ED2408 more details of your condition. Disciplinary action will be taken otherwise.

Jaeger: … That bot is a right pain in the neck sometimes.

Kristen: It only wants what’s best for us. Now, let’s talk about our problems. I’m Kristen Kirk, and I’m an anorexic. How do you do.

Jaeger: Hi. I’m Jaeger Lee. I’m a bulimic. Now it sounds like we’re both sad members of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Kristen: You’re bulimic?

Jaeger: Well you don’t have to sound so surprised.

Kristen: I’m sorry. It’s just … rare for a guy to have an eating disorder. Why do you do it?

Jaeger: I don’t think it’s that rare. Just rare for one to be talking about it, I guess. With a girl. You can skip the whole concern thing, I’m quite resigned to whatever it is I have.

Kristen: But we’re supposed to give support to each other. Besides, I understand how you feel. You don’t want to talk about it. It’s awful, but we have to start somewhere. We have to be cured. I, for one, can’t look at food without feeling the urge to vomit.

Jaeger: No, you don’t. I don’t think you could possibly understand how it feels for a guy to have bulima. It’s as though I lost my dick and my sanity in one fell swoop.

Kristen: My counselor explained briefly before what bulimia is like. She said you just keep stuffing your face with food, and then you feel so bad about it you stick your finger down your throat. Wouldn’t it be easier to just not eat, though?

Jaeger: I don’t see what’s wrong with liking to eat. I like food. Food is awesome. And then getting rid of it later as though it never even existed is having the best of both worlds.

Kristen: I can barely recall the taste of pizza. Or a muffin. Or a fry.

Jaeger: Delicious, delicious, and mind-blowingly delicious.

Kristen: Stop. Just stop!

Jaeger: Look, just because you don’t have the guts to purge...

Kristen: It’s not about purging. God, I wouldn’t want to stick my finger down my throat anyway. Besides, it doesn’t work that way. Carbs go right into your system at the mouth. And we should be helping each other. You’re supposed to tell me anorexia’s no good for me. I already told you, bulimia doesn’t work.

Jaeger: Tell that to my six-pack. Still, think about it. An all-you-can-eat buffet. International cuisine as far as the eye can see. Smoked turkey with a light honey glazing, thin crust Italian pizza dripping with stringy mozzarella cheese and topped with juicy, succulent meatballs, the smell of freshly baked flaky croissants warm from the oven, chewy chocolate chip cookies with hot fudge, cheese fries with beef relish, hot dogs drizzled with mustard -

(Side re-enactment: JAEGER force feeds KRISTEN various foods.)

Kristen: Stop it. Stop it now! (Hallucinates a feast spread out before her - all of her favorite “sinful” foods) No, no, no! This is not real. (The food starts inching towards her. In the chocolate cake, she sees the grotesque grinning face of her old ballet teacher.) Leave me alone! (Starts to cry) Please…. (She feels the stab of the needle on the weighing scale) I’m fat. I’m a horrible, sour-faced lard-ass no one will ever love. Just leave me alone!

Jaeger: Jeez. Calm down, Kristen.

KRISTEN is lost in her own world, crying and batting her arms around to ward off the encroaching food.

Jaeger: Face it. You want some of it. No, all of it. Give in to the Program, Kristen. (To Moderator) Happy, my dear esteemed Moderator? I’m helping someone, the way you want me to.

Moderator: #ED271, you do not address me unless you are addressed by me first. However, you may maintain this mode of therapy for #ED2408.

Jaeger: Look, Kristen. What you feel isn’t real. Your irrational fear of food isn’t normal.

Kristen: Like you are normal. You’re a guy who sticks his finger down his throat after eating.

Jaeger: But you want to be free. Don’t you?

Kristen: I’m afraid. Every time I look in the mirror, I see rolls and rolls of fat. I feel like no one can ever love someone like me.

Jaeger: That’s just it. There’s no possible way anyone could ever love us.

Moderator: Half session mark. Break for seven minutes only. Do not be late in your return.

Lights out.

4.

Lights up on ERIC and GABBY’s cubicles. ERIC is already in his seat. Gabby’s seat is vacant.

Moderator: One minute left.

GABBY walks in, apparently attempting to carry herself deferentially. She deliberately nods in the direction of the Moderator before sitting at her place.

Gabby: Oh, dear Esteemed Government, I am not late in my return. Please recognize my efforts to change my wayward ways.

Eric: They don’t care about good things.

Gabby: It doesn’t matter. I want them to know I care. That I care about changing. That I care about this program. That I want to get better.

Eric: They do not care that you care.

GABBY suddenly rises from her seat.

Gabby: I care. About my babies.

ERIC looks towards her cubicle, although he cannot actually see her through the partition.

Eric: I care about mine too.

GABBY slowly sits back down.

Gabby: Oh dear Esteemed Government, where are they, Eric?

Eric: That’s the first time you mentioned my name.

Gabby: Never mind that. Where are they?

Eric: (sitting even more stiffly) Recycler.

Gabby: I am so, so sorry Eric.

Eric: There is nothing to be sorry about. That is what you said.

GABBY draws her hand towards the screen as though trying to offer some comfort, then withdraws it. Long pause.

Moderator: You are reminded to continue with the program.

Gabby: Is this how you became the way you are?

Eric: No. I was originally like this. But when I had them, when I was with them, I was all right.

ERIC walks out to Stage Centre with a bucket of sand and beach toys. He is seen as being accompanied by children and family.

Was certified Loving Parent. Certified cured. (Freezes, realizes that his wife and children are not actually there.) But my children have Down Syndrome –

Gabby: Oh, Esteemed –

ERIC scoops up a handful of sand from the bucket and watches it spill out of his hand. The tighter he holds it, the faster the sand trickles out.

Eric: To me they were beautiful, perfect twins. But then the new law was passed and they were going to be sent to the Recycler, and when I found out I simply lost it. Epileptic fits and all that. My wife sank into severe depression. Couldn’t walk or go to work. I thought they should just send me to the Recycler with them. I tried to fail the Curable Test. But somehow, I passed. And so here I am.

Gabby: And your wife?

Eric: She failed the Curable Test on purpose, successfully. I don’t know why she could do it and I couldn’t. So... she’s gone now too, with the twins ... and I’m here all alone ….

Moderator: TS#868, please note that this is off topic.

Gabby: What? How is this off topic?! You are FREAKING CRA-

Eric: We apologize, Moderator. We will continue.

Gabby: (Heaving a big sigh) Thank you. That was a good save.

Eric: (Shaking his head) You have your babies to return to. Can’t piss anyone off here. (Deep breath) I’m looking at the proposed questions sheet they gave us. Let me ask you this, under the “Facing your fears” section. “Tell me in detail about how your fear makes you feel.”

Gabby: That is the million-dollar question.

Eric: Try.

Gabby: (Swiveling on her chair to stall time before speaking) I like it when people I don’t know well, touch me. Because it sends shivers down my spine. All my senses are stimulated.

As she speaks, she rises from her seat and walks up to stage centre. Masked figures come up to her and she hugs and high-fives them enthusiastically. As they exit, she watches after them.
I feel loved. I feel safe. I feel like everything is okay, for that one fleeting moment. And then, after I receive this from one person, I can go onto the next. It’s like free happiness. I love it. It’s liberating. (Confidentially) But It got really bad because then, I’d be promiscuous too, because in coitus, everything is just heightened by a thousand fold … I had about 50 partners one month, and that was when someone reported me to the Esteemed Government … Said I was a threat to the spread of HIV and SYPHILIS. But I never got any of those … It was all worth the risk … that closeness with a person.... it’s priceless and I crave it relentlessly …

Eric: It’s not so much a fear then.

GABBY retreats to her seat, as though ashamed, as she speaks.

Gabby: But I am afraid. I am afraid of my parents touching me. And my siblings.

Eric: Why?

Gabby: Because!

Eric: That doesn’t answer anything.

Gabby: (Runs her hand through her hair) It is so hard to talk about.

Eric: Why?

Gabby: (Grabbing at face, hair and upper torso with increasing violence as she speaks.) When I talk about it, my skin crawls and I want to peel it right off my body. I want to gorge my eyes out and pull all my hair on my head out. I feel like rubbing my skin on the rough ground, to erase the feeling of them touching me at those specific places. (Stops movement abruptly) I want to erase it.

Eric: Were you molested, Gabby?

Gabby: Sometimes. But that is not the real reason why I hate them touching me.

Eric: How can that be so? It must be the reason.

Gabby: (Jumps to feet, shouting) NO! LISTEN TO ME. I AM NOT AFFECTED BY THAT KINDA THING.

Eric: Then why are you typing in caps?

Gabby: BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT LISTENING TO ME.

Eric: I am right here. I cannot leave. The program won’t let me.

Gabby: My nose is off centre.

Eric: That is random.

Re-enactment begins as GABBY speaks.

Gabby’s FAMILY enters. One of them is carelessly lugging along a toddler-sized, ragged doll meant to represent her. The doll has a distorted, overly large nose, making it grotesque. They sit in a semi circle facing the audience, and pass the doll around, looking it over critically.

Gabby: When they look at me, they look at me with disgust. When they picked me up as a child, they would only choose to pick me up if my siblings didn’t want to be picked up. They always had this look of pure loathing in their eyes. Like I was some alien creature, some intruder. A tarnish to their otherwise perfectly Esteemed Government Civil Servant Life in the Republic. They were so ashamed of me and they never hid it.

The FAMILY rises gradually. At this point all of them should already be standing. They leave, clustered together as if conversing and interacting naturally. The doll is forgotten and left onstage.

I hated them because they hated me, and I know they hated me because of my nose. They always talked about my nose. I understood language at an early age, way before anyone knew I could. I was barely walking, and I did not talk. But somehow, I remember I could understand everything.

Eric: Impossible.

Gabby: I swear on the name of the Esteemed Government –

Moderator: #TS0910, you DO NOT USE THE GOVERNMENT'S NAME IN VAIN.

Gabby: I apologize, Moderator.

Eric: We will continue, Moderator. Gabby?

GABBY walks out from her cubicle and sits down next to the doll. She is holding a large pair of scissors. She holds the doll tenderly and as she speaks, she slowly cuts the doll up into pieces.

Gabby: And so, because I could understand everything, by the time I decided to talk, I saw how they tried to mask what they were saying and how they felt. There was this paradigm shift in the way they communicated with on another so that they could “protect” my feelings. But it was futile. I was no idiot. It was painful to witness and unbearable for me as a child. My parents were such hypocrites, and they taught all my siblings to be the same as well. They say the youngest child always gets doted on - but that was not the case for me.

Eric: What happens when they touch you, if you let them or if they had to?

GABBY puts down her scissors and looks up.

Gabby: (Still sitting, demonstrating ramming action as she talks) Initially as a child, when I had the understanding that they were plain hypocrites, I developed a defense mechanism to hold my nose with one hand and ram myself against the wall if they came near me or motioned to carry me or touch me.

Eric: Destructive, you were.

Gabby: Exactly. My parents padded the whole house and would tie me to a chair with my hands behind me if I did that. So I learned that I couldn’t do anything physical. So I just avoided them at all costs.

As she grows increasingly agitated, she begins to rip at the doll, ripping wads of cotton out violently.

But, if they ever brushed me, or touched me, inwardly I would feel like that part of my skin was burning in such pain. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything but the pain. I would roll about the floor for hours, just wailing in agony. Then my father would slap me to make me stop, once, twice, sometimes five or six times. But that would just make it so much worse and I would convulse and wither even more … It was terrible.

Eric: Funny how the one set of people who are supposed to be closest to you in the entire world can hurt you the most, huh?

GABBY leaps to her feet, clutching a remaining arm from the doll, brandishing it in the air.

Gabby: FUCK THAT SHIT. Those very people who’re supposed to love me sent me away to an Institution and they never once visited me. The one time that my Father came was to pay the bill that the GIRO system didn’t transact. Had to pay the Institution in cash. To see if I made any progress, they indicated that he had to shake my hand. (Demonstrating with the doll’s detached arm, almost hysterically) They forced me to shake his hand, Eric!

Eric: And then?

Gabby: I tried to get into the operating theatre in the basement. I wanted to saw my hand off.

She drops the hand, slightly surprised at the mess around her. Slowly, she walks back towards her cubicle.

Eric: But you had your babies by then, right … so you had to keep that hand.

Gabby: (Stopping midway and turning) You bet. But, oh it was painful. I know I will never be cured –

Eric: Moderator? MODERATOR! Isn’t it time for our break?

Moderator: You do not address me unless you are addressed by me first. Your break can commence. I did not stop you because you both were making progress. That is the aim of the program. Break for 3 minutes. We must finish this session. Do not be late in your return.

Lights out.

5.

Moderator: Moderator #3456 reporting, Sir.

Boss (Voice Over): Report on progress of Social Ability Dysfunction cases #910 and #868.

Moderator: These two cases have interacted substantially, Sir. They should be certified as CURED, in a few more sessions.

Boss: Are you sure this is an affirmative?

Moderator: Yes.

Boss: How about your other assignments?

Moderator: They have not made the same progress as the ones you have noted.

Boss: Why?

Moderator: It is my fault, Sir. I will not let this happen again, Sir.

Boss: Moderator #3456, you are reminded that the Esteemed Government is counting on you to make these useless scums useful to society again. Are you forgetting the Code of Fairness and Self-sufficiency? No Person Should Live Off Another Person. No Tax-payer Dollar Unaccounted For or Wasted. No Form of Welfare Shall Persist in the Glorious, Glorious Republic!

Moderator: I have not forgotten the Code of Fairness and Self-sufficiency, Sir! I have recited it from young and hold it dear to my heart, Sir! I apologize for giving you such an impression – it will not happen again. I will be more efficient. For the Esteemed Government, for the Republic.

Boss: It best be the case. You’re not the only one with a boss to report to. Here are your next 200 cases. I have uploaded the files on the server .These are all Stage Advanced cases. Feel free to send them to the Recycler at the slightest hint of insanity. Do you understand?

Moderator: Yes, Sir!

I came across this...

2011-03-04T19:25:00.001+08:00

From http://www.purgatory.net/merits/personality.htm:

Schizoid Personality Disorder
A person who has a detachment from social relationships and a restricted range of emotional expression in interpersonal situations is considered a schizoid personality. This can be verified by four out of seven symptoms. These symptoms are: a loner, always chooses solitary activities; doesn't want or enjoy any close relationships, including family; has very little interest in having sexual experiences with another person; has no close friends except for immediate family; demonstrates emotional coldness and detachment; takes enjoyment in very few activities; and appears indifferent to what others think of him/her.

Holy crap, that is so me. Oh, my gosh. I have a personality disorder.

Play - Art Therapy

2011-03-04T14:27:00.008+08:00

[Leigh: girl suffering from schizophrenia
Jared: partially amnesiac boy who hates musicals
Flynn: effeminate boy who likes to think he is the star of every play he creates in his head]

A stale room reeking of air freshener. A ring of chairs in the middle of the room. LEIGH, JARED and FLYNN are the only ones who have arrived.
Jared Just so we’re clear, I’m not here because I’m crazy, okay?
Flynn Oh, but we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad. You wouldn’t have come here if you weren’t.
Leigh Alice in Wonderland.
Flynn (beams) Spot on, girl.
Jared (mutters) Great. Therapy session with Disney fanatics. This must be a first.
Flynn First off, Alice in Wonderland is not a Disney original. Disney adapted the story from Lewis Carroll. You get me, sugar? Secondly, (leans closer) what’s a treat like you doing in therapy, anyway?
Jared (backing away) I’m here under court orders. Not that this is any of your business. Now, let me introduce you to my friend, Personal Space. You can’t see her, but she’s right here (pushes FLYNN away from him).
Flynn Oh, don’t be shy. We’re all in the same boat here.
Jared (with reluctant interest) You’re here under court orders too?
Flynn Well, no. But I’m here for (drops voice to a whisper) research.
Jared (frowning) Research?
Flynn For my next character, see? I’m playing a hapless young pianist who loses his memory after a car accident, the poor soul, and is trying to sift through the discordant symphony in his mind to retrieve his identity. Although, if you ask me, I’d say he’s being a little melodramatic. Losing your memory isn’t that horrible. It’s like how an actor becomes a blank slate every time he is cast in a new role.
Jared (snaps) You think losing your memory isn’t that horrible?
Flynn Well, who needs them? We should all cleanse ourselves of unpleasant memories once in a while.
Jared What about the happy ones, if any?
Flynn Then you make more of them.
Jared But what is the point if you’re going to lose them later?
Flynn Exactly why you keep making new ones! You see my point now, sugar? Took you a little long, but that’s okay. You look so cute when you’re confused. (Giggles)
JARED decides he has had enough of FLYNN and turns to LEIGH, who is staring out the window behind her. Sunlight makes her auburn hair glow a vibrant red.
Jared What are you here for, then?
Leigh (not turning around) Look how the sunlight illuminates each speck of dust. Look how each speck dances. They all look the same to us, don’t they?
Jared Um. I guess…?
Leigh Sameness is the same to those who are different, but only the same difference will be different to those who are the same.
Jared (mutters) Nutjobs. I’m stuck here with a bunch of nutjobs. Delightful.
Flynn (tugs on JARED’s t-shirt) She’s boring, leave her be. I, though, I could make a song about you. What’s your name?
Jared Names give other people power over you.
Flynn (tearing up) That’s lovely. Who told you that? Well, I’ll call you the Trojan Warrior, then.

Jared What? No!
Flynn What’s wrong with that? Listen to this, it’s impromptu. I’m rather good at making up songs impromptu. Oh, look how the mighty Trojan Warrior walks / With his tail up high and brandishing his sword. / With his pretty hair and his brawny chest / Oh, have you ever witnessed such a lovely fest!
Jared Will you stop singing!
Flynn Sure. Whatever you say, Trojan Warrior.
Jared (agitated) I am not Trojan Warrior! Stop calling me that. The name’s Jared, okay?
Flynn (grins) Jared it is, then. We could’ve spared ourselves all that if you’d just given me your name.
He prepares to launch into a new song about JARED when the therapist walks in. JARED looks relieved, FLYNN annoyed, while LEIGH continues staring out the window.
Dr York Ah. I see we’re all starting to get acquainted. Don’t let me interrupt –
Jared Please do.
Flynn Oh, he’s shy. (Reaches over for his hair) The sweet thing.
JARED flinches and backs away.
Dr York (gaze flicks between JARED and FLYNN) Right, well then. I’m glad you came, Jared. I was a little worried you wouldn’t, given your condition. And as for you, Flynn, I see you’ve extended your … affectionate welcome to your peer. And … (trails off as he looks at LEIGH) Leigh? Are you here with us? (He gets no response.)
Jared (through clenched teeth) Let’s just get this over with.
Dr York (consults his list) Certainly. We just have to wait for one more friend to arrive before we proceed.
Jared You mean there’s one more crazy person joining this suck-fest? Is the world over-run with nutjobs these days?
Drew Melodrama becomes you, Jared.
DREW enters the room and takes a seat next to DR YORK.
Jared (in surprise) What are you doing here?
Drew I’m here as his assistant. An intern.
Jared The irony is dancing right in front of you. (Gestures to somewhere on DREW’s right) Right there. See it?
Drew I forgot how precious your humour can be.
Dr York Now, boys. Drew’s stint here is history, but a person’s history can influence his future. I’d say Drew’s doing well now, wouldn’t you, Jared?
Jared (rolls eyes) Spare me the chipper attitude. We’ve got Happy here for that already. (Gestures to FLYNN)
Flynn I’m acknowledged! (Claps hands) It’s nice to hear you referring to me in such a positive light, Warrior.
JARED shoots him a venomous look.
Flynn My, look who’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
Dr York Right. Let’s get started. Why don’t we share something about ourselves and talk about how we’re feeling today? Leigh, ladies first.
Leigh (turns around and stares at the floor) …
Dr York Maybe we’re all feeling a little shy now. Don’t worry, take your time. Here, we don’t judge, we only listen and share.
LEIGH is still hesitant.
Flynn Oh, come on, sister. (Wraps an arm around LEIGH) We’re all family here. No secrets, no betrayal, only love, no fear! I’m Flynn. In my free time, I like horse-riding, reading plays, singing and rehearsing for my performances. Also, I adore the colour of your hair, and I think it’s time for me to get a haircut. I’m growing tired of this shaggy look. So 2010, don’t you think?
Dr York Excellent! Now, Flynn has offered us a good start. Now, why don’t you give it a try, Jared?
Jared (glaring at DR YORK) Why don’t I just walk out right now, Dr York? You told me this is a legitimate form of therapy. How is sitting around in a circle talking about sharing and big love a legitimate form of therapy? I didn’t sign up for this.
Flynn You’re grumpy. Here, let me give you a song: Once there was a man called Grumpy / Who didn’t like his therapist. / He stomped around with his brows knitted close / And let everyone eat his fist.
Drew (smirks) What do you know, the guy’s a poet!
Flynn (bows) Thank you. One must learn to be spontaneous if he wants to make it big on stage. Come on, everyone! Try it with me. You can be male-lead quality like me if you practice hard enough!
Leigh There once lived a lovely princess / In the darkest wood up on the hill. / She danced to the full moon and the beastly sea, / And grew roses on her windowsill. / But she battered the air with her lovelorn sighs / And stained the warm earth with her blood. / She wanted to be free of the pretty monsters / that, in her dreams, come out to play. / Her castle was a steely prison with bones for bars; / She could not tear away. / So under the swollen moon on her eighteenth birthday / She lay quietly in wait. / And beneath the eye of the star-strewn heavens / She threw herself off the cliff, towards the sea’s embrace.
A beat of silence. DR YORK scribbles something in his notebook.
Jared Wow. That is one messed up chick.
DR YORK sends him a look.
Jared I mean, a mentally distressed girl. Whatever.
Dr York Thank you, Leigh. Did you compose that yourself?
Leigh My mother used to sing that to me and my sister when we were young.
Jared No wonder you ended up here.
Dr York (sternly) Jared, your turn now.
Jared Look, I’m not going to break out in song, so don’t hold your breath. (To LEIGH and FLYNN) Basically, I’m here because Dr York thinks I’m doing well enough to attend group therapy sessions as opposed to one-to-ones. But well enough compared to what, I’m not too sure, seeing as how I remember shit about what happened before….
DR YORK and DREW share a dark look.
Flynn So you’re an amnesiac? How come you remember how to talk, then? Or form a sentence?

Jared I’m a partial amnesiac, not a moron.
Flynn Well, you don’t even know why you’re here. At least I have a purpose here. A good actor does his homework. This therapy session is for me to get an insight on how crazy people behave.
Jared (bristling) You just said we’d all have to be mad to be here! That includes you.
Dr York (loudly over the squabble) I have a stack of cards here (waves cards) and I want all of you to throw out the first thing that comes to mind when you see it –
Jared The Rorschach test? Please. Haven’t you already worked that crap on me?
Drew Obsolete methods, Yorkie. As an intern and an ex-patient of yours, I’d expect more from you.
Dr York I’m not finished yet. Your medium of response has to be the one with which you best express yourself. Jared, you’re an artist, so I’d like to see you draw. Flynn, you –
Flynn I can sing. (Breaks into a rendition of Mariah Carey’s Without You) I can’t liiiive / If living is without youuuu –
Jared (covers ears) Holy crap, make him stop!
Dr York (sighs) As long as it’s an original work, Flynn. And Leigh, you can write. There is no time limit for this, so take as long as you wish, as long as I get to enjoy your masterpiece at the end of this session. Now, with each card I flash at random intervals, you can choose to string your work into story or compound it to your first creation.
After passing out pencil and paper to LEIGH and JARED, DR YORK flashes the first card of a monarch butterfly.
Flynn (starts to sing Miley Cyrus’s Butterfly Fly Away) Butterflyyy, butterflyyy, butterfly fly away…
Jared (snaps) He said original work, idiot. (To Dr York) And I can’t focus with him wailing in my ear.
Flynn You don’t play very nice with others, do you?
Jared I don’t play with others, period.
Flynn (pulls a sympathetic face) Did losing your memory make you this way, my pet? (Sings to the tune of Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl) Do you see him go / He treads down the hallway / He walks real slow / Trying to find his way / Try to find his way home hey, hey / Like a lost alley cat / Without milk or cuddles he / cries for some love he is / My amnesiac boy / You my amnesiac boy.
Drew (looks impressed) He’s good. Did you come up with that spontaneously?
Flynn (beaming) Now there’s someone who can appreciate talent when he sees it. What’s your name again? Dylan?
Drew Um…
Dr York Maybe you’d like to pen down the song before you, um, display your vocals to us, Flynn. Now, for the second card.
He flashes a second card of a flame in the dark. LEIGH drops her pencil when she sees that. Everyone stares at her as she begins to tremble visibly.
Flynn (channels Blue Oyster Cult, oblivious to LEIGH) Fire of unknown origin / Took my baby away –
Dr York Leigh? Are you okay?
Flynn I think she’s going into anaphylactic shock.
Jared Do you even know what anaphylactic shock is?
Flynn Do you?
Dr York Children. Please. Leigh? Is there anything you wish to share?
Leigh (in agitation) You know something, don’t you? You know something. And you’re not telling me.
Jared I think you may need to sedate her, Dr York.
Flynn Ah, just another day in the nuthouse. (Leans back to watch the show)
Jared Are you being a dick to compensate for your lack of it?
Dr York Leigh, if this is too stressful for you, we’ll move on to the third card. If you find it difficult to voice your distress, you can express that in your writing. The idea is to keep your fingers moving in time with your thoughts. Let your words mirror everything that is running through your mind.
Flynn (starts to sing – again) Something’s getting in the way, / Something’s just about to break. / I will try to find my place / In the di-a-ry of Jane.
Jared (glares at him) Inappropriate and inaccurate. Her name isn’t even Jane.
Dr York (sharply) The second card, everyone.
He hands FLYNN a pencil and paper, and they get back to work. FLYNN hums under his breath while JARED works with a finger in his ear. DREW and DR YORK share a private conversation.
Drew I still can’t believe he clean forgot all that’s happened.
Dr York I told you before, it’s his brain’s instinctual reaction to the trauma. It’s not uncommon. But he’s showing good progress. Amnesia aside, I’d say he’s actually behaving like a normal teenage boy.
Drew And when – if – he remembers?
Dr York Then we shall deal with that accordingly. (Addresses the group) Ready for the last card? (Flashes the last card, one of a blood-stained carpet, and watches each of them closely for their immediate reaction)
JARED stiffens noticeably.
Dr York Problem, Jared?
Jared (collects himself) Shock tactic, Dr York? I appreciate the effort, but (shakes his head) nothing, nada.
Dr York But why do you think you might have a reaction to this particular picture?
Jared You’re the therapist. Give me some answers. (Turns to DREW) And I bet you know something too. I’ve known for a long time you two are keeping something from me.
Flynn Are you going to turn psychotic like her too (jabs finger in LEIGH’s direction. LEIGH does not notice)? I didn’t know you had a knack for drama.
Jared Shut up, choir boy. (Turns back to DR YORK and DREW) Look, I’m tired of guessing and second-guessing about my past.
Dr York If you can’t remember, it means your mind isn’t ready quite ready for you to handle the memory yet. I’ve said before that you have to come to terms with it on your own, at your own time; I can only prod you along.
Flynn (sniggering) Prod.
Jared So my past involves a blood-stained carpet? That sure is a whole lot to go on.
Dr York It will come to you. When you are ready. Be patient.
Flynn Does anyone want to hear my songs, or not? I have to go for a casting in (checks watch) fifteen minutes.
Jared (takes a peek) Your watch doesn’t even work!
Flynn Doesn’t it? I must have forgotten the jam.
Leigh Alice in Wonderland.
Flynn Right again, sister. (Winks)
Jared (to DR YORK) Seriously? You think I belong here with these people?
Dr York Be patient. You just need some time to get used to all this. (Smiles.)
Blackout.

So the above is the play that I received less-than-warm reviews for three weeks ago in playwriting class. You see, we were supposed to write a musical comedy. My first thought was, Right, well I'm screwed, seeing as how I'm completely not a musical person, much less a musical comedy. I don't know. There's just something that creeps me out about musicals/musical comedies, maybe because they just seem so detached from reality, like everyone in there lives in a parallel universe where people spontaneously burst into song and dance and are inherently chirpy all the time and have to translate their words into song. I don't watch Glee (I'm relieved to say I am an un-Gleek), and I gave Hairspray a miss. Save for The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins and My Fair Lady (because they're beautiful classics and everyone should watch them) and The Phantom of the Opera (because it's dark and romantic) and half of High School Musical (I decided to spare myself the rest of the torture), my encounter with musicals ends there. Suffice to say this isn't a genre over which I wet my pants with excitement.

It turns out that this play completely missed the essence of a musical. It hardly feels like one at all. Huzir said that the characters were just singing for the sake of it (no, he didn't put it that bluntly - that's just my interpretation), and the only song that seemed to contribute anything to the musical aspect of the play was Leigh's song (yes, it is an original piece, in case you were wondering). Were it not in that week's requirement to come up with a musical, this play might have worked. But factor in the requirements, I totally missed it.

And you know, after listening to what the others have come up with - some even brought their guitars and sang self-composed songs (thanks, Nick! lovely compositions, but talk about spoiling the market) - I understood that, unlike mine, theirs did convey the mood of musical comedies.

Oh well. I was beating myself up after that not because I failed to write a proper musical comedy, but because I was trying so hard to explain my play and failing to let the others feel about my play the way I do. Retrospectively, I can't help but cringe at my desperation. THAT was what was chewing at me for the rest of the day afterwards.

But, you know, as many writers say, real writers face their failures and work through them. Since writing's an act of constant experimentation, failures only attest to your persistence. If you've never written badly before, you've never really written anything because you're too safe. Besides, if you don't fail, this writing thing would be too easy, and then where's the fun in that?

So I shelved this episode in the back of my mind, took away what I could from it, and worked on the next assignment: a group play. Till next post!

2011-02-24T11:31:00.001+08:00

Erica Orloff churns out invaluable writing advice like a fan: A Writer's Life (23 Jan 2011):

To write . . . you have to live. Loudly, I think.

And that I do.

When I speak at schools and kids ask for advice on what they should do if they want to become a writer, I usually impart three pieces of so-called wisdom.

Read everything you can get your hands on.

Be intellectually curious.

Get out there and live loud . . . have experiences.

2011-02-24T11:29:00.002+08:00

And another one from Erica Orloff's blog: Why Do You Do This? (3 Feb 2011):

Here's the thing . . . writing isn't easy. Not if you want to do it well. It's not break-your-back work. It's not life-or-death, oh-so-important work. It's not braving frontiers in space or science. But it isn't something you master. Ever. I mean some professions, you go to college, you earn a degree, you go out and make your living at it. There might be updates to accounting codes, or changes in technology, things do change, but you learn the new changes and you master then and on you go.

Not so with writing. You never master it. And it generally takes years of pounding out words to learn to do it passably well.

And on top of that, instead of having one boss, if you publish your work, anyone in the entire world who buys your book (and even those who don't) can have an opinion on it. A public opinion. Some won't even be polite about it.

And on top of that, you have to produce something. Three hundred pages of "something." And even THAT isn't enough because you will critique it to death, and fuss over it, and make multiple drafts. You will rip it apart and put it back together again. And you still won't be happy with it. Not really. Once you think it's done, you will kick yourself for all the ways in which it could be better.

So the question remains. Why do you do this? Why do I do this? Head, meet desk.

Except . . . I have the galleys for Magickeepers III on my computer up there. And Mr. Fed Ex brought me the hardcover Spanish-language translation for Magickeepers I yesterday.

And I am reminded.

Yes. This is why I do this.

That and getting to work in my pjs.

2011-02-24T11:24:00.001+08:00

From writer Erica Orloff's blog (7 Feb 2011): Simple. Not Easy.

Rules for living. All I really need to know, I learned in kindergarten. Simple little book and rules ... here are a few:

• Play fair.
• Don't hit people.
• Put things back where you found them.
• Clean up your own mess.
• Don't take things that aren't yours.
• Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.

Frankly, that sounds an awful lot like Be Kind. Simple enough rules for living. When you mess up, say you're sorry. Does it mean it will be EASY or FUN to say sorry? Nope, but no one asked you about that. That's not the rule. The rule is you simply CLEAN UP YOUR MESS and EASE THE HURT. I tell my kids this. Oldest Son pointed out something about a place he visited on Sunday, and I responded, "When people don't live by simple rules, they pay the price. It's not rocket science. You screw up, you fix it." But people don't.

Life isn't complicated. People make it that way. Life is HARD. It's not easy. But it is not complicated. Be Kind. Simple. Right?

So I was thinking . . . what are the simple rules for being a writer? Here are a few of mine.

• Read. A lot.
• Be open. To reading. To intellectual curiosity. To reading something in a genre you never tried. To criticism. (Not easy. But simple!)
• Share. Your wisdom. If asked. Not before. Look, writers are kind of like a big club. Social networking has made it more so. You've worked your craft for 10 years, 20 years, share what you've learned if someone asks. Help each other be better writers.
• Shut up. If you're not asked. Simple. No one likes a blowhard.
• Be kind. Yeah. Sort of sounds like my rules for life, but really, pointing out again about social networking, the world is a much smaller place in many ways. There are a few writers who have burned bridges, and maybe that's fine for them, but really? Do you HAVE to be such an ass? Is it that HARD to just be decent about things? Criticize if you must. Debate fiercely even. But at the end of the day, can you just not pick a fight about every. Little. Thing. Be nice to your fellow writers, editors, agents. Most aren't the enemy as people.
• Work hard. Don't sell your work short. Self-pubbing is fine, but NOT (in my own opinion) without spending the time really working your craft. Come on. Dig deep. Learning this craft takes humility and hard work and really, really working it to get to a reasonable level of professionalism. Set your sights high. I don't mean in terms of a million-dollar advance. I mean in terms of sitting back and exhaling and saying, "Wow ... you know, this is really pretty good!"
• Don't forget to peek your head out of your cave once in a while. Take care of yourself. I'm working on this one this year.
• There has to be a rule about coffee. There's some corollary or axiom there, but I'm on cup #2 today and still not sure what it is.
• Remember, writing is SIMPLE. I mean most everyone can do it. But to be good, it's not EASY.

2011-02-19T18:20:00.004+08:00

I went for the All In! Young Writers Seminar today, 10am to 5pm. It's organised by the National Arts Council, the National Library Board and NUS's Literary Society, open to undergrads, junior college and polytechnic students.

It was surprisingly helpful, what with all the talks by publishing professionals and writers. Granted, they're local writers and are not as well known and the scale of the event isn't as big as it would be in, say, the UK or the States. But it's heartening to see the NAC organising this for free for young aspiring writers in Singapore.

The few talks today posed a few questions that are really fundamental questions, but I found myself having to consider them for a moment before coming up with an answer:

Why do you want to write? What do you invest in your writing?

And there were talks on the pros and cons of self-publishing and traditional publishing. And the figures they provided are staggering! In recent years, several chain bookstores from the UK and the States have returned to becoming local independent bookstores and Borders USA is even starting to liquidate its assets this year and just declared itself bankrupt on Wednesday. Plus, in 2009, the percentage of self-published books was more than 50% and by 2010, 76% of books are self-published. I've always believed in going the traditional route, but it's irrefutable that the odds are against us writers. There are millions of people aspiring to be writers, but all of us have to get through the gate-keepers of publishing in order to see our books on the shelves.

But the current trend of ebooks is such that it doesn't have to be that difficult to publish your book anymore. Amazon.com offers ways to publish your book, along with many other companies.
But there is always the perception that the self-publication route is for those who aren't good enough to be picked up by literary agents and publishers. Plus, to self-publish, you'd have to engage a professional editor, cover art designer, and take on all the marketing and promotion on your own. Granted, you can earn more per book if you self publish (if you go the traditional publishing way, you only earn about 10 to 15% of the royalties, while the rest goes to the distributors and publishing house), but you need to build a really extensive platform that will support your book. Publishing houses - good ones like Little, Brown or Simon&Schuster or HarperCollins, etc - will help to wrestle film rights and market your books thoroughly, milk it for all its worth. By going the self-publishing way, chances are your readership following is smaller and promotional activities aren't as grand.

I guess it seems obvious I'm still sticking by the traditional publishing route. My friend (met her today at the seminar, really nice fourth-year from NIE called Eleanor) asked me why I don't self-publish. Apart from all the cons I listed above (that I know of), there's also the less practical reason of satisfaction. It simply feels more satisfying to have an agent pick up your book, champion it because they love it, and help you pitch it to publishing houses.

Anyway, what I got from today's seminar - apart from all the wonderful industry information and a new friend - was a new career goal. I want to work at the National Arts Council after graduation. Or the National Library Board. I want to help develop the literary arts sphere in Singapore, develop a community that is passionate about books, reading and writing. Sounds noble, sounds idealistic, but come on, I only just got this notion. Don't shoot it down just yet, will you? It's nice to finally have something to look forward to after graduation.

Play - Prince

2011-02-18T10:12:00.005+08:00

[Ethan “Prince” Wane: narcissistic guitarist/lead (tenor) singer of a pop idol group, wants to break away from being a teenybopper and become a real rock star
Chloe: agoraphobic antisocial girl with absent parents
Sawyer: guitarist/baritone singer of band; sees Prince as his closest rival
Jon: keyboardist, quietest of the group, but very observant; often makes critical but shrewd remarks
Hesse: bassist, Jon’s older brother, loud and loves a party atmosphere, often the one who resolves any conflict between Prince and Sawyer]

A garage with music equipment set up. SAWYER, JON and HESSE seated around a makeshift plastic table, waiting for PRINCE to arrive.
Sawyer I thought he’s living with you guys now.
Hesse Staying.
Sawyer Living, staying, whatever – what’s the difference?
Jon The difference is that it’s not permanent.
Sawyer You mean staying?
Hesse That’s what I said.
Sawyer So since he’s staying with you guys, where the hell is he? Still rolling his pretty ass out of bed?
Hesse His shaver broke. He went out to the store. Said he’ll be back in ten.
Sawyer So we’re going to sit here and wait for him to primp himself up? Damn, I should’ve brought my makeup kit along.
Hesse You know it’s been harder for him to get around lately. What with the paparazzi and all.
Sawyer By getting around, you mean… (Raises brows)
Hesse (rolling his eyes) You know Prince isn’t like that. He’s ridiculously devoted. I don’t think he’s ever even gotten over Heather ditching his ass for that prick. Which is why I can’t understand those headlines. It’s not like him to do anything of that sort.
Sawyer But it is just like him to get himself into all that mess. He’s too nice to those fans. Girls throw themselves at him and he’s all, (feigns a prissy attitude) Oh hello, thank you for your support. I know you love me. A photo? Sure, why ever not?
Garage shutters roll up. Enter PRINCE, with CHLOE in tow.
Prince Did I just hear you guys talking about me? (Takes off mask and smirks) I might blush.
Hesse Yeah, okay. You got your grand entrance. Now let’s jam.
Prince I spent fifteen minutes shaking off the paps. Give me a second to take a breather, will you? I need to shave. It’s bad enough walking around with a half-shaven face. Good thing no one saw me with this thing on. (Gestures to mask)
Sawyer We’re at band practice. Why do you need to shave before band practice? And this whole problem with the paps wouldn’t have been a problem if… (Trails off as he spots CHLOE) Well, hello, beautiful.
Jon (staring at CHLOE) And this is…?
Prince Oh. This is Chloe, my new assistant. She lives just next door. (Looks at the brothers) Your neighbour for all these years and you don’t remember her face?
An awkward pause.
Prince Chloe, meet Sawyer (gestures to him), Jon and Hesse. They’re my band-mates.
HESSE waves while CHLOE nods in acknowledgement. JON levels her with a stare.
Sawyer (extends a hand but withdraws it when CHLOE does not reciprocate) Please to meet you, beautiful.
Hesse What happened to Keith?
Prince Oh, he was pathetic. One little media storm and he quit. Said the paparazzi are driving him nuts. Besides, he was boring. Never took any initiative, unless I prompted him –
Sawyer You mean he’s never commended Your Royal Hotness before.
Prince Besides (drops voice to a whisper) I think he was in love with me.
CHLOE rolls her eyes.
Prince I can’t trust him to be objective if he’s in love with me. I need to have a purely professional relationship with my assistant.
Hesse And so you went and got a female assistant? Of … (assesses CHLOE) our age? Are you trying to drive the paps delirious? They’ll go wild when they find out.
Prince Don’t worry, I’ve already made sure she won’t fall for me. Chloe doesn’t get out much; she didn’t even know who I was! (Laughs) Girls like her are so rare, don’t you think? Besides, I intend to keep her a secret. No one but you guys knows about her. Plus, it’s easier having someone who doesn’t know anything about us around. Nobody will sell us out – sell me out – you see. (Grins to ensuing silence) I know, sometimes my genius scares me too.
Jon And you think she won’t sell you out? How do you know for sure she doesn’t know who we are?
Prince I know. It’s hard to believe she doesn’t know who Highway Heaven is. It’s like she lives under a rock. But if she is, then we’re living right next to that rock. (Looks at the brothers)
Sawyer Staying.
Prince But she’s the real deal. And don’t worry, I made her promise not to fall in love with me. (Winks)
Sawyer (sidling up to CHLOE) But that doesn’t include us, right? You didn’t promise not to fall in love with the rest of us?
CHLOE shrugs off SAWYER’s arm.
Prince I think she’s allergic to boys or something. Good-looking boys, that is. So you might have more of a chance than I do, Sawyer.
Sawyer Screw you.
Prince Sorry, I don’t swing that way.
Jon What’s in it for her then, being your assistant? (Folds arms) If she’s not into you, or any of us, then why would she volunteer to be your assistant for nothing?
Chloe First off –
Hesse It talks!
Chloe I didn’t volunteer to be his assistant. (Glares at PRINCE) He practically forced me into it. I barely even agreed –
Prince Aw, don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Must be the shock of meeting me in the flesh. You know how they can get.
Chloe And, I’m not going to be his assistant for nothing. It’s because I….
Sawyer What is it, beautiful? No need to be shy around us.
Chloe I….
Prince Oh, come on. There’s nothing wrong with being broke. I was poor too before I shot to mega-stardom. Her parents totally forgot about her living here on her own. She was living on cup noodles and a table lamp when I found her. I’m just giving her a job. It’s a win-win situation. (Pauses) I’ve always wanted to use that phrase.
Jon So she’s with you for your money.
Hesse Oh, come on, Jon. (To CHLOE) Sorry, he gets like that. You can’t find anyone more cynical than my brother.
Sawyer So how did you find her?
Prince (Nudges CHLOE) Tell him, honey. Tell him how Fate brought us together and how our insignificant lives – well, your insignificant life – collided with the glorious, dazzling impact of a supernova.
Hesse Careful, Ethan. You’re flirting.
Prince The name is Prince. And oh, don’t worry. She’s hormonally challenged. These homebodies, they stay at home all day talking to their dolls or reading their fantasy novels. They couldn’t respond to a come-on if it stuck a hotdog in their mouths.
Groans erupt all around.
Sawyer Sorry, beautiful. He can be quite a dick sometimes. I would never contaminate my language with such vulgar imagery.
Chloe That’s okay. The words a person says determines his intellect. There’s no point contending with a person like him.
Hesse (laughing) Looks like you’ve hired yourself a little fireball, Prince.
Jon Can we get down to business already? My keys are turning rusty. (Plays a quick short tune on his keyboard)
Prince But I’m not done shaving yet! (Rubs face) I can’t jam without a smooth face.
Hesse Yeah, yeah. You’re still pretty, okay? (To CHLOE) Make yourself comfortable, Chloe. And give us some feedback, will you? We’re working on something right now that sounds … lacking, for some reason.
PRINCE sulkily gets his guitar plugged and everyone gets ready.
Prince (murmurs into the microphone in a sexy baritone) It’s called ‘Paper Bombs’.
They launch into a number that involves heavy drumbeats and a mash of screaming guitars. The song ends with a final riff of the guitar.
Hesse (to CHLOE) How was it?
Chloe (nods) Pretty good.
Prince Pretty good? Pretty good? That’s all you can say?
Chloe What do you want me to say?
Prince After all we’ve put into performing it, you could at least give us a scream. Or make an impromptu banner. Or if even all that’s too taxing, you could at least clap.
Chloe I’m not a groupie. I’m an audience.
Prince You’re a horrible audience.
Chloe Is that how you speak to your audience? Every audience is a potential fan.
Hesse She sounds scarily like Ben.
Chloe Who’s Ben?
Hesse Our manager.
Prince You know what? Let’s do this again. I don’t care. (To CHLOE) You, as my assistant, are going to tell me what the problem is.
They perform ‘Paper Bombs’ again.
Prince Well?
Chloe Maybe it’s because I’m not a fan of all this metal, but I really think there’s too much guitar screaming around. And the drumbeats. It’s distracting and makes the song sound too generic. It takes away the power of the lyrics. It might be better if it were acoustic. (Shrugs) But that’s just my opinion.
Silence fills the garage.
Sawyer You really think so?
Hesse (considering) Might work. It’s worth giving a shot.
Prince Wait a minute. Just – wait a minute. (Turns to CHLOE) Acoustic? Are you kidding me? This song is all about the power. I’m trying to make a statement with the lyrics. The metal is to draw out the rawness of the heartbreak when the girl dumps the guy through a series of letters. And you’re telling me we should go acoustic?
Chloe You wanted my opinion.
Prince I didn’t need that.
Chloe Oh, you mean my criticism?
Prince No, I mean your unprofessional take on a song I put my heart and soul into. We put our heart and soul into.
Chloe I never claimed to be a professional. I’m just an assistant.
Sawyer I thought you said you haven’t agreed to it yet.
Prince Who wants an assistant like her?
Hesse (warningly) Prince. You’ve only just fired Keith. Walk it off.
Sawyer (to CHLOE) If you decide not to work for Prince, there’s always me. I’m a whole lot nicer, I promise. Plus, I’ll pay you double.
Prince Shut up, Sawyer. She’s my assistant. Besides, you know I need an assistant more than you do.
Sawyer What’s that supposed to mean?
Hesse Oh, come on, guys. Don’t do this.
Prince We all know I’m the Paul McCartney of this band. I can’t help it if everyone pays more attention to me, Sawyer, but you seem to think I’m stealing something from you.
SAWYER punches PRINCE across the face.
Prince (cries) Not the face! Not the face! My cheekbone! (To no one in particular) Is it dented? Am I still pretty? (Grabs CHLOE by the shoulders and shaking her) Am I?
Chloe You need to shut up and calm the hell down.
Sawyer (to PRINCE) You arrogant little bastard. I’ll make it bigger than you. And when that time comes, you’ll be begging me for an autograph to sell on eBay because you can’t afford the rent in that fancy-ass suite of yours.
Hesse Sawyer, come on. You know Prince. He doesn’t mean –
Sawyer Enough with the Prince thing already. His name is Ethan. If he can be a prince, I can be a duke or something.
JON starts playing a piece on his keyboard. The notes start out quiet, so that no one hears it at first. Gradually, it builds up into a strong melody that silences everyone. When it ends, everyone is staring at JON.
Jon We started out as a rock band. With a dream to share our music with the world. But what we are is a pop idol group. And we agreed to see that as just a platform, a stepping stone to what we really want, to become rock stars. Why the hell are you two fighting over who has more girls screaming over him?
PRINCE and SAWYER fidget in shame.
Hesse Yeah. Have a break, have a KitKat, or whatever. (Opens the mini fridge and pulling out a jumbo packet of chocolate) Sit. (Distributes chocolate all around) Now eat.
As everyone munches absently on chocolate, PRINCE pulls out a mini mirror from his back pocket and checks his face for damage.
Sawyer Look, I’m sorry about … (gestures to PRINCE’s face) you know. You’re still pretty, all right?
Prince I know. And I didn’t mean what I said. I mean, I am more popular than you, but it’s not like it matters. You know why I started out with this anyway; I didn’t mean to compete with anyone.
Sawyer (nodding) Have you settled all the debts at home?
PRINCE shakes his head.
Hesse But your mom said….
Prince What my mom doesn’t know won’t kill her. I told her I’ve settled everything.
Hesse Don’t you think she’ll find out somehow? And does she know about the tabloids?
Prince She collects every snippet of news about me. How can she not know? She’s been choking up my voicemail ever since.
Jon You can’t keep avoiding her. And you know, having her (gestures to CHLOE) around will only complicate things further.
Hesse Plus, Ben would never allow that. You’re his fattest cash cow –
Prince I’m fat?
He pulls off t-shirt to reveal his fine physique. CHLOE blushes furiously.
Sawyer Put that away, jeez! Are you trying to give us sore eyes?
Prince (to HESSE) Fat? Is this fat to you? (Flexes his abs and biceps) I keep this body in tiptop condition at all times, FYI. I’m a sight for sore eyes. (To CHLOE) Aren’t I?
Chloe (still blushing) …
SAWYER, HESSE and JON roll their eyes.
Hesse Okay, okay. I take that back, okay? Now will you stop exhibiting yourself to us?
Prince (pulling his t-shirt back on) One thing at a time. First, no one is going to mention her to Ben. As soon as this whole thing with the paps blows over, we’ll all be too busy with the concerts for Ben to care about some assistant of mine. And as for my mom, that’s a distant problem we don’t have to worry about as long as I’m still raking in the money.
Jon But I don’t think that’s going to be a distant problem.
Prince You’re right. Of course it isn’t. It isn’t even a problem at all.
Jon No, I mean it’s more immediate than you think.
Prince … Why?
Hesse Well. Because she called. (Waves PRINCE’s cellphone) While you were out. Says she’s coming over. She’s on the next flight in from Greece.
Deathly silence creeps in.
Prince You couldn’t find a spare second to mention that earlier? Holy shit, Hesse! Holy freaking shit! My mom’s flying over? Dammit, Hesse! Dammit!
Hesse Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.
CHLOE goes over to PRINCE and slaps him.
Prince (screams) NOT THE FACE!
Chloe You’re sort of hysterical.
Prince Well, yeah, of course I am. My mother’s coming over!
Chloe And that’s … bad?
Hesse The last time his mother came over, she meddled so much Highway Heaven almost lost our contract with the record company. She means well, the sweet lady, but….
Prince (stares at CHLOE) We need to hide her. Now. My mom can’t see her!
Chloe What? I thought you said she’s not a problem!
Prince That was before I knew she’s flying over. (Grabs CHLOE’s hand and drags her to ) Rope. We need rope. Tie her up so she won’t leave this garage. Rope! Get me some rope!
Chloe You’re crazy! (Tears out of the garage)
Sawyer Beautiful! Don’t go! Aw, man. (Turns to PRINCE) Look what you did, assbag.
Hesse (stares after CHLOE) I think you just lost your assistant the same day you got her. What a record.
Blackout.

Play - The Missing Year

2011-02-11T18:33:00.003+08:00

1.

A small shop selling precious stones accessories. DREW, AUNT HELEN AND SKYE are manning the shop. AUNT HELEN hands DREW a cream-coloured envelope.

Drew What’s this? A wedding invitation?

Aunt Helen It’s your mother’s birthday, you ingrate. Next Wednesday. You have to be there.

Drew Not without good reason.

Skye You’re her son. How’s that for a reason?

AUNT HELEN beams at her.

Drew Whose side are you on? (To AUNT HELEN) I didn’t attend last year. (Shrugs) Don’t see what difference it’ll make.

Aunt Helen (darkly) Last year was an exception and you know it.

A beat of silence.

Aunt Helen She wants to know how many guests you’re bringing.

Drew Funny how she always makes you the middle-woman. Can’t she bear to hear the sound of my voice?

Aunt Helen Would you have picked up her calls?

Drew (considers that) Fair point.

Aunt Helen It’s one thing to move out of her house, and another to ignore her calls and not even attend her birthday party.

Drew I just don’t understand why she wants me there. She’s just making us part of her plans to boost her PR image. You know, family and warm and shit. You realise this birthday party is just an excuse for her to network and get more people on board her plan for global hotel-chain domination.

Aunt Helen Drew. Enough already. (Turns to SKYE) I’m sorry you have to hear this. He gets like that when it comes to his mother.

Drew Fine. I’m bringing Skye, then. Happy?

Skye Why me?

Drew Because if I have to be paraded around on her birthday, I’ll need all the backup I can get. I’d really appreciate it if you could come.

Skye All right. Don’t bat your eyelashes at me. I’ll go, okay?

DREW leaves the shop. SKYE and AUNT HELEN watch his retreating back.

Aunt Helen If I didn’t know better, I’d say he got even more screwed up after leaving the sanatorium.

Blackout.

2.

A grand living room, carpeted and ornate. A huge chandelier hangs over the milling crowd. Enter DREW, AUNT HELEN AND SKYE.

Skye Remind me again why I’m standing here with you, looking like an idiot?

Drew Because I don’t want to look like an idiot alone. (Squirms in suit)

Skye Oh, that’s nice. You’re welcome, then. (Looks around at the well-dressed crowd) Seriously, I cannot believe you own all this.

Drew I don’t. My mother owns them.

Skye Which means you’ll get to own it one day.

Drew (rolling his eyes) Yeah, and this is me giving a shit.

Aunt Helen Don’t slouch, Drew. And don’t fold your arms. You’re at a formal event. Look smart, not defensive.

Drew I didn’t ask to come.

Aunt Helen Petulance is a horrid colour on you.

Enter ANNABELLE, Drew’s mother and HELEN’s sister. HELEN rushes over to hug her.

Aunt Helen Anna! Happy birthday.

Annabelle Thank you, Helen. (Turns to DREW) You came….

Drew Not of my own volition.

Aunt Helen (clearing her throat) And this is Skye, Drew’s best friend. You’ve met her before, I think.

Annabelle Yes. As I recall, she’s perhaps the only person Drew ever listens to.

Skye (offers her hand) Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Harm. Happy birthday. This is quite a party.

Annabelle Thank you. Although I prefer to call it a function. With guests of such calibre and status, it is nothing less than that, wouldn’t you agree?

Drew (snorts) Look, are you sure you issued the right invitation card? Wouldn’t this general disappointment of a son be something you’d want to hide away and pretend it doesn’t exist? It’s seemed to work all this while. What was the lie you fed them, anyway? Some bullshit about boarding school?

Annabelle Drew, I –

Drew I get it. Stay out of trouble and stay out of your way. Warning received.

SKYE tugs on his hand to shut him up. Annabelle notices and blatantly stares at their linked hands.

Annabelle (sighs and addresses SKYE and HELEN) Would you please enjoy yourselves. I see some old friends of mine just coming in.

ANNABELLE leaves them to their own. Drew grabs a glass of champagne and gulps it down.

Skye Wow, Drew. Your jerk score just skyrocketed, you know that?

Aunt Helen All I’m asking is that you behave yourself tonight. Okay, Drew? Just for tonight. No smart-assing, no vitriol. There are a lot of bigwigs here tonight – not to mention the media. Everyone will have a field day if you stir up any nonsense.

Skye Your aunt’s right. I mean, you hate her, I get it. But she’s the boss of Heron Hotels. Her reputation’s at stake if you –

Drew If she’s that afraid of me stirring up shit for her, then why did she even ask me to come? She could’ve gone on ignoring my presence like she’s had ever since I left the sanatorium.

A microphone thumps from the podium. ANNABELLE stands there and addresses the crowd. Cameras flash from the reporters.

Annabelle I’d like to thank all of you for being here this evening. As you may have heard, this function is not simply organised in light of my birthday; I have a public announcement to make. (Waits for everyone to be silent before continuing) I have chosen my son, Drew, as my successor. Come next Monday, I will be training him personally so that by the end of the year he will oversee all of Heron Hotels’ operations at the managerial level.

A commotion stirs amongst the crowd.

Drew (incredulous) What?

Reporter I heard your son had a brief stint in the Hopewood sanatorium, and has a record for assault. Are you confident about handing over the reins to him?

The commotion grows louder.

Annabelle (raising her voice over the din) I will say this once: that is a false report.

Reporter So you’re denying that he spent the whole of last year in the sanatorium?

Annabelle My son spent a year in an overseas boarding school. I have the acceptance letter from the headmaster as proof and should anyone still be in doubt, I suggest you seek a letter from the headmaster to confirm his attendance. I’m sure he will gladly issue one.

Drew (mutters) This is ridiculous.

Skye Drew, don’t… You can talk this out with her later. Don’t go nuts and do something you’ll regret later.

Drew Trust me, I’ll regret not doing this more.

He stalks over to the podium and brings the microphone to his mouth.

Drew Look. None of this matters because I’m not going to work for her.

Skye (buries her face in her hands) I can’t watch.

Annabelle (through clenched teeth) Drew. Now that you’re up here, why don’t we –?

Drew No. And for the record, yes, I was in a sanatorium for the whole of last year because I beat up a guy who was being a prick to my aunt. My mother apparently considered this sort of behaviour clinically insane. Hence the stint in the nuthouse. But I guess considering he wasn’t the first prick I beat up, maybe I’m not that sane after all. Might want to reconsider your decision, Mom.

DREW leaves the podium and tears out of the house. The audience is left in stunned silence, before erupting in a frenzy of tongues. AUNT HELEN and SKYE leave before reporters can hound them.

Aunt Helen I am going to skin that boy alive.

They find DREW waiting by AUNT HELEN’s beat-up car.

Skye What the hell, Drew!

Aunt Helen Drew. (Sighs) I know you blame her for sending you to the sanatorium, but you were out of control. After your father died….

Drew (growls) Don’t.

Skye (timidly) Does this … does this really have to do with – you know, your dad?

Drew No, this has nothing to do with my dad, okay? And I’m not acting out just so I can get some attention – least of all from her. The only thing she bothered to do was chuck me into Hopewood, anyway. Fastest, easiest way to wash her hands off me.

ANNABELLE appears behind him.

Annabelle Is that what you think? That I couldn’t wait to have you out of my hair? You really think so?

Drew (whirls around) I know so. You couldn’t even be bothered to step into Hopewood.

Annabelle I didn’t visit you in Hopewood because….

Drew Yeah, I know. Your reputation. It’s all about your reputation. Your empire.

A swarm of reporters catch up with them. They are a whirl of camera flashes and noise.

Annabelle (urgently) This conversation is not over. I’ll talk with you later. Go.

DREW, AUNT HELEN and SKYE pack into AUNT HELEN’s car and drive off. DREW stares at the side-view mirror, watching his mother battle the onslaught of media hounds.

Drew Happy birthday, Mother.

Blackout.

Play - Dollhouse

2011-02-09T22:06:00.005+08:00

A draughty old attic. Dogs barking in the distance. Enter AMY, sitting before her dollhouse with a doll in her hand.

Amy (dressing her doll) There you go, Amelie. Daddy will be coming home soon, so I should probably tuck you to bed now. He doesn’t like it when I play with you, you see. But you’ll be fine, won’t you? Daddy didn’t hurt you that much the other time. But you must understand. He doesn’t mean any harm. Well, I don’t know that much about him, but Mommy told me he’s a good man. He’s nice to us … most of the time. Did you know? He bought me a new tricycle the other day and took me out for ice-cream, just the two of us, after my visit to the dentist. And at dinner he called me his little princess, and Mommy his big princess, and Mommy said what did that make him then and he said that made him our prince of course. He said we’ll be one big happy family and we’ll all be very happy and Mommy smiled and said yes and I smiled and said yes too and then Daddy asked if I wanted more ice-cream and I said yes again, yes please, that is…

(A slam of the front door.)

Amy (freezes) Daddy’s home!

She shoves the doll into the dollhouse, creeps out of the room and down the stairs.

Downstairs. Kitchen. Enter BROWNER, who tosses keys on the table.

Browner (muttering to himself) Bitch. What the hell does she take me for? Come and go as I please, my foot! Like I’m not the one stuffing her with money every week. Like all I do isn’t sponsor her shopping sprees and weekend getaways and spa sessions and salon visits. And now she tells me I’m an irresponsible jerk? Because oh sure, as long as I don’t treat her like a fucking queen and act as her personal slave and along with being her ATM machine, I’m an irresponsible jerk. Never mind if she’s dumping her daughter at home alone. Never mind if I’m the one who has to take her to the dentist. (sarcastically) Because my job is a freelance one, anyway, right?

Backyard. Enter CHRISTIE, on the phone.

Christie (twirling a lock of her hair) So I said to him, If you want to leave, fine by me. I don’t need you anyway. But then he yelled, Fine, I’m leaving! And then I realized I can’t do that. I can’t do that to my baby. She needs him. We need him. I love him, I really do. But it’s not just about me anymore. Amy needs a father. (Voice starts to waver.) She’s been so lonely, the poor child. She stays in that creepy old attic all day and keeps talking to those dolls her grandmother left for her. I’m telling you, I’m worried. What if all this has affected her more than I thought?

Enter BROWNER. He bursts through the screen door into the backyard, having overheard CHRISTIE’S conversation.

Browner (folding his arms and appraising his wife) So, you’ve realized. And here I was, beginning to think you’ve completely forgotten you have a daughter.

CHRISTIE hangs up the phone hurriedly and turns to face him.

Christie Browner. You’re home.

Browner Surprised? Trust me, you’ll be more surprised to find that your daughter’s grown up in a few years and you don’t even recognize her. (Cuts CHRISTIE off as she begins to speak) No, you listen to me. You know what? The kindergarten called. They told me Amy’s becoming increasingly antisocial, and even rejects the company of her peers. She shuns them, Christie. Which normal kid do you know rejects the idea of a friend? She’s getting unhealthily attached to those ridiculous dolls and I’ve told you before but did you listen? No, of course not. The kid’s not mine. I wouldn’t know a thing about her; I have no right to say anything. But guess what? I’m the one who’s taking care of her these days, while you go off gallivanting and throwing my money to the wind.

AMY sits at the foot of the stairs, clutching the rag doll in her pocket as she listens in on her parents’ conversation.

Amy (whispers) Shh. Be quiet, Nora. Mommy’s upset. You hate to see her upset, don’t you? Remember the last time she cried? (Buries face in the doll) She told me I’m all she has. Mommy says she wants me to be happy, and when I’m happy, she says she’s happy. She says we need love to be happy. And Amy loves Mommy, and Mommy loves Daddy. And Daddy loves Amy and Mommy. But Mommy’s not happy now, is she? She’s crying. Daddy’s yelling at her, and she’s yelling back. They’re upset, Nora. Mommy and Daddy are upset. (Tears begin to well up in her eyes.) Mommy says she’s unhappy when I’m unhappy. Am I making her cry now? Am I, Nora? Is Mommy crying because of me?

She watches her mother and step-father quarrel for a while longer before charging up the stairs and returning to her room.

Christie Browner, look. You knew what you signed up for when you agreed to marry me. You said you knew! And you said you didn’t mind one bit that I have Amy. In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me you’ll treat her like your own.

Browner And I haven’t? And this is not what this is about – you know that.

Christie If I wanted money, I’d have easily found any person to fill in your seat. Why would I have chosen to be with you? You think that you can just throw me some pocket money a month and be rid of me? Well, I’m sorry if I’m such a hindrance to you. I’m sorry you don’t see me as an adequate wife or mother to Amy and you’re the one bearing all the responsibilities in this family. (Voice wavers, then breaks.)

Browner (softens) You’re being ridiculous, Christie.

Christie Yes, I am. In fact, I’m ridiculous enough to go upstairs and get my baby so we can get the hell away from you. I’m through with you, Browner. I’m through with you never being around. I’m through with feeling like I can’t do without you –

Browner You can’t. You know that.

With a sob, Christie flounces back into the house and bursts into her daughter’s room, the draughty old attic.

Christie Amy? (Looks around.) Baby? (A tremble in her voice)

The room is empty. The dollhouse is gone, as are all Amy’s dolls.

Why Your Novel Won't Get Published

2011-02-08T19:45:00.002+08:00

From Terrible Minds: Why Your Novel Won't Get Published

Brutal honesty time:

That novel of yours isn’t likely to get published. The numbers just aren’t in your favor. Last I did a sweep of the Internet, it was home to 500,000,000 writers. Once you remove the wanna-be dilettantes, you still end up with 1,000,000 left. And they’re all fighting to have their manuscripts published.

You gotta maximize your chances of putting a kick-ass book into the ecosystem where it bites, kicks, shivs and garrotes any other novel that gets in its way. One way to do that is to identify the many pitfalls that await you, your book, and its goat.

Wanna know why your novel won’t get published? (Or, alternately, won’t get an agent?)

Ten reasons. Here we go.

1. Them Brownies Ain’t Done Baking
Brownies need long enough in the oven, or the middle ends up soft, gooshy, and still uncooked. Your novel might suffer from that problem: you sadly didn’t do enough with it. Maybe it needs another draft. Maybe it needs a strong copy-edit. Could be that it will benefit from some challenging readers or from a down-to-earth writer’s group. Whatever the case, the novel just isn’t “there yet.”

Make sure you’re spending enough time and effort on that sucker before you loose it into the world.

2. Your Training Wheels Are Still Attached
Sometimes the problem isn’t the novel — the problem is you. Ever hear the term “starter novel?” It means that this is your first book and it implies that this first book just isn’t a fully-formed novel. It was a learning process. It was an experiment. The training wheels are still squeaking and rattling.

Hey, listen, I wrote five novels before I got an agent for the sixth. Those first four novels were crap, the fifth almost got me an agent, and the sixth really sealed the deal. I learned as I wrote. I grew as a writer. I kicked the training wheels off. Now I’m on a mad Huffy BMX bike. Or maybe a Vespa scooter.

That’s right. I said it. A Vespa. Mmmm. I know I’m sexy.

Wait, what? I dunno. Point is, you still have work to do as a writer. Let this novel be a stepping stool to other, better books. Is it guaranteed that your first novel is a stinker? No. But I’d call it a reasonable chance, so it’s best to get some informed opinions before you pin your publishing dreams to it.

3. You’re Allergic To Following Instructions (AKA You Suffer From “The Special Snowflake” Conundrum)
When you submit a novel, you are beholden to a number of instructions supplied by the agent or the editor. “Send the first five pages and a query letter; also include a deed signing over the soul (but not body) of your first-born child. Please include an SASE as well as a feather from a peacock made of molten pewter.”

Writers, for whatever reason, think they’re immune to such instruction. As if it’s some kind of test. “Oh, they don’t mean me. My novel is sublime. It transcends such petty nitpickery. Lesser authors will be caught in the netting of micromanagement while I — champion of all writer-kind! — send them a novel written across 40,000 Post-It notes and shoved into the digestive tract of this here billy goat.”

You are not immune. Follow the fucking instructions. You are not a special snowflake. Do what they ask. Do so politely. Shut up about how they’re trying to oppress you and just dance the dance.

4. Novel’s Great, But The Query Letter Sucks Eggs
You’ve written a 90,000 word novel. And now you have to condense it down into 250 words.

Trust me, it’s hard. I know. It’s like putting on 200 lbs but you still have to fit into your Speedo bathing suit: it feels like you’re cramming so much into so little.

Sure, sure, it isn’t fair. Neither is a 40-hour work-week. Go home and cry in your mother’s vagina. You want to sell that book, that means you have to put together a good query. I don’t know that you need to put together a great query — you just need to convince them to take a peek at your beast. And I don’t mean that in a creepy, sexy way, either: the query is there to convince them to take it to the next level and request a full manuscript. Then your book can sell itself, as you had intended.

If you want to know how I wrote my query letter, check out:

"The Pitch Is A Bitch (But Don’t Fear The Query)."

5. You’re A Dick
Maybe your novel is the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the canine’s testicles (as they say in England).

Fact remains, if you’re just a big ol’ douchey dickface, nobody’s going to want to touch you with a ten foot pole. This is an industry of people. You’re selling your novel, but your novel won’t even get in the door if you can’t muster cursory politeness and expected tact. Are you a whiny, complainy, ego-driven Negative Nancy? Not a good sign. If the author is more trouble than the novel is worth, well…

*poop noise*

So sorry. No consolation prize. Buh-bye.

Be nice. Put a good face out there. You don’t need to be bland or boring or Suzy Sunshine all the time.

Just don’t be a dick.

6. What Genre Is That, Again?
Ask yourself this: “Where will this go in the bookstore? In what section? On what shelf?” If that has no clear answer, then you’re throwing up a red flag. “It’s horror paranormal romance mystery, with sci-fi elements. Oh, and it also has recipes!” Hey, I think that’s an awesome and brave experiment and maybe you’ll have some luck with it. But you have to recognize that, for better or for worse, publishing is in shaky straits right now and it’s running a little scared. Something that doesn’t fit in any box is problematic — how do you market something whose market is uncertain? If you can’t do it, neither can they.

7. Deja Vu
"And then Neo sticks his lightsaber into the Eye of Mordor. Popeye kisses Olive. The End."

Your work is derivative.

Maybe you didn’t mean for it to be, but it is. Or maybe you thought it was some kind of "homage." Either way, an agent is going to look at it and say, "Seen it, done that, don’t need it, need a nap."

You might be asking, "Wait, I’m supposed to stay inside the box but also think outside the box?"

And now you know why it’s so hard to get a book published.

Yes. We want comfort and familiarity without redundancy.

Shepherding a novel to publication is like threading a needle. Blind. On a moving train. While you’re being attacked by monkeys with sticks. Good times.

8. The Book Is Not, How You Say, “Commercially Viable?”
Something about the book is just striking the, “I don’t know if this will sell” bell. Maybe “vampire koalas” aren’t hot this year. Maybe the book-buying public has, in polls, revealed a certain discomfort with novels that prominently feature “cat abortions” as a plot point.

This is a tough one (says the author who perhaps knows it intimately).

Maybe your book is in a niche. A niche is nice in that it has an audience, but its audience may be too small to accommodate publication — which makes the niche a bad place to be.

Either way, the best advice is, be ready to make changes. Changes that will mold the book into something that is deemed attractive to a money-wielding audience.

9. Sometimes, Even The Brightest Spark Won’t Catch Fire
You might have a glorious masterpiece in your hands and yet… bzzt. Nothing. You know it’s awesome. Everybody else knows its awesome. And yet for some reason, it just isn’t happening.

What can you do about it?

*blank stare*

I really don’t know. You probably have two courses of action:

1) Be patient. Eventually an editor will get mauled by a tiger or something and then you can try again.

2) Self-publish. The publishing world doesn’t know your novel’s glory, so you must become its pimp.

(Check out, “Should I Self-Publish? A Motherfucking Checklist.”)

10. Unfortunately, You’re A Deluded, Talentless Hack
Out of the 500,000,000 writers out there, do you honestly believe that they’re all top notch penmonkeys? Mmmyeah. No. Some of them are completely in love with the stink of their own word-dumpsters, just huffing their foul aromas, getting high on inelegance and ineptitude.

Thing is, if you’re that guy, you’re probably never going to not be that guy. It’s possible that, once you recognize the illusion you may shatter it as if it were a distorting funhouse mirror, but that won’t do anything for the “talentless” portion of our competition. Some people just aren’t meant to be writers no matter how much they want to be that thing. Reality is a cold bucket of water.

Of course, realistically, if you’re deluded, then you’re probably not even reading this post, are you? And if you are, you’re not going to take any of my advice — not one lick of it. Which is okay, because hey, maybe I’m a deluded, talentless hack, too.

2011-02-08T09:47:00.000+08:00

Dear Joyce,

Many thanks for querying me with Lambs for Dinner. This certainly sounds like an imaginative premise for a YA novel, but I’m sorry to say it’s just not quite the right match for my list. I do thank you for thinking of me though, and wish you the best of luck in finding a good home for your work.

Most cordially,
Meredith Kaffel

2011-01-28T18:52:00.001+08:00

Another rejection for Lambs for Dinner. I think I've given up hope for this one.

Your idea is wonderfully original, but I just didn’t find myself interested in the characters. Another agent might feel differently.

I wish you the best.

Louise Fury
Literary Agent
L. Perkins Agency
5800 Arlington Avenue
Riverdale, NY 10471

2011-01-19T22:16:00.003+08:00

A recent post by Danielle Han on a very pertinent issue:

“A friend was applying for an American university and asked me to help him with his personal statement. The following ensued:
“The question says to write on an issue of local, personal, national, or international concern and its importance to me. Any ideas?”

He produced a notebook and on each page was a mind-map on trending topics. International terrorism, the rise of China, climate change were in the mix. It looked like a standard list of pretty much what is happening in the world. All that we had learnt in school.

“I can probably relate the rise of China to Singapore since Singapore has to cope with a more assertive China in the region. And probably talk about terrorism since Singapore being an international hub is vulnerable…”

I felt vaguely uncomfortable listening to him. Something was amiss.

“But how are these issues important to you? I mean, yea, these issues are important. But why and how are they important to you on a personal basis? How is it important to you as a human being, as a person? ”

At these words, we both stopped stunned, as both of us slowly understood what I spurted out. After that meditative silence, my friend spoke.

“I have a feeling that education has taught me all about this world, but nothing about myself.”

And I felt immense, immense sadness.

For my friend was no simpleton. He was, objectively speaking, one of the most accomplished of my age in Singapore, perhaps easily in the top 1 percent in my batch. His paper record is impeccable – Straight As with a Higher 3 paper distinction, leadership in the student council, team captain and national champion in his sport, and an assortment of various awards and book prizes. Now a scholarship holder and an officer-to-be in the army… He was by no means one of those whose success is limited to the academic; his paper credentials suggest a more than holistic education.

But now, he has just confessed that education has not… even made him a person. He was akin to some inchoate concept of a man, some aggrandization of trophies, some hollowed husk of purposelessness.

I slumped in my chair, for I had never heard such a damning statement on our education system.”

— from Norvin Chan’s The Secret Political Blog

Kellynn's reply:

What do you guys think?

I see this happening a lot. For loads of people my age, in university, studying, say, sociology, it is a thing separate from themselves as people (which is of course highly ironic). It’s a subject to be mastered, facts to be memorised, things to be learned on an abstract and disembodied level. There is certainly some passing interest, some genuine enjoyment, but there is this strange sense of disconnect, as if studying the sociology of food is about being able to repeat facts about body image and our social delinking from the origin of food without really thinking about how we ourselves are implicated in this whole process. There is a lack of — reflection, perhaps (and now I risk coming across as a little snooty), or a certain kind of lack of self-awareness? I had a friend who, while studying for GP, memorised reams and reams of statistics to be crammed edgewise into an essay during the “A” Levels, which to me was a little baffling. I’m not saying that the act of memorising facts is a bad thing, but shouldn’t writing a GP paper be based somewhat on interest, on a personal connection with the otherwise abstract worldly issues we are writing about?

I am interested in how our education system conditions us into thinking that this is the only way to study, that this is ‘education’, a task to be accomplished like learning to fix a car or how to swim. Evidently this is not true for everybody and everyone reacts to education, is shaped by, or shapes their view of education, differently. I have many friends who feel strongly about what they study and who do not separate school from self like most Singaporean students do. And yet I also have an acquaintance who chose to major in literature simply because she scored the highest grade for its exposure module in comparison to political science and sociology. (This of course pissed me off on a very personal level, because I remain torn about my decision not to pursue lit [although day by day I am certain that I’ve done the right thing] as my first major and am weirdly envious of those who have chosen to study it, but it also just utterly confused me, because literature is something you pursue because you are passionate about it, because it is something wildly personal, and not because you can get the best on-paper grades for it.)

So why do we separate ourselves so completely from our education? Why is the failure to do so chastised as being “impractical” and “having your head in the clouds”? Is this a Singaporean thing? Is this true for other people in other countries? Is this emblematic of a lack of self-reflection (to put it kind of wankily) or of social censure of self-reflection (which is really creepy when you think about it)? What is it that makes us leery of information, education, and current issues in relation to ourselves — that makes us dismiss all these things in the (this familiar, familiar Singaporean watchword) name of “practicality”? Why am I told again and again — by the people around me, by the culture I am raised in, and by my government — that my lofty ideals (which I know are very naive and which I have only a very tenuous grasp on) are not “practical”, that they are not part of “real life”???? How is what we study not part of real life? Are we for example not faced with damaging media images of women or part of food webs or do not grapple with colonial images of “little brown brothers”? Are we not part of a political system and do we not wonder philosophically how we know the things we know or do we not read books or question what it means to be Singaporean in this day and age? Why are these things so often confined to the classroom?

I know that most of you have decided to study things that are off the beaten track in Singapore. Many of you are lit majors or political science majors or something along those lines, and I know that all of you have chosen these areas of study out of interest, out of an intimate belief that what you are educated by is inextricably interweaved with the persons that you are, and that if you were faced with the question that was posed above, you would be able to answer without isolating your self from it. Why are you this way? And because you all exist, is it really, incontrovertibly true that our education system has failed? And again, because you all exist, are you (in varying degrees) exceptions to the rule? And, again, why are you this way? Aaaand I am feeling uncomfortably judgmental here of people who do separate themselves from their education and feeling my class privilege that allows me to ask these questions and to receive this education, but I admit that I am young and stupid and overthinky and I’m going to say these things anyway.

For me, NUS — university education — is one of my favourite things. I love it. I can bleat on and on about how much I have learned and how much I have consequently grown as an individual because of it. I love everything I read, everything I hear and watch and study; I love going to lectures, I love writing papers, I love reading these novels that I would never otherwise pick up, and listening to ideas that will forever shape my perspective of the world. In one year I have learned about political imagery in architecture and the politics of climate change and methods of social research and Christian revivalism in Singapore and post-colonialism in Merle Hodge’s “Crick Crack, Monkey” and the history of food gathering and production in human society. I have debated on sustainability and the failure of massive nature conservancies and heatedly argued about the racism in Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” despite the distancing frame narrative and jumped up and down in my seat in unbridled rage arguing about the implicit sexism of the language used in men’s magazines. I marvel all the time at all these super amazing things that I’ve been part of and feel happy and grateful that I’ve been able to learn so much from my teachers and my books and my peers. But that’s just me, and I think that my reaction is a product of a thousand things - a loving and encouraging family, open-minded and interested friends, my early use of the Internet (which I feel is pivotal), my enjoyment of books - my class, my race, my ethnicity, my specific educational background (where I skimmed just under the ‘elite’ schools while studying at Anderson Sec and St. Andrew’s, but still remain very much highly educated), my socioeconomic position which insulates me from many things - my general (personality?) enjoyment of academia, my linguistic privilege, and so on.

And so I wonder specifically why so many people complain about how boring and crappy and etc our university education system is when I find it stimulating and challenging and helpful. What specifically allowed me to fall off the radar to a certain extent (although I still remain firmly and safely on the beaten, well-trodden path to class and economic stability because of my [incidental to my enjoyment of school] good academic grades)? Obviously a lot of it’s got to do with the state, doesn’t it? Policies that inculcate this attitude towards education, playing on notions of upward social mobility and class anxiety? How class starts to perpetuate itself at the age of ten, when students are streamed, then again at the age of 12 at PSLE, and then if you get into Raffles or St. Nick’s or Hwachong you’re pretty much set, aren’t you — and how I’ve managed to sort of fall away from this ideology because I have the class and economic privilege to not worry about needing to succeed academically, and because I am privileged enough to be fairly smart so I never had to worry about “making it”? And why do many of my peers approach education the way they do - with an almost rabid singleminded focus on grades, on pleasing the lecturer, on academic paper success rather than holistic academic education, on its sheer functionality?

Ultimately (sorry for the terrible organisation of this post - I kind of wrote myself into this conclusion and understanding), I think I’ve had the luck and the privilege of not needing to adhere to the idea of education as a literal tool to economic stability and future success because I already fit the ideal that the Singaporean state demands of us, by which I mean I am (upper) middle class, Chinese, English-speaking, and perform well academically. So I have the privilege to say fuck you to the idea of education as separate from the self and have the luxury to study all kinds of abstract social theory and high-flown literary concepts and so on. So this, I think, is why I can look at education the way I do. What about you guys?

-------

When I read and hear things like this, I can't help but wonder if there's something wrong with me. Did I consciously choose to pursue something fluffy like Media instead of Law (when everyone, including myself, expected me in Law School)? Yes. And I never regretted it. But did I enjoy my education in NTU? No, not a bit. It was unchallenging. And I don't mean everyone-else-sucks-so-I-am-better unchallenging (ugh please I left NTU with a fairly shitty GPA), but I found the only way I had to cope and keep up with the others often left me unable to engage my course material, i.e. memorising and memorising and regurgitating was the only way I seemed to scrape by. I felt like I was in JC all over again, but even in JC I had mugged with a certain kind of enthusiasm...maybe even willingness. I felt, in short, like I was trapped in a cycle of mindless mugging.

So back to the question...is there something wrong with me? I've always wanted to be like Kristi and Kellynn and the people she hangs out with, or like Clara and her way with words, or Alan and his tablet, or Liz Law and news. They all seem to just...get it. They all seem to have some kind of ability to grasp things so easily such that they can immerse themselves in modules of their interest. They all seem to exude some kind of genuine love for the things they do and study. Like they ooze poetry and sociology and literature. Why don't and can't I have that? I seem to have done everything right. I mean I've literally gone by the textbook of success - I was in an all girls elite school since P1, I've won model pupil awards, money from MOE, I love to read and write on my own accord...where did education fail me? I don't know...

All I know is that I have been fighting a losing battle since Secondary School. Deep down inside I knew I wasn't as academically inclined as I was told I was by virtue of my Secondary School and CCA (debates...a shameless, hopeless attempt to make myself look smarter), but I stayed put and continued fighting anyway, and left SCGS without a happy memory. I mugged through JC, and then I mugged (to tears) through my first year of university until I had enough.

The way I see it, people like Kellynn and Kristi and Clara and Alan all have something about them that will enable them to have a comfortable life even if they flunk out of school. They have practical views on life and survival in this country, hypothetically will still be amazing people if they fail splendidly, but, seriously, will come out of uni even more amazing than they already are. There's that little spark about these people, and many more I've not mentioned, and a level of intelligence or talent that I, and Jerico, and many, many other students lack.

Which is why Jerico and I both realised, at the end of the day, that even though we love so many things that are available to study in our local unis, we're still going to have to slog it out to "make it". Make what, I don't know that either. But being so...average, we feel like we've no choice but to just get that piece of paper whether we love or hate the process of not.

I'm lucky because I had the chance to start anew in Aussie, where being away from all this gives me the chance to do things differently. I was telling Kristi that I finally feel like I'm being challenged academically in a positive way, like I have time to soak in how amazing and intriguing my readings are. Maybe it's because I take less classes. Which brings me back to the point about how average I am compared to all the students my age I look up to. Unfortunately, I can't cope with the number of classes local uni requires us to take. I can't sit back and love every topic I read and breathe life into every word in my essay. I wanted to, I really, really wanted to. I really thought uni would liberate me from the mugging shit I endured for so long. But I ended up having to do things the typical way to scrape by that is mug. And I believe many others are stuck here, longing not for a quality lecturers or readings or modules, but an education system that encourages and allows them to soak up all the amazing things available in our universities.

So I have gone around in circles and whined pitifully about how sad my academic life is (hur hur), but that's exactly what I think our education system needs. It needs life. It needs...it needs to remember that studying is not learning and learning doesn't only mean studying. It needs a fucking attitude overhaul. It all sounds so simple isn't it? Maybe I'm wording it wrong. I can't think straight...I have discussed our education system with Jerico so many times but I always ended up feeling so unsatisfied.

What an uncoherently put together blog post but I could go on and on and on...nevermind it's 3.17 am. I handed in a big assignment a few hours ago so fuck it.

-----

I just thought I'd weigh in on the issue too.

I can't agree more with Danielle. I don't know her personally, though we (and Kellynn) spent two years in the same junior college and are both Arts students, but I do feel like she's one of those - apart from Gerlynn - who understands what I'm going through. Gerlynn and I have discussed how disillusioned university has made us. At first, it was just me. I felt like a fish out of water. I was floundering, wondering what the hell I was doing in university. I didn't want to seem like a whiny brat, granted the opportunity to higher-level education, but complaining about it like an ingrate. But when she entered university a year later, Gerlynn seemed to understand me perfectly and echoes my views on university. We've taken to discuss what being in university actually does for us. For her, it seems university is pure agony and she's forced to press her back against the grindstone while towing it up the hill. For me, I feel like I'm standing in the midst of all these lab rats skittering on their little treadmills, focused on the single-minded intention to collect their honours degree and later, their masters, and maybe even their doctorates. As soon as I stepped foot into campus, I realised I'm not going to be as rabid and dogged as my peers in their quest to collect their certificates (and then some). I'm not going to be visiting the library to borrow books on issues relevant to the modules I'm taking and reading them for leisure and then raising some questions I have with the lecturer or engage the lecturer in impassioned discussions and the like.

Later, I realised it's because unlike my peers, I don't see a goal ahead of me. I don't know what I want to be, or the sort of options open to me, an English linguistics major who just wants to write fiction all day and get paid for my efforts. My goals, it seems, are too lofty, beyond what university can provide. Because who gives a flying crap about creative writing in Singapore? In Singapore, it's all about the sciences - biochemistry, engineering, etc - law, medicine, dentistry, new media. These are the courses that reap tangible rewards. These are the modules that provide quantifiable self-worth in terms of grades and achievements. Linguistics? Everyone immediately assumes you're going to be a teacher after you graduate. I know SO many irate Arts majors who've had enough of people asking them if they plan to teach - and I'm one of them. Is there nothing else we Arts majors can do other than teach? And why is that so? Why is that the prevailing assumption? Is it the environment that has cultivated this mindset, or this mindset that has shaped the environment, the one that emphasises on practicality and functionality? Which brings me back to the question I often crack my head over while on the long bus ride to school: what am I doing in university? Am I here to get a certificate that would boost my chances of working in a cushy office and earn a steady paycheck? Do I even want that sort of job? I've mentioned before that I'm really not keen about office jobs. Punching in at nine o'clock every morning, sit at your desk, avoid office gossip, be careful not to tread on toes, bow to your superiors, go for stipulated lunch breaks, return to desk, work, punch out at six o'clock. Wash, rinse, repeat. Does education really liberate us? Being trapped in a desk-bound job, tiptoeing about corporate hierarchies so that I can scale the corporate ladder and break the proverbial glass ceiling, score that big promotion and that big fat paycheck that will entitle us to a cushier life that entails even greater wants and needs, which demands us to slog harder for the next promotion so we can score an even bigger paycheck.... Seems like we're more trapped than we were before.

Or, am I in university because I want to? Because I want to learn and be exposed to ideas and knowledge that I wouldn't have been exposed to otherwise? But what if my level of enthusiasm isn't as high as my peers? Granted, some of them exert the effort in their studies because they want their rocketing CAPs and not because they really enjoy the course. But what if my passion for English isn't as high as theirs? What if the effort I put in only marks me as an average student? As it is, my CAP is completely, morbidly, depressingly average. Maybe even lower than average, I don't know. It's a B. I enjoy my linguistics modules (most of them, at least), and I put in the effort. Clearly, it's not enough.

While it is true that my university experience thus far has shaped up to be, for the most part, satisfying. I'm lucky that my father is supportive of me studying the course I'm interested in and passionate (well, that remains debatable, but let's see this in relative terms to put things into perspective, okay?) about. I know he wishes for me to study more practical things like business administration and economics and the like, and he often comments on how I chose the easiest things to study (in a jocular manner, that is, but I can detect the grain of honesty in those comments). But he let me study English, anyhow. For that, I'm grateful. But then I can't help but wonder, while I'm enjoying myself studying the things I want to study now, what am I going to be after I graduate?

Like Danielle said, some people like Kellynn just seem to have it. They're smart, coherent, sensible, sharp-witted and are keen observers of the society we live in. Because of that, they can do well in their course without breaking a sweat. While the rest of us are left wondering what it is we're lacking.

And it was only recently that I had that eureka moment. That I realised I had no idea what I was going be, what I could be, what I wanted to be. While my peers are full of aspirations and hope and faith in their futures after graduation, I'm still slippery-footed and hesitant and left trailing in their wake as they charge ahead for their degrees.

It's just the second week of the second semester of my second year in NUS. I mustn't be consumed by disillusionment yet. Not now. I shall, like I do for everything else unpleasant, pretend it does not exist. I shall train myself to believe I am studying for a purpose, I'm studying because I want to learn, not because I can shape myself into what my society deems a useful member. Higher learning is here for a reason, and I need to hold on to my stand - however unsteady it may be - for a little while longer.

Short Story - Fire and Rain

2011-01-12T22:43:00.008+08:00

Fire and Rain – fiction by Joyce Chua

He stared at her back, the slope of her narrow shoulders. “Why do you keep looking out the window?” He joined her, followed her empty gaze.

“It’s a mess.”

“Have you taken your meds?”

“Look at all these people, thrown about like broken dolls.”

“You’ve lost weight.” He pulled her to him, but she didn’t yield, just perched, stiff-limbed, on the windowsill.

“Remember how we wished for rain then? Remember how we wished for rain to take away the fire? Oh, how we craved for rain then, Connell!”

“I remember.” He brushed away the tangle of hair obscuring her face and took her hand.” But Raven, you can’t possibly think this is all your fault.”

“That’s what Daddy would say. He used to say I blame myself for too many things out of my control.”

“And he’s right. Come on, time for your daily magic.”

She let herself be pulled by him, then stopped. “I want….”

“Raven?”

“Will you help me with something?”

“Anything.”

“Will you wish for fire with me? This time, we won’t do anything. We’ll let it burn. Burn away all this water.” Her eyes were wide, shining. She gripped his hand too tightly.

“Raven.” He made sure she saw him – really saw him – before continuing. “Raven. Wishing for fire now isn’t going to bring your brother back, just like how wishing for rain then didn’t bring your father back.”

She stepped away from him. “You won’t help me. That’s okay. It’s my family, anyway. That’s okay.”

“Raven, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay. I’ll wish for fire on my own.” She returned to the windowsill, picked up the lighter resting on the ledge. He’d missed that.

Flick.

“Raven, don’t!” He grasped her hands, letting the light clatter to the floor. “I’ll wish for fire with you. Fire. This time, we’ll let it burn.”

2011-01-12T21:12:00.004+08:00

It's the middle of the week, and hitherto, I've sat through three of my five lectures for the week. Here is, by the way, a list of the modules I'm taking this semester:

1. EL2211: Historical Variation of English (50% open-book final exam, 15% class test, 15% individual essay, 10% group project, 10% class participation inclusive of group presentation)
2. EL2201: Structure of Sentences and Meaning (60% open-book final exam - not essay-based, 30% open-book quizzes, 10% class participation)
3. EN2271: Introduction to Playwriting
4. LAC3204: Chinese for Business and Social Science. Don't let your jaw hang too loose. I'll get to this one in a bit.
5. EC2101: Microeconomics

The week started off with EL2211 lecture. As expected, this is a pretty content-heavy module, but Gerlynn was right in saying it's actually pretty interesting. We learn about Old English and the like, and how it evolved (in terms of spelling, grammar and lexicon) over the ages to what it is now. The text we have to analyse for our group project is A Midsommer Nights Dreame, and the final exam counts for 50% of our final grade. I've seen the past semester test papers, and all I can say is that I signed up for this, so I might as well take all this in my stride.

But at least, despite the demands of this module, I know what to expect. Because I've taken English (EL) modules before, so I know the approximate level of rigour and what to expect by now. This is more than I could say for LAC3204. When I entered the seminar room, I had no idea who would be there, or how many people. There were 25 in all, and the group consists of a Canadian, a couple of Malaysians and a couple of PRCs. The notes were entirely in Chinese, and people spoke Mandarin (well, except for me and three girls from the Law Faculty, so we stuck together in class - good to flock with people you can communicate better with, right?). The lecturer is the maternal sort. I don't know about you, but my impression of Chinese teachers is that they are always maternal and nice. And Laoshi totally fits the stereotype. She has a background in media and commerce since she worked for several years in Mediacorp and a media group in Hong Kong (news production and associated fields). But, you know, as nervous as I was about the class, Laoshi managed to ease us into it and it turned out to be a surprisingly refreshing class, though we're expected to write some essays in Chinese and present it in front of the class. I'm not nervous about presenting in front of the class, but the fact that, after so many years of being spared from Chinese oral, speaking Mandarin in front of a crowd sounds daunting, to say the least. But I'll worry about that in due time.

The third class, today's class, was EN2271. And similarly, I didn't know what to expect. I've never experienced having a critique group before. There were 12 of us in all (Valerie-Ann, Tamara Kisha, Luke, Nick, Melissa, Joanne, Hazel, Denise, Koon Hui, Huiyi, Shah, and me), selected from the list of applicants. We had to submit three scenes written (in prose, poetry, play, etc) in response to three words respectively: Abdication, Vindication, and Restitution. With that, the 12 of us ended up in the seminar room, seated around a long meeting table, facing Dr Husir, playwright and firm believer that the arts is far superior to sciences. That's a touchy issue, highly debatable, so I won't espouse or expound on that. But while Dr Husir declares that he is not an academic and that we shouldn't regard EN2271 as an academic module, EN2271 is one of the most demanding modules in FASS, as his ex students tell him. That's what I've heard too. Each week, we have to write an essay regarding a play (issued by him), along with writing an act of our own and submitting it next lesson for critique.

After introductions were made (half the class were Lit majors), Dr Husir set us a prompt and got us to work. A scene in the midst of the Queensland flood with the opening line by a character: "Why do you keep looking out the window?" Written in twenty minutes. I'll post my attempt here in a bit. Mine's in prose form, though I cut back on the details that can't be realised in play.

Once we were done, we had to read our piece aloud (and rope in the person next to us to help act out the other character(s) in the story) and let the group offer feedback. And you know, it's terrifying, having to read out your work to a group of strangers. But I received constructive feedback (how rare to have people actually pay attention to your work and offer advice to improve it!) from the group. Dr Husir said I managed to use the flood as a backdrop to a large character conflict that develops with the story, but I needed to pay attention to developing the narrative as a play and not prose. I have zero experience with plays. The only two plays I've ever read are Antony and Cleopatra (for Lit in JC) and The Importance of Being Earnest (by the ever delightful Oscar Wilde), so it seems I really have a lot to work on.

Listening to what the rest have written, though, was so much less sweat. There were several that I really liked, like Luke's and Valerie's and Nick's and (I forgot her name - sorry!). Luke wrote a piece about a battered-wife mermaid who was trapped by her husband but liberated because of the flood. Which is a really interesting take. It's unique and refreshing, exactly the way fantasy fiction should be. And Valerie's was a delicately written piece that played on words and had a sweet silver-lining ending where the character revealed she was looking for a rainbow amid the flood. It seems her writing is as delicate as she looks. She has the sort of feminine frailty and childlike vulnerability in her face that is the sort that I imagine photographers like to capture. Nick's was a funny piece between a bimbo and a neurotic boy who took every precaution not to let the waters in the house. The bimbo went on and on about Santa Claus being able to enter the house, at least, because the roof was dry, so baby kangaroos could be born because it was Santa who put joeys in the pockets of kangaroos. And the boy's yelling at her for thinking about joeys in the middle of a flood, and she said kangaroos are important and then she suddenly saw a crocodile and asked the boy if it would eat them and then to wave to it, and the boy demanded why on earth he would wave to something that was planning to eat him...

Nick's writing is typical of a male POV. I've always thought male writers are either funny in their prose, or boringly methodical. Nick happens, it seems, to belong to the first group.

And the last piece I enjoyed (I still can't recall her name, but she's a Lit major) was about a family trapped in a house while the flood's going on outside and the mother's sister, Aunt Rose, is crying to be let in because the water's at chest level. But the mother's adamant about not letting "dangerous characters in during dangerous times" despite her husband telling her to let her sister in. The scene then went on with the two children watching their aunt struggle and drown, all reported in a detached manner ("Oh look, she's going down now"). The story appeared light-hearted, even funny, but belied a sinister thread that left me slightly uneasy. Some commented on how dysfunctional the family was, and I suppose that's why it made me squirm. Dark humour is really difficult to achieve. Too little and your reader might miss it; too much and it'll prove counter-effective. But I think the writer handled it well.

So many good writers in the class. I hope I'll improve in my writing with the help of this class and the various characters in it, and I'm completely looking forward to reading more of their work. There's just so much to learn when it comes to the craft of writing! That, I've always felt, is one of the reasons why writing is such an engaging activity. There's always room to improve, always something new you learn about yourself and the way you perceive the world.

Okay, I hope this is a sufficiently long post, Gerlynn. (She's always bugging me to blog - I have to remember to thank her for that.) Till next time!

2011-01-08T17:34:00.000+08:00

Hi Joyce,

Thanks again for sending Lambs for Dinner. Your voice sounds strong and confident, which is no surprise since we already knew that from Red December Skies. Skye is definitely a unique character too - an obsession with superstitions is a fresh concept in a YA.

Though we enjoyed your writing very much, I'm afraid we still encountered a few issues. Certain passages, for instance, seemed too slow since they were bogged down with details and actions the reader didn't necessarily need to know. Some of Skye's and Drew's diction also sounded a bit odd coming from the mouth of a teenager. Their kiss on page 21 also struck us as too abrupt and maybe even unconvincing - it didn't seem like something a real teenage boy would do. The kiss, along with their many chance encounters, made their romance feel a bit too obvious and heavy-handed to us, as well.

In short, Lambs for Dinner is a very strong YA, but we don't feel it's quite ready yet. It looks like we're going to have to pass, but again, this is only our opinion. It's a very subjective industry and we have no doubt that another agent will feel differently about Lambs for Dinner. Thank you very much for sharing your most recent work with us and we wish you the best of luck.

Kind regards,
Judith

--
Judith Engracia
Literary Assistant
Liza Dawson Associates
350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003
New York, NY 10001
(212) 465-9077
http://www.lizadawsonassociates.com/

Jiro Wang - his story

2011-01-04T18:41:00.014+08:00

His father was in the military, and after retiring he worked as a security guard. His mother worked as a seamstress, but after her eyesight failed due to old age, she gave up her job. Jiro's parents married late; his mother was forty, his father fifty, when they had him. Jiro's health had never been too good when he was young, maybe because his parents had him old. He used to have asthma, but that ceased to be a problem after he took up swimming. His parents doted upon him, as he was their only child.

Jiro has loved to draw since young, and made it his goal to enter Fushing College of the Arts. When he graduated from high school, he clutched his acceptance letter from Fushing and bounded home, intending to use that as a Father's Day gift for his father. But when he reached home, he found an ambulance outside his house, and with a heavy heart pounding in tandem with his footsteps he raced home, only to learn that his father had had a fall. Jiro's father had never been able to get up since. He was hospitalised for diabetes.

Because his father was hospitalised and his mother was no longer working, compounded with the issue of hefty school fees for Fushing College, Jiro began sourcing for odd jobs everywhere to support the family. His father continued to be hospitalised for five years before diabetes took him. Before he died, Jiro's father told him that he had to take on the responsibility of supporting the family. Jiro agreed. His father left.

That year when he turned eighteen was probably the start of Jiro's financial problems. He had to repay the debt his father owed when the latter bought the house, amounting to six million NTD. Jiro had to look everywhere for a job, and sometimes had to juggle three jobs at once. He had to play multiple roles, sometimes as a mascot in an amusement park or the zoo, sometimes handing out flyers, sometimes as a waiter in a bar, a sales assistant in a boutique, freelance model. He even worked as an odd-job labourer, those who work at construction sites, carrying buckets of mud and steel bars. Sometimes, he also hawked items in fairs till late at night.

After his father died, leaving behind a trail of financial debts, a lot of Jiro's friends persuaded him to sell his house. But Jiro was adamant about not selling it, only saying, "It's a memory my father left for us. I won't sell it."

In 2006, after the band Fahrenheit (an idol quartet that Jiro is part of) became famous, Jiro finally managed to repay his debts. But he continues to leave only five thousand NTD (about one hundred and seventy USD) for himself a month because he had to repay the bank interest of his father's loan. [In 2008, Jiro managed to completely pay off all his debts, and even bought a second-hand car. In 2010, he bought himself a new bike that he likes to ride along the coast.]

Jiro's road to stardom was rocky, to say the least. At eighteen, he formed a band named DCW with his college friends, and was the lead singer and guitarist. They went around performing and entered competitions. Because of his outstanding performance and good looks, he was scouted by an agent and signed on by an international record company. Then, he had high hopes for his future, but then came the 9/11 incident and half of the staff from the company was laid off. His dreams of becoming a musician were dashed.

To single-handedly bear the task of propping up the family is a challenge for someone so young. As he narrated his story to the reporter, he couldn't help but let the tears fall. It was a relief to the reporter, in fact; it was better than seeing him hold back his tears and eke out a watery smile.

Despite how tired he was, Jiro is always meticulous about his appearance and how he presents himself in front of the camera. He has always put in more effort than others in the industry. In Fahrenheit, bandmate Wu Chun, often dubbed the Bruneian prince, owns two fitness centres back home; Aaron's father is a renowned doctor; and Calvin's father is in the export business. Apart from Jiro, the rest of Fahrenheit grew up in well-to-do families, while Jiro faces mounting debts at home.

"There's nothing fair or unfair about it." He squeezed out a beatific smile, like one of those commonly seen in idol dramas. "Maybe my life was more colourful than those of my peers then. Because I came out to work early, I've gained a lot of work experience."

But the truth is bleaker than he makes it out to be. He even worked in construction sites, where he was eighteen, where he had to carry steel bars and buckets of mud around and lay sewage piping.

"I see that as a chance to work out. It seems I've been working out since high school!" he laughed, cracking a joke at his expense in his usual upbeat manner.

His father's illness turned him from an introverted boy into a bubbly extrovert, because that was the only way he knew how to mask his worries so that no one would see his weakness, his vulnerability.

"When I was young, I'd cry even when I had to receive an award on stage. But until my dad fell sick, I wanted to make myself stronger, so that everyone would see me as the happy kid, because I didn't want to make my mom worry."

That was how he nurtured his outgoing, bubbly nature.

"For my mother, I think anything is worth doing. It's my duty." His nose twitched slightly. His eyes reddened. It was apparent he was about to cry, but when his agent offered him a tissue, he said, "It's okay. I can hold it in."

"When I'm all wiped out from acting, my mother would worry about my health and wake up half an hour earlier to prepare a nutritious breakfast for me. No matter how late I reach home, she would still be waiting up for me. She often says I'm her best sleeping pill - when I'm not at home, she can't get to sleep. When I reach home and come out from a bath, I'd already hear her yawning. She really has it worse than me."

Family is, quite evidently, Jiro's Achilles' heel. Just ten seconds ago he said he was a man who didn't cry, but he let his tears fall freely now.

"My father was sincere in courting my mother. She often said to me, if you're going to find a girlfriend, you have to learn a thing or two from your father. My mother was a seamstress, and when she and my father had a date at six p.m., he would already be waiting nearby at two."

All he has left are these scattered bittersweet memories. His father's illness marked the start of Jiro's difficulties and challenges. He was the lead singer of his band in high school, DCW, and devoted hours to practising, so that he could temporarily forget about the possibility of losing his family.

In the end, his father died on 23 December.

With a wan smile, Jiro said, "My bandmates and I had practised hard for a performance on Christmas eve. I didn't want to go for the performance anymore, but my mother urged me to." He paused to choke on the last few words. With a shaky breath, he went on, "So from then on, every time I'm on stage, I feel like I can hear my father cheering me on. But I feel bad for my mom; she's had to shoulder so many responsibilities."

His father left a pile of debt behind. Jiro took on a seemingly insurmountable challenge. But what else was there to do apart from holding up his smile? His friend egged him on to take up modelling, and go for singing auditions. But his hopes to form a band with Jay Chou and Jordan Chan (HK singer) were dashed because of the 9/11 incident.

He recalls, "I was slated to release a record after Jay and Jordan. But after half the staff from BMG were laid off, I crashed to the ground after being buoyed by my expectations. That night, I cried like a baby, because I felt like I'd let a lot of people down, especially my mother."

After his supporting role in idol drama, It Started With a Kiss, Jiro's career plummeted into a three year-low waiting stint. He went to serve in the military, but never gave up on his dreams.

"I was quite foolish then. With my background and serving environment, I couldn't afford to pursue my dreams. But then I thought, I was still young, anyway, so why not go for it? I didn't want to grow old and tell my children, 'Daddy regrets that when he was young he didn't dare to chase his dreams.'"

The toil he went through in his early years conditioned him into a versatile and persistent artiste. In Hana Kimi, another idol drama filmed in 2005, Jiro starred as the second male lead in 2005, alongside Fahrenheit bandmate Wu Chun, who played the first male lead.

When a reporter commented, "You used to be the star of Fahrenheit, but after Wu Chun joined the group, it seems he's stolen the stage from you," Jiro replied, picking his words with care, "There's no such thing as stealing the stage. He may take on the lead role today, and tomorrow maybe someone else will. Anyone can perch on the crest of the wave. I won't be affected by what reporters write. I even wish Chun would bring me to Brunei! Of course, if he sponsors my ticket, I won't complain."

The reporter went on to ask, "It's often rumoured that you and Wu Chun don't interact very much with each other. Is that true?"

"How can that be true? Although the four of us have very different personalities and opinions, we're all adults. At most, we'll fight it out and be done with it!" he laughed. "I'm kidding. No, we have very different temperaments. The media and the rest of the audience just like to magnify these differences and make comparisons among us. That's not a problem among us. After all, we've been together for two years and counting [five now], so we've fostered a close friendship through work. Fahrenheit consists of the four of us, and for me, it's like having three more brothers. We rely on and support one another, all of us fighting for a common goal!"

Because he feels he is not as well-endowed as his Fahrenheit bandmates, Jiro pushes himself to work doubly hard. He used to have asthma, and now only squeezes in a couple of hours of sleep because of his hectic work schedule. Often, he was overworked and suffered from frequent nosebleeds and once, even meningitis (inflammation of protective membranes around the brain).

But Jiro said, "Unless I'm hospitalised, I won't say no to work. That time when I fainted on the set, I was really beaten. And the best thing was, I only fainted after we wrapped up for the day. I already felt nauseous when we were filming, but I knew that if I fell then, a lot of people's schedules would be affected by me."

Although, if you asked him what was the biggest sacrifice he'd ever had to make in order to achieve his goals, he would tell you, "Time. Time with my family."

When asked why he wants to perform on stage, he said, "Because my father used to like having me sing in front of his friends and our relatives. My father was my biggest fan."

He said with the money he's earning now, he would like to take his mother on a vacation. "I want to bring her to Disneyland [he's done it], to Holland to see the tulips (it's the flower his father frequently gave his mother) in bloom, to Greece to see the temples, to China to see the Great Wall...."

Asked about the most perfect woman on earth, Jiro replies without hesitation, "My mother. And the man I aspire to be is someone like my father, dependable and strong, one who will walk to the end of the world with the girl he loves and never let go of her hand."

Now that he is able to provide a comfortable life for his family, his father is unable to enjoy it, so Jiro lavishes his mother extravagantly. He hopes his father in heaven can see that he is taking care of his mother for him. He usually wears accessories that do not quite match the amulet bracelet his mother got for him from the temple. He never takes it off because he knows that his safety is the biggest consolation and source of happiness for his mother.

A boy who loves drawing, pencil and paper are his closest companions. For his autobiography, he drew a family portrait along with other works. In it, he is a young boy of five, flashing a mischievous grin and the victory sign while sitting in the lap of his mother. She smiles mildly ahead, her husband's arm around her. He, on the other hand, seems stern, but in his eyes belies a gentleness that is conveyed through his hand on his wife's shoulder. This is the time Jiro wishes to return to. That family portrait exists only in his mind (it's not an actual photo - Jiro has never taken a proper photo with his parents because one of them is always the one taking the photo) - he can only rely on his memory to create that portrait.

"When I'm drawing, I get transported back to the happiest time of my life: my childhood."

Original article: Jiro Wang selected as top ten most filial sons
Translated by: Joyce C.

2011-01-01T12:41:00.005+08:00

So. We've crossed over to 2011. Without much fanfare. On my part, at least. I was dog-tired yesterday, so just slept my way through the midnight mark. Just like last year. And possibly the year before.

It seems New Years present the highest surge in everything. Hope and enthusiasm, most of all. Everyone's eager to get started on their New Year resolutions and make this year the pivotal year of their lives. Turn their lives around (if it had sucked before) so to speak. Just at the pool today I saw so many new faces, all eagerly diving into the water, brimming with the eager hopefulness of trimming down or getting fit. A few months later, these new faces usually disappear. That's what happened last year. And possibly the year before, too.

Anyway. I shan't get cynical again. Because for all my scorn for New Year resolutions, I've come up with an unofficial one too. And being less cynical and disillusioned is one of my resolutions for 2011. Much as I don't place much stock in New Year resolutions (if you really want to do something, why wait till next year?), this list is more of a promise - a reminder, if you will - to myself.

1. Write SOMETHING everyday. Be it a blog post, an essay, even just a haiku - write.

2. Meet people. Stop shying away from making new friends and find topics to talk about with the old. I shall leave this at that.

3. Be less disillusioned and jaded with life. Find more interests. Find inspiration.

4. Have hope.

5. Be happy - to put my father's mind at ease. He's always worried that I'm unhappy or dissatisfied. I am, but I don't want him to see it. He's working long hours at the sales floor, tired, busy and stressed. I don't want him to worry about me anymore. So I'll channel Jiro's undefeatable spirit, so that my dad will see me happy and be happy in turn. This brings me to

6. Remember Sunflower Baby, Jiro. He was poor, and had to juggle three part-time jobs while studying in an arts college after his father died when he was 18. He met lots of obstacles on his way to becoming an artist and an artiste, but he never gave up his first love: art. He's recently published his autobiography, Me and van Gogh, which contains his art works, and has sold more than a million copies so far. Persistence in pursuing his dreams! Corny as that may sound, his persistence makes me want to strive even harder to reach mine.

[Sidenote: I really don't think Jiro's just a pretty face. Sure, he's absolutely good-looking, but his upbeat, unbeatable personality spurs me on to think on the brighter side of life. I realise I'm employing way too many cliched phrases for my health, but looking at him gives me hope, because he's Sunflower Baby! Tenacious, outgoing, passionate, loyal. He brings joy to the people he loves, and asks for none back. His pure, childlike heart and thoughtfulness is probably the reason why so many people love him in return. His past is moving, his present empowering, his future limitless.]

You begin to see why New Year resolutions don't work for me. Most of them are abstract to the extent of being pointless. But, you know, in the spirit of all things new, I drew up one for the sake of it.

What I want to do/achieve in 2011:

1. Learn the piano. My biggest regret was when I turned down my dad's offer to put me in a music school when I was young, all because I was afraid the teacher would be fierce. He said he didn't want to pressure me, so he didn't insist when I rejected learning the piano.

2. Land a literary agent who believes strongly in my manuscript, Lambs for Dinner.

3. Complete two novels by the end of 2011. At the moment, I have THREE Shiny New Ideas waiting to be developed. To have three SNIs is completely rare, for me at least - and for most writers - but the ideas came as I was working on The Dreamcatchers and now I don't know which one to work on while I work my way out of the rut I've gunned myself into for The Dreamcatchers.

Long story short, I resolve to be more optimistic and push through until I get what I want: to get published. And in the meantime, I shall adopt Jiro's approach to life and be happy so that the people I love will be happy.

Happy 2011!

2010-12-21T12:10:00.001+08:00

Hi Joyce,

Thanks for sending along Lambs for Dinner. I read it over the weekend, and wanted to get back to you with my thoughts.

There's some good, smooth prose in these pages - in fact, the quality of writing is better than most of the material that crosses my desk. I also thought these pages had a good narrative pace, and that there was a solid sense of tension throughout. It's with real regret, then, that I must admit that I ultimately didn't fall in love with the manuscript as much as I had hoped. Perhaps part of the problem is that, while there were things about Skye and Drew I admired, the characters never felt quite authentic to me. They didn't come alive as fully realized, multi-dimensional protagonists in my mind, and, as a result, I found it tough to become fully invested in the story. Joyce, in spite of this manuscript's strengths, I'd better pass. I suspect that, based on my above reservations, I just wouldn't be the best advocate for the project.

Thanks so much for contacting me, though, and for giving me this opportunity. It is much appreciated, and I'm sorry to be passing. This is such a subjective business - I'm sure another agent will be a better fit! I wish you all the very best of luck in your search for representation.

Thanks again, and have a very happy holiday and new years, Andrea

Andrea Somberg
Harvey Klinger Inc.
300 W. 55th St., Suite 11V

New York, NY 10019
T: 212.581.7068
F: 212.315.3823
andrea@harveyklinger.com

NaNoWriMo!

2010-11-01T10:08:00.006+08:00

NaNoWriMo starts today, 1 November! One entire month of uninterrupted writing, just to make it to the finish line: 50,000 words by the end of the month. The thing about NaNo is that it always clashes with my exams; National Novel Writing Month is always in November, and with me mired in revisions and finals, I've never been able to take part in it. This time's no exception either, but I've decided to give it a shot.

Actually, I've already had my own NaNo in June, when I completed Lambs for Dinner in a few days shy of a month. 67,000 words and in the editing process now. So I believe it is possible to complete a 50,000-word novel in a month. What I did the last time was to force myself to bang out 1,500 words after breakfast. And then I'd take a half-hour break, and press on, banging out another 1,500 words. And then I'm done for the day. 3,000 words in a day, and 50,000 words in no time at all. It's actually pretty darn exhilarating - not to mention gratifying. And when I wasn't writing my novel, I was living, breathing, swimming through, and dreaming of it every moment. I love that focus, that 'something to do', that goal (just lofty enough to strive for, but not enough to pose as an insurmountable challenge), that writing Lambs gave me.

This coming winter break, I'll be working on The Dreamcatchers. I left it at page 126 the last time, and I'll work towards finishing it up this December - yes, I can! Go, NaNo-ers!

2010-10-20T18:50:00.005+08:00

Haiku:

Borrowed skin that clings
Like winter fever in me.
Fingers on fire.

2010-10-18T20:49:00.009+08:00

Haiku:

A warm dream sets in:
You plunge through the night, caught in
A suspended dance.

Colour Test

2010-10-09T16:12:00.003+08:00

You have no idea how accurate this test is. Saw it on Gerlynn's blog. Take it here if you're interested.

Here are my results:

Color Test - Results

Your Existing Situation
Needs excitement and constant stimulation. Willingly participates in activities that are thrilling and offer adventure.

Your Stress Sources
"Has high standards and wants to make friends with those who have equally high standards; however, she has been unsuccessful in building these types of relationships. she is feeling under appreciated and her self-esteem is damaged because of it. she is uncomfortable with the situation and wishes to escape, but refuses to make compromises or lower her standards. Puts off resolving her problems because she afraid of the conflicts it may cause. In order to feel secure, she needs to feel appreciated by others so they will do what she asks of them and respect her opinions"

Your Restrained Characteristics
Current events leave her feeling forced into compromise in order to avoid being cut off from affection or future cooperation.

Has strong emotional demands and is picky when it comes to choosing a partner. she chooses to remain emotionally distant and uninvolved in relationships.

"Seeking to broaden her horizons and believes her hopes and dreams are realistic. Worries she may not be able to do the things she wants and needs to escape to a peaceful, quiet environment in order to restore her confidence."

Current events have her feeling forced to make bargains and put aside her own desires for now. she is able to find satisfaction and happiness through sexual activity.

Your Desired Objective
"If motivated, she will easily and quickly learn new skills. Is very intense person who seeks excitement and sexual stimulation. Wants others to see her as an exciting and interesting person, who is also charming and can easily influence others. Uses her charm to increase her chances of success and gain other people's trust."

Your Actual Problem
"Impressed by unique and one of a kind things, and by people with exceptional personalities. Tries to takes the characteristics she likes in other people and apply it to herself as well as coming across as a unique individual."

Your Actual Problem #2
"Feeling tension and stress brought on by situations which are out of her control, leaves her feeling helpless, anxious, and in adequate. she tries to escape into a fantasy world where things go her way and her desires are easier to reach."

Freakishly accurate. Apart from the sex part, that is.

2010-10-06T22:08:00.004+08:00

This past week has been busybusybusy. I hate how this semester's turning out. 'Hate' is not a word I normally use, but come on, I'm only a sophomore who has no clue what I'm going to be after I graduate. Is there a need for all these academic demands?

Never mind. It's just five and a half more weeks to go before the exams. And then everything will be over. After the two presentations next week, things will hopefully die down. I've said this before, but I'll say this again: projects are a bitch.

Okay. That's probably enough negativity for a night. I'm actually supposed to be working on my readings while simultaneously drawing up my research proposal for my bilingualism module, but yes I'm here blogging and I'm also reading Wu Chun's blog and scouring for pictures of Jiro (at last count, I have 328 pictures of him in my file) on Facebook. Multitasking is good for your brain, says I.

It seems like my days are counted down according to deadlines and presentations these days. Man, I'll be glad when this semester's over!

Gerlynn and the rest have started their first semester in uni too, and while YL's practically AWOL these days, being completely tied up with school activities, Gerlynn's beginning to experience the onset of disillusionment brought about by being an undergrad. As I had and still am experiencing. I don't know what it is about being in university that makes us feel this way. To see everyone slogging their guts out to get a 4.0 CAP or higher, participating so actively in class, passionately involved in discussions, etc, I can't help but take a step back and wonder if I can ever be like them, or if I even want to. I don't really get the point of all this. I don't know if I can be that impassioned about what I'm learning. What I'm learning is interesting enough, but it's not like I want to make it my life's work. Social variation in English or the how's and why's of language acquisition are not something I want to pursue.

It's strange. I never really used to feel this way when I was in secondary school, or junior college. All I knew then was that I had to work hard - that I wanted to work hard - so I could prove that I wasn't worthless. Everyone says I have to go to uni, get a well-paying job with good perks and promotion, and all my hard work at O' and A' levels will be worth it.

But right now, the problem sets in. I don't even know what I want to be after I graduate (it used to be 'in the future', but now that the future is so close, it seems more apt to use 'after I graduate' instead). What do I like? What do I want in life? What is the point of life? A fat, regular paycheck? Bags? Cars? Shoes?

It's enough to make my head explode, thinking about all this. I've said before that sometimes I don't know what I'm doing in uni, and when I said it at the primary 6 barbeque last Saturday, they laughed, thinking I was joking. But I was more serious than they probably thought I was. Mr Chan assured me that I'll find a job that suits me, that I'll like, but right now I'm not feeling too optimistic.

Gosh, life is a bitch. Oh well. At least I have someone who understands how I feel. Kisses, Ger!

And thank goodness for small comforts:

On Character Voice ('Split' by Swati Avasthi)

2010-09-24T21:30:00.008+08:00

I've been obsessed with character voice lately.

Especially for writers who write mainly from the first-person POV, character voice is a direct display of their writing style. Whether they're spunky, smart-ass, introspective, character voice is how the character is revealed.

When I started writing Lambs for Dinner, I dived in with Drew's voice ringing loud and clear in my head. It was one of the reasons why I managed to crank out 3000 words a day. Before that, I'd only ever written from the female protagonist's point of view. Raven (When the Lilies Turn Orange), Kristen (Bedful of Moonlight), Leigh (from the defunct Mint), Ethel (Red December Skies), and lastly Skye (Lambs for Dinner). But then I read Shiver by the ever-awesome Maggie Stiefvater, who wrote Shiver from both Sam and Grace's POVs. She drove the story along with their voices, alternating chapters that vary in length and emotion (though I feel their voices sound rather similar and not distinctive enough - although I must stress that her writing is really good nonetheless and that's just my personal opinion). And I thought I'd try that. I don't think I handled Lambs with Maggie's dexterity, though, but the process was exhilarating and addictive. Now, I don't think I'd want to go back to writing from just the female protagonist's POV.

I just finished Swati Avasthi's Split yesterday. It's written from the first-person POV of the main character, a sixteen-year-old boy who was kicked out of the house by his abusive father after a particularly vicious fight. Nowhere to turn, he looks for his older brother Christian, who left two years ago to start a new life on his own. The plot sounds dire and gloomy, and the theme is nothing new, but Avasthi's writing comes to life and pulls the story to life along with it - through the immensely likeable Jace, the main character. He's funny, acid-tongued, private, and has real fears (like he might turn into his father - case in point: he hit his girlfriend, the first and last time he ever did it) and dreams (to be with his family again) and internal conflicts (he's always been closer to his father, and does not know what to believe when he sees his father hit his mother and Christian; he still wants his father's approval and love) and hesitations (he's afraid of entering another relationship because he's afraid he might hurt the people he loves again).

J.D. Salinger did it with Holden Caulfield (The Catcher in the Rye). Eireann Corrigan did it (see my post on Ordinary Ghosts here). Anna Jarzab did it (All Unquiet Things). And now Swati Avasthi's done it too.

They all managed to create a character whose voice is so compelling they can drive the story forward just with this voice. The plot falls secondary to the voice, and for Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, I was sorry to come to the end and wished it were longer. I wanted to listen to Holden Caulfield's impassioned commentary about the "phony" things in life and the "phony" people he meets. There was poignancy beneath Caulfield's wit and disillusionment, and it was a character that stayed with me beyond the pages of the novel.

For Split, I was immediately pulled in by Jace's voice, although he got a bit sappy towards the end, when the author decided to tie up all the loose ends and hint at new beginnings blah blah blah. But at least she didn't overdue it to the extent of employing vomit-inducing cliches. Her writing was concise, snappy, and totally revealed the character of Jace, raw and in the flesh (figuratively speaking, of course), to the reader. Sames goes for Ordinary Ghosts and All Unquiet Things.

I doubt I can pull off writing an entire novel from a guy's POV. Because the danger of character-driven novels is that you can get carried away. You try to reveal the character to the readers, but focus too much on voice and your story may end up plotless and wandering, and your character a rambling, self-absorbed idiot. Alternating POVs seems the safest, and yet it doesn't compromise on the fun factor. I'm glad I've completed Lambs for Dinner (I completed a novel! I didn't throw in the towel halfway!), and I'm thrilled to have completed it in a month, but then I also wish the process hadn't been quite so short. I barely had time to enjoy it before it ended.

Anyway, I'm in my first round of editing Lambs now, having finished editing Red December Skies (I need to work on distinguishing Jerry's voice from Ethel's, though). Yes, I'm swamped with schoolwork. Which explains why I'm only editing and not writing. But as a fellow writer told me on Facebook, I should "just think of the experiences at school as inspiration for (my) writing", because "at (my) age, time is on (my) side", so I should "keep punching". Rightly so, Paul! Thanks for that bout of encouragement.

2010-09-20T19:20:00.014+08:00

This post is way overdue.

Not only because it's been months since my last entry, but because things have happened that I didn't chronicle. Not that they're particularly momentous events (oh, to have one of those in my life!), but you know, a blog is a blog.

Geek that I am, I'm enjoying what I'm learning this semester. Because I was forced to take modules to fulfil the faculty requirements last sem, there wasn't a whole bunch of modules for me to choose from that I'm actually keen on. Oh, I did all right for my Southeast Asian Studies module, and my Singapore, Asia and American Power module, but they're none too scintillating compared to what I'm taking this semester.

GEK1506: Heavenly Mathematics may sound off-putting, especially if you're not especially mathematically-inclined. I do fine in Math, and I actually enjoy it, even though everyone says, "Oh you're a right-brainer, you're more artistically inclined, so you should, by right, destest Math and Math-related subjects." Besides, Heavenly Mathematics has nothing much to do with Math, really. It's more about cultural astronomy and how the calendar and time zones work, how long daytime is at different latitudes and the position of the stars in the night sky at different times of the year, and how astrology came about. In short, it's everything that's fascinated me ever since I started writing Lambs for Dinner. Constellations and where to find the evening star Venus (also called the morning star; since it can be seen after sunset and before sunrise), and how the distance between Sirius (dog-star, aka Canis Major) and the Sun is the furthest during summer; time zones (did you know that Singapore is actually in the wrong time zone?), new moon sightings and the different positions of sunset/sunrise throughout the year. I am completely psyched to be learning about all this.

Also, PC1322: Astronomy. It focuses more on heavenly bodies like comets ("dirty snowballs") and the planets and their moons, moon phases and stars (lovely, mighty things they are - and all that loveliness from just nuclear fusion!) and nebulae and how to use a telescope. Well the last part's a little technical and dry, since it brings in optics and physics (goodness knows I'm terrible in that), but it pertains to my novel, so I'd say it's good research.

Who knew science modules could turn out to be so interesting?

Joyce is in love with:

1. Writing (as you all know), as I always have and always will

2. Pink daisies.

3. Jiro. Who could forget him?

2010-08-15T17:19:00.021+08:00

Gerlynn has been bugging me to update my blog, and I suppose I really should, except that there's really nothing much to update, because I can't stand rambling on about myself and my life.

"Who gives a flying crap?" I asked Ger.

"I do!" she barked. "Blog about your life, bemoan your single status, whatever - just blog!"

So here I am, trying to gather a list of blog-worthy things.

You realise that I haven't said anything of weight so far. Such is the state of my compulsion to blog these days.

School's started. Which means less time to pursue worthy ... pursuits, such as watching drama serials on YouTube. And working on my WIP, an urban fantasy involving spirits, a carnival and being trapped in dreams.

This semester seems more hectic, I realised, because I all my modules list group project as a CA component. Individial papers, I can handle. But projects are a bitch. They take so much synchronisation, organisation, negotiation of timetables, discussions, etc etc etc. For papers, you can get it over and done with quickly, but projects take time; they drag on all the way till the few crazy weeks before finals, where we'd then be rushing to finish up the project and mug for exams.

Here's the list of modules I'm taking this sem (I'm about to fall asleep writing this post - I am certain no one is interested in reading about all this bs):

1. EL2251 Social Variation of English

2. EL3880B Cinematic Discourse and Language

3. EL3208 Bilingualism

4. GEK1506 Heavenly Mathematics (It has everything to do with calculating the lunar/solar/Chinese/Islamic/etc calendars and 3D visualisation - I think I may potentially be screwed.)

5. PC1322 Understanding the Universe (ASTRONOMY! Finally, I can read astronomy magazines without feeling guilty for spending too much time on leisurely pursuits, because now I have a justification for reading them - I'm taking a module in it!)

And in case you were wondering about my sudden Fahrenheit fangirlism (as posted on Facebook), it was because I watched Momo Love and ToGetHer, both of which star Jiro Wang. And I swear, that boy is GORGEOUS. He's got beautiful high cheekbones, a sharp chin and nose, and the sexiest lips I have ever seen on a guy. Plus, he dances, sings, draws (VERY WELL, might I add - I bought his autobiography filled with his personal illustrations and pictures from his trip to Amsterdam, home of his idol Vincent van Gogh), is cute, funny, and has an omfg-ripped body.

Proof?

And you know, who says watching drama serials doesn't teach or expose you to anything? In ToGetHer, the characters had to memorise a poem by Tagore, called Stray Birds.

A taste:

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away.
And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.

It was such a beautiful poem I rushed out to the library today to borrow the book. And I must say, his employment of imagery is comparable to Rilke's (my favourite poet). Although I still think Rilke's better.

2010-07-29T19:46:00.007+08:00

Okay. I'm employing the lazy method of updating.

1. I'm on my first round of editing for Red December Skies. And can I just say that if I see another 'finally' or 'wondered' again, I will cry? I know many authors use certain words way too many times, and mine are apparently those two (and a whole lot more). I definitely relied too much on adverbs when I was working on December. But I know better now, and I am cutting out the deadwood. Adelante!

2. I've finally decided to read the Wake series by Lisa McMann. I was sort of hesitant initially because it's written in a sort of third-person diary form (with distracting times and dates) and the writing style was sort of disjointed and curt. For example:

January 1, 2006, 1:31 a.m.

Janie sprints through the snowy yards from two streets away and slips quietly through the front door of her house.

And then.

Everything goes black.

She grips her head, cursing her mother under her breath as the whirling kaleidoscope of colors builds and throws her off balance. She bumps against the wall and holds on, and then slowly lowers herself blindly to the floor as her fingers go numb. The last thing she needs is to crack her head open. Again.

She's too tired to fight it right now. Too tired to pull herself out of it. Plants her cheek on the cold tile floor. Gathers her strength so she can try later, in case the dream doesn't end quickly.

Breathes.

Watches.

It makes for easy reading, and I know she's trying to create immediacy, but the curt sentences can get a little annoying after a while. Still, that's not the main point.

I'm reading Fade now, the second of the Wake series, because I couldn't find the first one in the library today. And my heart plummeted after I learnt what the book is about. Because its premise sounds like my Dream-catchers. In fact, the main character in the series is a dream-catcher. Oh, they're different of course, McMann's dream-catcher and mine, but the idea is still there. I realised that dreams are not an uncommon theme for fantasy fiction. Take Inception, for example. Dream-hacking. And Wake: ditto. Mine doesn't really dabble in crime/thriller like those two, but the idea is still there. I don't want people to think I copied their ideas or anything.

Anyway, I decided to read McMann's series. Because one of the most common advice literary agents and editors give to writers is to read widely in your genre and out of your genre. Know what books and ideas are out there so that you can come up with something entirely original and fresh. So call this market research. That said, I'm enjoying Fade so far.

School's starting next week, by the way! Does it make me a geek to be excited about the things I'm going to learn this coming semester?

Oh, who am I kidding. I am a geek.

So close!

2010-07-23T09:50:00.001+08:00

Dear Joyce,

Thanks for sending Red December Skies. Your writing is excellent and we love the premise. However, it seems that the voice in Ethel's and Jerry's chapters sound too similar. We also felt that the beginning could use more tension and a faster pace. We're going to have to pass on offering representation, but we're sure other agents will feel differently. Also, if you decide to revise or if you have other manuscripts in the future, we'd be willing to consider those as well. Thanks again for querying and best of luck placing your work.

Sincerely,
Judith

--
Judith Engracia
Literary Assistant
Liza Dawson Associates

Thanks, Judith, for the feedback! Will work on it.

Here come the rejections

2010-07-17T12:05:00.000+08:00

[Dear Joyce,]

Many thanks for writing. You have an interesting idea for a book, and there's a lot to like about your approach. But in the end I'm afraid that I didn't come away quite fully convinced it was something I'd be able to represent successfully. I'm sorry not to be more enthusiastic but I'm grateful for the chance to review it nonetheless, and best of luck to you in finding it the right home.

Best,
Farley Chase

'Hate List' by Jennifer Brown

2010-07-14T18:13:00.004+08:00

Every day at lunch, Mrs Tate would grill me about my future plans.

"Valerie, it's still not too late to grab a scholarship to one of the community colleges," she'd say, looking pained.

I'd shake my head. "No."

"What are you going to do?" she'd asked me one day as we ate lunch together.

I'd considered this, believe me. What would I do once graduation was over? Where would I go? How would I live? Would I stay at home and wait for Mom and Mel to possibly get married? Would I move in with Dad and Briley and Frankie and try to repair the relationship that I was pretty sure Dad didn't want anyway? Would I move out and get a job? Get a roommate? Fall in love?

"Recover," I'd said. And I'd meant it. I needed some time to simply recover. I'd consider my future later, when Garvin High had slipped off me like a heavy coat in a hot room and I'd begun to forget the faces of my classmates. Of Troy. Of Nick. When I'd begun to forget the smell of gunpowder and blood. If I ever could.

That excerpt is the best I found that can convey what the gist of Hate List (by Jennifer Brown) is about.

Valerie Leftman is left bewildered, betrayed and vilified after her boyfriend goes on a shooting rampage and kills people off their Hate List. She struggles to remember the Nick she fell in love with and convince herself that she is not guilty, even though she played a part in coming up with the seemingly-innocuous Hate List. Some label her a hero for stopping Nick (and earning a gunshot wound to her thigh as a result, but saving Jessica Campbell, Queen Bitch, as well). Some think she ought to kill herself like Nick did. With her parents' deteriorating marriage to deal with apart from all that, Valerie is left struggling to understand what she stands for and who she really is and can become.

While the plot might portend a predictable narration (how Valerie, deals with the aftermath of her boyfriend's shooting of the school, and learns to move on with her life and understand that it isn't her fault), Brown's firm grasp of the narrator's voice was what made me read on. And the more I read, the more I empathised with the protagonist. Brown considered every aspect of the shooting, from the parents to the girlfriend to the survivors. What I enjoy most, though, are the conversations Valerie has with her therapist. Brown has made her protagonist very introspective. You can tell the author herself thought through every facet of the shooting and its ramifications. It's not just some superficial oh-woe-is-me-my-boyfriend-went-nuts-and-I-don't-know-what-to-do-anymore narration. Brown draws out the quiet tensions and shifting dynamics between characters throughout the story, without dragging its pace. This is, in my opinion, very skilful narration and grasp of the character's voice.

Hate List is Brown's debut novel and already it has won the Michigan Library Association Thumbs Up Award, and is nominated for the 2011 New Hampshire Flume Award.

Short Story - Playmates

2010-07-10T14:49:00.002+08:00

The movers came before I could do anything about it.

They started with the old mahogany table where my grandfather used to sit, playing Solitaire. There was a big hole in the middle of the basement after the table was gone. That thing weighed a ton. I know because I tried moving it before. But it only took four beefcakes to haul it into the truck.

The table left behind four circles where the legs had been. Four unblemished spots in the flooring. I stood in the middle of it, feeling the absence of its weight in the ground, like when someone gets up from the seat on the bus after sitting there for practically the whole journey.

“Puffer hates the new house. She’s not coming with us because she hates it.”

This was the fifth time that day I’d said that. While Mom had muttered, “Good,” the previous few times, now she didn’t even bother pretending to pay attention anymore, just went about checking to see if we’d left anything out from the packing. I was a hindrance to her now, a shadow in the corner of her eye.

I headed out to the backyard, where Puffer was sitting on the wooden swing, legs dangling. I don’t think I’d ever get used to how tiny she was. Or how pretty her raven hair looked when it fell over her dark wide eyes. She was more graceful than I could ever dream of being.

I joined her on the swing and sank my chin into my hands, elbowed perched on my knees. “I hate this.”

“You’ll grow to like it.” Her voice rang out, sweet and clear, like a field of lavender. “Your kind is adaptable. They change themselves to suit their environment. Soon, you’ll forget I ever existed.”

“Never. I’ll never forget you, Puffer. ” I stuck my chin out, daring her to disagree.

She only gave me a smile that couldn’t reach her eyes.

“Why can’t you come with us, Puffer? I don’t understand.” I was being stubborn, asking the same question over and over, but to hell with it.

Puffer entertained me more than Mom did. “I told you, love. I’m bound to this tree. Where this tree is, there I’ll be. I can’t leave even if I want to.”

I hopped off the swing to survey the tree. It didn’t look any different from the last time I checked. Just a big old tree with a canopy that spanned across half the backyard. It had a huge blackened hole in the middle of the trunk, like someone had burned it away. Nothing lay in there but dirt and insects. Sometimes, Puffer would peer out from it, her pale face illuminated by the moonlight, just to kick me out of my skin.

She now blew on my ear, making several loose strands of my hair dance. Her breath was cold, as always. “We can run away.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d suggested that. A cold trail slithered down my back that had nothing to do with Puffer’s breath. It didn’t make sense. I had never really feared Puffer. She had been my friend since my father died. If anyone could fear Puffer (apart from Mom), they’d have to be a big pansy. She was about the most harmless person I’d ever known.

That’s what I told myself, even as Puffer trailed a thin cold finger down my cheek. Her dark gaze held on to mine as a sliver of smile crept across her face.

“Think about it, Katie. We could stay together forever. Didn’t you say you don’t want to leave me? I’m offering you an alternative. We could even find your father. You told me he’d love me. We could live together, always.”

“What about Mom?”

She shrugged, setting loose a tumble of soft locks down her pale shoulders. “She’ll join us soon enough.”

“But how can we run? You said it yourself – you’re tied to this tree.”

“I’ve showed you how. Remember that dream you had?”

When Puffer first told me she could make me dream of her, I’d assumed she meant it figuratively. It wasn’t until I saw her in my dreams for three nights running that I began to understand what she meant.

In my dreams, she had showed things. Like how she had been tied to the tree, blood pouring from the wound in her chest, staining her dress like juice had dribbled down her front. She’d lain there like a bloodied faery, staring up at the sky until she no longer saw it. In my dreams, she showed me how she crept around the edges of a person, dark eyes gleaming, until she slipped into them, became a part of them. In my dreams, she showed me how the people she entered slit their wrists and waited to die.

I couldn’t do anything about the shudder that ripped through me. My voice tore out of my throat. “You want me to kill myself?”

Her lips thinned into a curve. “How else did you think we could be together? You’re twelve, Katie. Learn something already.”

“When you said I could join you, I thought you meant sit here with you until Mom caved in. Or find a way to release you from this tree. Not …”

She stared into my face, smirking. “Scared, Katie? It’s just blood, you know.”

I bit on my trembling lower lip. “Why can’t you come into me? I could take you away.”

“Do you want me to?”

I nodded. “I do.” The words made me feel more certain than I had been.

She zipped to the other side of me and perched her head on my shoulder. “If I become a part of you, you won’t be just Katie. You’ll be Katie-and-Puffer.”

I nodded.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded again.

“Now?” Her eyes were wider than before.

I turned to glance at Mom, still scurrying around the house while talking to one of the movers. Tufts of hair had freed themselves from her ponytail. She wouldn’t know – she wouldn’t care – if I wasn’t just Katie anymore.

“Just do it,” I told Puffer.

Puffer’s grin was the widest I had ever seen it.

A blink, and she was gone. Only a trail of smoke danced around me, like an elusive dragonfly. It collected itself into a mass of dark grey cloud, then pulled apart into a scattered, patterned web. Came together, pulled apart. Came together, pulled apart. All that time it whirled around me, silent and calculating.

It took me a while to realize she had entered me. She slid into every crevice of me like she knew her way around. I didn’t feel any heavier, but charged, like energy was crackling through me, spinning around my head, in my chest, right down to my toes.

This is lovely.

Now I had to get used to not seeing Puffer around, but hearing her in my head. I could hear her sighing happily as I stared down at myself, checking if I remained the same.

I looked around, went through the back doors, back into the empty basement. Everything remained the same, but I wasn’t. I was Katie-and-Puffer now, and I didn’t have to shed any blood to make that compromise.

My reflection in the basement mirror confirmed that I was still Katie, in the flesh. My eyes were darker than before, wider too, like Puffer’s. They flashed with doubled vitality.

But if Mom noticed anything different about me, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she sighed. “Katie, look at you. What a mess you are. And didn’t I ask you to pack? I have a million things to do today. Can’t you make me worry less about you?”

A mess? Was that all she saw when she looked at me?

I saw my reflection in the penknife that lay atop the carton of paraphernalia. My eyes were dark, wild, like my hair. It wasn’t a mess; I thought it was beautiful. The real ugliness lay in the things around. It seeped into me, crawled under my skin, a tumor that took root and grew. It carved lines in my mother’s face, twisted her features.

I didn’t think. All I heard was the voice in my head.

We deserve more than this.

The blade was cold to the touch.

'Ordinary Ghosts' by Eireann Corrigan

2010-07-09T11:08:00.004+08:00

I recently read Ordinary Ghosts by Eireann Corrigan and am now googling her other books, because Ordinary Ghosts really blew me away.

The story isn't really heavy on the plot, but the character's voice carried me through the entire story, and not once did I tire of it. It's about a boy Emil Simon, whose star brother Ethan ran away after the death of their mother. Emil has always looked up to his brother and the story now chronicles the days after his brother's departure and his mother's death. With half of the family left, Emil and his father are trying their best not to tailspin. But normalcy is elusive, and the tension between Emil and his father is almost palpable, as they navigate their way through life.

Emil finds that Ethan left him the key to Ainsley Academy, the all-boy prep school they study in. As per Ainsley tradition, the key-bearer has to lay the greatest prank of all time on the school, in secrecy.

Emil's nighttime forays in the school compounds leads him to a girl (the daughter of his ex-teacher) whome he falls in love with, and eventually accompanies him on the search for his brother.

Ordinary Ghosts is about a boy coming of age in his own messy way, the way we all do, and I suppose that's what makes the narrator so compelling. He's funny, he's a wuss, he gets big-headed and insecure, and he's perfectly flawed. He's human, and I see a lot of myself in Emil, even though he's a boy. I think Corrigan really grasped his voice well, and her effort to make sure his voice stays consistent throughout the story is evident. The story flows in a Salinger-esque way, and I was pretty sorry when I got to the end, just like I had been when I'd reached the end of The Catcher in the Rye. Like Holden Caulfield, Emil Simon is an anti-hero you'd cheer for.

2010-07-08T18:05:00.002+08:00

Writer Nicola Morgan has some compiled an invaluable non-exhaustive list of questions to ask your characters:

What is your worst fear? And your second worst? (Likely to be part of the conflict and tension.)

What would you most like people to know about you? (Make sure it's obvious, then.)

What would you most like to hide? (Every hero has a flaw.)

What would you most like to change about your life? (Could be part of the conflict and motivation; could be sub-plot.)

Why should we care about you? (Because if we don't, we won't read on.)

What were you doing before this story started? (This informs your back-story.)

Do people understand you? If not, what do they get wrong? (Makes your character more real because it informs interaction with other characters.)

If I met you for the first time, would I immediately know what you were like or would it take a while to get to know you? (As above.)

What sort of people like you? Do adults like you? Do boys like you? Do girls like you? Why? Or why not? (Helps place your character within the real world instead of just on the page. It may also inspire some ideas for painting your character richly but subtly.)

Are you happy on your own? (As above.)

What are you going to achieve in my story? (Crucial for plot, since character drives action.)

What trivial but annoying habit do you have? (Makes character more real. Character can show this habit when angry / sad / stressed - helps you show without telling emotion too much.))

What trivial but annoying habits do you dislike in other people? (As above.)

What four (or three or five) adjectives best sum you up? (Helps you remember traits to paint most strongly.)

Are you going to die in this story?** Should you? (Informs plot and interacts with reader's engagement.)

And on her blog, writer Nik Perring chips in too:

It is really, really, really hard work. And exhausting. I mean, writing the thing’s difficult enough (and that’s after all that time spent learning how to write well, after all those stories we’ve given up on) and then the submitting, the editing. But once you’ve signed that contract it’s as though, to a point, you’re starting from the beginning again. You have to work hard to promote your book. Your publisher will do what they can but, really, the hard work’s down to you.

Don’t expect any favours. From friends or from reviewers. Of course some are lovely and only too pleased to have a look at your book and tell their readers what they think of it ... but I’ve heard from people I’d not heard from in years and years and, in contrast, some of the people I’d have thought would have been the most pleased for me have shown little or no interest at all. And, I suppose, why should they? As a writer, published or none, you’re not owed anything.

Be hopeful but be self-critical. It’s a high standard you have to reach and make no mistake, you ARE competing with the best in the business. And what makes it harder is that they’re known – by readers who buy their books and by publishers who know they’ll sell the books. But they were unpublished writers too once, you know! And they got to be where they are now by working very hard and by not giving up. And probably, by trying and failing a few times too. Remember: nothing’s lost.

My last piece of advice though, is this: enjoy your writing. It won’t be fun all the time, but you should do it because you enjoy it.